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Chapter Text

I - The Student

The student sat underneath the old oak tree to escape the heat of the midday sun. It was one of those rare days when she had time to herself. No assignment from her master sent her to Ardport or any of the neighbouring villages. None of his lessons tied her to a book. This day belonged to her. So she sat under that old oak and leafed through a book. The murmur of the brook and chirping of the birds filling the solitude in this nowhere, where there was little except for the old mage’s house.

Laid next to her was a pile of books, selected from the master’s library. She had chosen whatever caught her eye; without rhyme or reason. The library was constantly changing and she had long given up on trying to fathom all of its secrets. The house was small, but the library inside seemed endless. The master had told her of the Great Libraries. Of Osena, Rúnknǫttr, Dayaph. This library in the small hut, in the middle of nowhere right at the border to the Grave of Titans, rivalled them in their wonder.

As the hours passed, the pile on her left shrunk as the one on her right grew as she picked up one book after another, only to quickly put it down again when it didn’t reach her expectations. On the Spheres was the first to make it to the other side. Had someone else written it, it might have been worth her time. As it was, she struggled through sentences that seemed to stretch on forever, springing from one page to only find their end on the next. She simply wasn’t enjoying herself.

The early Years of the unified Kingdom followed soon after. And she quickly learned that she wasn’t in the mood for history that day. She then also gave up on documentary works fairly quickly.

The Wonders of Karraighe kept her interest the longest. She was very strict about who she gave her limited free time to, but this book seemed to understand that. Short chapters described the wonders of a realm long gone, fallen before the war. Towers of glass. Artificial life. Liquid stone. A time when the continent was small and its inhabitants could fly. It was a good story. The author showed a lot of imagination.

As the sky began to turn red, she looked at the two piles. She hadn’t finished all she had set out to do, but she thought she had made good use of her afternoon. She would probably see these books never again. Every time she put one back into the shelf, it seemed to disappear. She had never found any book her master had not told her to find.

She watched the evening sun. Somewhere in that direction under its light was Ardport. On few days did she miss her streets. Or her guards. There were days she’d rather it burnt to the ground.

II - The Soldier

The soldier and his troop finally reached Cruidín base. They had spent the better part of a month on the road. None of them understood why the militia command had ordered more Bows and Swords to the border. Especially not when they were originally stationed so far north. But their task was simple: they would protect the annexed territories of the empire in the west.

During their journey they had learned of minor incidents, but none to justify something like this. But when the emperor commanded, they followed.

In Cruidín they had been greeted somewhat cautiously. No one here had expected reinforcements either. The last couple of months had been quiet. The elves had not left their territory, the new borders had been secured. And there had been no further incidents since the uprisings that followed Cyndon. At that time, more bases had been established and militia presence increased. This had ensured peace for the cities in this arm of the empire. Even if people were still reluctant to settle in this part of the continent. Even after the emperor had closed the border to elves.

The first months at Cruidín were quiet. There was little to do that actually required his military training. They spent most of their time cultivating the land. Cutting down trees and pushing back the Ironwoods; leveling trails that would become roads; at one point even building a bridge. The master builder was only transferred to this base in the third month after their arrival. Under his command, the infrastructure around the fort grew and if only given enough time, he might have turned Cruidín into a fortress. But the emperor had required his services elsewhere.

After half a year, the first large wave of elves attempted to cross the border. Until then, it hand only ever been small groups they could dismiss easily. A patrol had spotted them and a troop of Swords had been dispatched to stop them. They set up camp at the border. Every day they tried to negotiate, without any success. The emperor’s word was law. The few who tried to take matters into their own hands and crossed the border at night did not make it far.

When the uprising broke out, it was quickly put down. The losses on the imperial side were minimal and the elves retreated into the Ironwoods. But this was the beginning. From then on, such events occurred more frequently. And as dutiful soldiers, they beat back the elves every time. Soon there were enough dead that it took them several days to burn the bodies. But the border was secure and the emperor’s will was enforced.

III - The Dreamer

While the tavern was still buzzing, the festivities outside were finally dying down and soon it would be quieter again. Then - like all the other orcs - she would leave the city. They would return to their tribes for free nomadic groups. To families and friends. She herself would make the long journey eastwards across the Sea of Sands with the group from her tribe. She too was looking forward to seeing her family again. Her parents, her sister and her brother. They were a small family. Recent years had been difficult and not many children had survived. But eventually the gods had answered their prayers and sacrifices and eight years after her, there were numerous offspring. The continuation of the tribe was assured. She was also looking forward to seeing them again. She would tell them of the great city. Of the enormous temples and the myriad of orcs that had gathered here. She would show them the pictures she had drawn. Of the statues of the divine parents. Of the solstice celebrations. Of the old temple and the new. OF the trees that lined the streets. Of the lake on whose shore the city lay.

She would not show them the other pictures. The ones she had dreamt about and hoped were just mad fantasies. She would discuss those with her mother and how the tribe should deal with them, but the young ones need not know. They lay on the table in front of her and she stared at them, hoping to draw some other meaning from them. As if only looking hard enough might change what was plain on paper.

She emptied another cup. The first ones had stung in her throat. This one went down easy. She had stopped counting. She had been sitting here for too long and yet not long enough. She could still see the same images in front of her.

The next few moments were a little blurry in her memory. Something ran wet over her head and down her face. Behind her, a voice slurred something, but she didn’t listen. Before her eyes, the shapes of her drawings into unreadable nothingness. She took two steps to the orc she blamed for this. In retrospect she wasn’t even sure it was the right one.

Her fist hit his face and he stumbled. What followed was shouting and thrown cups. She hit him again, without paying too much attention to her surroundings. Then something crashed into her. Someone was holding her. She threw a punch and stumbled, pulling the other person to the ground with her. More shouting. Then she was standing again, the world spinning around her. She tried to support herself, but her hand grasped at nothing and she fell onto a bench, landing between bodies. Someone punched her and she couldn’t manage to fight back. She just rolled to the floor.

She ended up lying on the dusty street outside the tavern. Wet and with the taste of blood and wine on her tongue. Several parts of her body hurt and she decided against getting back up.

A shadow fell across her face. She refused to look up. “Go away.”

“Oh child, come on, let me help you.”

Chapter Text

Year 350 after the War of the Gods, Late Autumn

Cruidín base, Western front of the Empire

He stood up, shouldered his crossbow and looked around. The sky was grey and overcast. So were his thoughts. Cold drizzle was just one more unbearability of many. And his stomach growled to remind him of such. Another pit was dug. Another mass grave. The silence of labour interrupted only by occasional cursing. The rain muffled all sounds. How many now? Did he even want to count? He knew too many names buried in that damp earth. May Naomh Cairistiòna guide them.

The losses had been limited this time. A miracle, considering that they had been fighting for weeks, perhaps months - the sense of time was deceptive - without a general. Without a general, without structure, with empty stomachs and fading will. Every confrontation was about survival. Wave after wave of elves came at them. Day after day. They must have been as desperate as the humans who tried to stop them.

The main camp was now the only one left. Back in the day - he couldn’t remember how long ago it had been - Cruidín base had consisted of another output to the north and two in the west, as well as a series of supply depots roughly half a day’s march to the east. They had received no news from any of these outposts for so long, they assumed the main camp surrounded.

The man with the crossbow walked across the battlefield and collected as much equipment as he could carry and brought it back behind the secure palisades. Individual pieces of armour, shoulder plates, a bracer here, a helmet there; swords - rather rare; an axe; three arrows that were still usable.

There was no need to collect the armour and weapons of the fallen, there was still more than enough for the few remaining who could still fight, but at least it gave him something to do. This grey, tense emptiness, this dreary, nerve-eating boredom, interrupted by short, panicked fights. Desperate sprints, screams, whirring bow-strings, commands, steel and blood. This daily grind left his spirit a bloody stump. And so he tossed the swords, axes and whatever else he had found with the other weapons, shoved the bolts into the pocket on his thigh and went back out onto the scene of the carnage. The mud of blood, rain and earth squelching underneath his boots with every step. He walked. He wanted to walk. Away from the camp. To stand in the open field, for once without fighting.

It was a grotesque mockery of a field after a harvest. Torn banners, spears, bolts and arrows growing out of the mud like stalks that had escaped the journeyman. The waystone pointing towards Andars and Bay’Asin no longer important now that there was no longer a road. Nothing more than a memory in the dirt, barely visible from the watchtowers. Corpses to either side. Elves. Disfigured by death and decay. Degraded by heedlessness. When had they given up on collecting the bodies and simply left them where they lay?

The soldier saw something flash between the metal claws of one of the elves, which snapped him out of his trance for the first time in days. On closer inspection, it turned out to be an amulet. He carefully uncurled the cold, lifeless fingers so he could examine it in a better light. It was a small crescent moon, forged from hoof nails, on a simple leather strap.

While he was still considering the significance - whether personal or religious - he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. Just briefly. A shadow sweeping across the mire. He jerked his head around, his hand on the dagger at his hip. But there was nothing. Irritated, he dropped the necklace into the dirt. Step by step, he fought his way through the mud towards the tree where he’d imagined last seeing the shadow. The crossbow always firmly aimed at the trunk until suddenly, to his right, he heard the squelching sound of boots in mud. The soldier quickly turned that way and took aim at the elf who, to his surprise, was only drudging slowly towards him. He lowered his crossbow and came to face his enemy. He had no reason to shoot them, an arrow was sticking out of their left thigh and there was a gaping cut across their chest. More dead than alive it was a miracle they could still walk at all. The crossbowman wouldn’t waste a bolt on them. One thrust with a dagger and all would be over. It would be a mercy; would show some humanity out here after all. Something he thought the last few months had taken from him. He who thinks humanely hesitates and dies , a commanding officer had once told him.

One cut and their soul would travel to their ancestors.

The empty eyes of his opposite pleaded with him. Their incomprehensible words pleaded with him. Their gestures. They sank to their knees before the soldier. A bang, a jolt through their body and their expression changed. A silent question; a final question. Their body slumped into the mud. Just one of so many. They would never find their way back to their ancestors.

The soldier turned to the gunner. Short red hair. Only one arm. What was her name again? Sara? She was new here; arrived with the last supply troop, if he wasn’t mistaken. How long ago had that been? Two months? She was still standing tall, love for country and emperor still in her breast. Fire in her heart. Years on this godforsaken frontier had not yet left their cruel mark on her.

“Careful, next time they might get you”, she joked dryly. The soldier only grunted by way of reply, turned and made his way to the tree he had wanted to examine earlier.

The tree was old and withered. Dead. The wood black and without leaf for years. This shell had witnessed every battle fought on this field. The elves must imagine some god in it. If there was, he was not well-meaning. So far they had not been able to take the main camp, even if it was only a matter of time until they did. The soldier circled the tree once, but he did not find his shadow, only a single sword. He decided to take it. In the end, what did it matter?

Back at camp, he threw the sword on the pile with all the others and went to his barracks. Not many beds were still occupied. Most of the Bows had been ordered to Andras at the beginning of the war and of those who had remained, a good half were dead by now. The rest were little more than tired, pale shadows.

While walking the empty hall, the soldier was again surprised by the shadow. “What the fuck?” No response. “Come out!” Nothing. That was now the second time. Was he imagining things? Impossible. “Caolán?” Once again, no response. Dagger in hand, he snuck from bed to bed. At the last one, he finally found it. His shadow. The androgynous form of an elf crouching on the ground.

“What do we have here?” This he hadn’t expected. How had one of them gotten in here? “What are you doing so far outside the woods?” He knew what duty demanded. It was the emperor’s will. But the throne was far up north.

The elf turned to face him, but made no attempt to leap at him and slice the flesh from his bones. The dishevelled, metallic strands hung in his face and they stared at the soldier with the eye not covered by hair. Not with fear, anger or even curiosity, just icy defiance.

“So you don’t want to talk…” He grabbed the elf by their arm and pulled them up. The elf squirmed in his grip and with a deep growl slumped down again. Their gaze remained fixed on their opposite. Their right knee and left lower leg were wrapped in bandages.

Again the soldier pulled the intruder up again, but this time he shoved them onto the bed. “So the poor little elf can’t stand upright anymore. How in the hells did you make it here?” He pressed a blade to the elf’s throat. “And you’d better start talking, or I’m running out of reasons to keep you alive.”

Another deep growl. Spite in their eyes.

“Must go…” It wasn’t much. A miracle, they even knew these two words in Kádin. Still, the soldier wanted answers.

“What has you elves so sacred, you’re running to your deaths by the thousands? Surely you understand by now that you won’t make it past.” He had little hope for an actually helpful answer, but the question was burning inside him. What was so worse than breathing your last breath out there in the muck and the mud?

“Know not what coming”, the elf hissed.

“Whatever it is, we will stand as the walls of Merun!”

He wanted to ask another question. Get some kind of information from the elf. Anything that was of use, but Naomh Seaghdh had other plans.

“Elves!” - “They’ve broken through!” - “To arms! They are here!” A wild cacophony of different shouts, all with the same meaning.

The marksman cursed. Another fucked up day.

“Listen! Not elves!” His guest became more intense.

“What then? What in all the saints is it?” The soldier was beginning to lose patience. Now was not the time.

“Run!” - “Those aren’t elves!” - “Get out!”

The soldier flinched as the door crashed onto the wall behind him. He spun around and froze. This really was no elf. It had the pointed ears, the claws, the metal in its body that glimmered in the dim light. But it was no elf.

The lower jaw was split along a straight line and what had obviously once been a gaping wound at the belly was grotesquely grown over by shimmering carapace. He had thrown the dagger before he could wonder any further what abomination stood there before him. The blade dug into its shoulder but it showed no reaction. It began to run.

The soldier yanked his crossbow upward, knocked a bolt and took aim. The first bolt found its target in the chest. It didn’t stop the nightmare. It didn’t even flinch. Step by quick step, it kept running, bright blood dripping onto the ground. The second bolt hit the carapace and simply bounded off. He had killed so many elves during his time at Cruidín. So many souls sent to the afterlife. At first it had been difficult to pull the trigger. At a certain distance it was easier. When you couldn’t see the face. As the months passed, it didn’t matter anymore, when he saw the face. The emperor commanded. He obeyed. Knock the bolt. Aim. Pull the trigger. The bolt digs through clothes, skin and flesh. If it hit proper, the target dropped. Stumbled at the least. Cried in pain. That was what he had gotten used to after all this time. That was how it should be. Now that his target was so unimpressed by the shot, panic rose in him.

He pulled a new bolt from his pocket. The beast was already so damn close. He prayed. To no saint in particular. He wanted to put the bolt on. It slipped from his fingers. Fell to the ground. 

One clumsy leap and his world was dead flesh, rot, claws, blood and teeth. Before he realised what was happening, the creature dragged him to the ground. With all his strength and will, he held the tall body at bay. Jaws snapping. Nails raking. Drool dripping. From the corner of his eye, he saw the elf stirring on the bed, but he didn’t have the time to worry about that now. He kicked the beast in the stomach, the thigh - he was desperate - between the legs. It showed no reaction to anything. Again and again the three jaws snapped at him and saliva sprayed his face.

His eyes darted back and forth in panic, but nothing was within reach. Wrong! There! The knife. It was still stuck in the beast’s shoulder. He found a good moment between blows and bites and pulled it out. Bright blood soaked his clothes.

He would have almost rejoiced in this tiny victory, but in the blink of an eye, his hand hit the ground hard. He lost the knife. A jolt went through the beast and it let go of him. Struck at something to its left.

What in…?

The soldier heard the elf cry out and then fall to the ground. An opportunity… He found the knife and plunged it into the creature's neck up to the hilt. The dead flesh offered little resistance and cold blood ran over his fingers. With a jerk he yanked the blade upwards. The lifeless eyes were once again fixed on him. Behind that dull gaze, there was nothing. Another stab. Straight up. Through throat and jaw. Cold ran down his arm as the blade passed through the open throat. The bone gave way at his violence.

The monster collapsed atop him. His heart was racing. And the smell of blood and sweet decay almost made him vomit.

With effort he straightened up, grabbed his crossbow and carefully approached the elf. They didn’t move. Then it’s over for him - at last.

After wiping his face with his sleeve and knocking a new bolt, he headed to the entrance, from where the attacker had come. A quick glance outside confirmed what the screams had already told him: There wasn’t much left of Cruidín base. Everywhere soldiers fought desperately against those creatures or were simply overrun. Torn to the ground, with teeth or claws in their flesh. Helpless dead prey. Panic-stricken cattle. Life in bloody shreds. Life seeping into the earth. Life buried in mud.

The crossbow slipped from his hand. His knees threatened to give in. It cost all his strength not to collapse. All those women and men with whom he had fought side by side during these last months, eaten, slept, talked about small nothings, they died, one by one.

There it was again. Panic. He had to leave. Get away. Just away. Just away. Follow the main corridor? No. They would see him. He would… No. The road left? No. Over there one of the beasts was busy digging through a body. Róise… She was still moving. Fuck! Saints! Gods!

He fought the urge to vomit. Stumbled back, away from the door. Ran back to the window. The barricade was just beyond it. Two man-highs to get there. If he could just find a weak spot, somewhere, where they had had to repair… There were constant repairs. Maybe he could get out alive.

Fuck… As long as he stayed close to the walls hopefully none of the creatures would notice him. He ducked into the shadow. The barricade seemed to still be made from the first logs. No repairs. Shit! Godsdamned shit! In spring they did some repairs behind the mess.The old poles had rotted through during the mild winter.

In a far off corner of the base desperate orders were still shouted, until they suddenly stopped. Áed knew the voice. Ronan. He had once been under his command during a scouting run. He was a reasonable man. Calm and collected. Now one body among many.

Áed ran. With blind hope. His thoughts filled with a prayer to Naomh Cairisiòna that she might not take him yet and many curses.

He found the spot he had been looking for. The repairs were done miserably, and yet it was more difficult than he had anticipated to pry off the boards. He pulled, he kicked, he cursed and finally had a hole in the wall big enough to crawl through. He hated himself for fleeing, while his comrades died. But he didn’t want to die here. He wouldn’t die here.

As soon as he was out, he started running. He wasn’t even sure the direction was right. Wasn’t sure how far he’d make it. Just wanted to be gone. Andras? If he was lucky, he might make it there. Perhaps he could warn somebody. If not? That too wasn’t important. Just gone from here.

Chapter Text

Year 349 after the War of the Gods, Summer

Near Ardport, Border region of the Empire

“Their language - the first, primordial language - spoken when the river of time was a mere trickle; spoken defiance against their creators, an echo in their grave; a thunder-roar, as the final word of the titans, swallowed in stone, a whisper. Every syllable filled with meaning, a kingdom in a word, a world in a sentence. If we want to even hope to understand them, we have to understand their language first. We cannot understand which we do not have the words to describe. But when we possess those words, it allows new possibilities, new paths of thought. Language is a key to new ideas. To worlds, we cannot yet fathom. With the right words we will build towers of glass, cast liquid stone and build cities from it, look up to the stars and reach for them, look down inside ourselves in understanding. Gain power over the smallest part of this world and bend it to our will. In their language we find their power. And in their power we find what was forgotten.”

He strode up and down in front of the table. He had given her this exact lecture many times already, but it was important that she truly understood what he was saying - what he wanted to teach her; had to teach her. Even if that meant she had to learn every word by heart.

“And when we grasp their language and can understand it, then we can face them. And in wonder and terror avert our eyes. For even what we may understand will still hold unspeakable power over us. Can lure, can drive, can beg. In their form lies the promise of power.”

Would this be the day he finally opened that gate for her and showed her the way into that world? His student turned the page in the book in front of her. If she was listening ot him, it was with only one ear at best. A gigantic map stretched across both pages. The northern Grave of Titans. The provinces of Tamset and Sahadye. The new capital of Qarahad on their border. Arigarðr, Avnborg and Al-Mahr to the north. The fortress Daraj to the south. Many posts that had long turned to ruins. Borders that had been drawn and redrawn time and time again over these last three hundred years. And the all-encompassing scarred landscape; all-furrowing valleys, stone ridges, gorges, plateaus; witness to a conflict the likes of which the world should never be forced to see again. All-despising, all-consuming.

Reconstruction by Sunna Manaheres described the first hundred years following the War of the Gods as a golden age, healing the wounds torn by long years of enmity. In the two hundred years that passed since then… Well, the mage wasn’t so sure.

The student’s eyes travelled the page; from city to city, river to river, fortress to fortress. She was intelligent, inquisitive and curious. For those reasons he had decided to take her on; had taken her in off the streets of Ardport. He needed a successor. But she wasn’t listening, was living inside her own little world, was jumping chaotically from topic to topic, subject to subject. History to geography to mathematics to astronomy to medicine. She had no patience. It was difficult teaching her.

“The Grave of Titans is a prime example”, he tried. She looked up at him as if it were the first sentence even reaching through to her. “Are you listening or am I doing all this for my own amusement?”

He saw it in the twitching of her eyelids: She suppressed rolling her eyes. “Please, master, this is the same lecture you’ve given me at least a hundred times.”

“Then why do I still feel like I’m not getting through to you?”

“So, please? What is the Grave of Titans a prime example for? A force which can reshape entire stretches of land”, she imitated his voice. “Which allows for the impossible.”

That child… Was she even taking her tutelage seriously? He still saw that she had it in her, but these last years the doubts had grown if it might ever find the way to the surface. Whether he could lure it to the surface. Potential was all well and good but if it remained untapped, it was worth nothing.

“The Grave of Titans is a prime example for the power we could wield if we had the language to understand it. That you could wield if you would listen to me. It wasn’t gods who formed this region. It was souls and bodies of flesh and blood like you and I. But they had the language to understand this world and the forces acting within it. The currents flowing through it, the nets keeping it together. The words to describe what is happening behind the screen. The light, the puppet, the puppeteer. And that is what I’m trying to teach you. If you would just listen.”

She wasn’t the first student he had taken on in all this time, but she would be his last, of that he was certain. He had to hurry. Sometimes he wondered what became of the others he had never heard of again, but most of the time he told himself it was better not knowing.

“It’s always about power or force… But I’ll play along: How do I get such power?”

He inhaled deeply. Exhaled. If he had wanted to hear a question from her, that was not it. But at least she was listening. It seemed the best he could hope for at the moment. “Through understanding.” Would he open the gate for her today? Maybe she would understand then? He wasn’t even sure if she was ready. The others weren’t. But he had already been waiting too long. He couldn’t put it off any longer. Even if he did, there was still a long way ahead of her and he wanted to keep her company for as long as he could.

He sat down opposite her at the table. He had made his decision, even if it stood on shaky legs. In the end it was a question of trust and he trusted her, he decided.

“It’s been eight years since I found you. During all that time, have you ever thought about magic? About weaving it yourself? About shaping the world around you with just a single thought? To learn that is why you’re here. I taught you all I can about the theoretics of this world. Or what you are willing to take in. Perhaps it’s time to move on to practice.”

The eyes of his student lit up. “Are you serious?”

“I would never joke about this. But I want you to understand that there is a price. We are a mere spark in this world, they are the vastness surrounding it. You will face them and if they accept you, the practical part of your education will begin.”

“What price? And what is that supposed to mean: if they accept me?”

Over folded hands he looked at her with a serious expression. “My power to weave magic is only borrowed from them. And you too will be granted it by them. Imagine it like such: Completely on your own, you would have to understand the movement of the stars and describe the laws of their orbits.It would take years and even then you would only achieve a fraction of it. Now imagine someone explaining it to you. But they have to be willing. And that depends on the price you are willing to pay. But that is between you and them.

He saw the thoughts working inside her mind. Thinking about what the price might be and whether it was worth it. Back then he had probably hesitated, too, when they had asked him in Osena to leave his friends behind and pay the undetermined price. Everything that had happened after that was history now. May her story take a better course than his. He wouldn’t rush her. 

“I will face them. I want, what they have to offer.” He had had his reasons to respond like this. She had hers.

He nodded. “I will prepare everything. And you should ensure, you’re ready, too. Remember what I told you: This will be your first glance into an unknown, unfathomable world.”

She nodded enthusiastically. “Of course. I will not disappoint you.”

“Good. Then go.”

As her master had ordered, she scurried out the library. Her eyes had glowed. Despite everything he had prepared her well. She would receive the Daevas with open arms. And them her. He saw himself one step close to securing his succession.

He had never taught her that much about the customs of the great elven families. Not because he hadn’t known any more but because he hadn’t deemed it necessary. Her life was dedicated to a fixed goal, had a fixed path now and he had only given her, what was in harmony with it. She would make an incense offering to the spirits and ask for strength and clarity. One of four prayers he had taught her.

He stood up and walked along the countless bookshelves in search of one particular work. As he walked, the voices of the innumerable books washed over him. They tugged at his mind. They talked at him, shouted at him, questioned him. He answered only a few. He missed the silence and seclusion in his mind, but those were the price of knowing the true nature of things. He hoped he had prepared his student well enough for what awaited her. Ones more powerful had been broken by it. Iora, the Windweaver who had wiped out her own cult. She had been a good friend and he hoped he would honour her through his student. Or lonesome Torren who commanded the mountain to collapse upon him. No one knew why he had done it. He hadn’t even told the mage what was going on inside him. He missed the old days in Osena.

He stroked the spines of the books he passed with his fingers. His companions. His kingdom. The part of his legacy he wasn’t ashamed of. And then he found what he was looking for. A book sat silently on the shelf; not demanding his attention, as if it was aware that he would come on his own if only it was patient. But perhaps it was foolish to attribute a personality to a book.

He placed the book on the small table at the center of the library. Blindly and on their own his hands found the right pages. Those same pages as countless times before. Paper yellowed by the years; smudged ink, the words barely legible but forever edged into his mind; and the numerous fingerprints of dried blood. Haphazardly spread across the two pages, overlapping earthy-brown stains a testimony to his life’s journey.

He had received this book from his master when he had left Osena. In the long years since then, he had annotated and added to it. So had his master before him. And so, perhaps, had his before him. The collective knowledge of a long lineage. One day, when she was ready, he would hand it on to his student; when he finally retired. Until that day, it was his path to the Daevas. His privilege.

In a small bowl he lit a handful of herbs. Breathed in the smoke. Initially just thin threads, they grew thicker and thicker until they filled his lungs. His eyelids fluttered and he began to move away from his body. Every breath a step away from this world.

“My masters, your servant requests your attention.”

They accepted. He bit the tip of his thumb bloody and pressed it to the paper. His key to this ancient but familiar place. The streets of a long-forgotten city. Without name. Without memory of the people who had once lived there. And when he stepped through the door, it was as if returning home after a long journey. And silence returned to his mind.

From up high they watched him; The Outer Ones, Daevas, Exiled Ones, Daimons, Gallûs. His gods. They followed his trek through these ancient streets of weathered stone, past long-decayed ruins of once magnificent buildings. He had seen them, back then, in all their beauty, their splendour. But as their disciples dwindled, all that melted away. The  blood mage missed the times when the walls gleamed golden, the sky was sapphire blue and the city pulsated with life. But even then he knew it for the illusion it was. Woven to comfort or encourage those taking their first steps in this world.

He silently greeted the equally silent figures that followed him on his journey. Those shadows his companion since he had entered the city. And as the old palaces, temples and castles, they too were but the undignified remains of a titan wasting away, without food, starving.

He stopped and shouted at the sky hanging above him like a faded painting; the white tatters of the clouds where the colour had already peeled off.

“Is that all my worth to you anymore? Have I not fulfilled your every wish? And you send these wretched creatures to speak to me? These three worthless souls who have died in your service - I was your gatekeeper!”

He turned and fixed his gaze on each of the figures who had followed him in turn. Letting them rest would have been more merciful. In each of them he saw the way they had died. The man on his left was burning. The skin stretched from the heat, cracked, charred, flesh melting from bone. Embers in his eyes, smoke in his throat. The one to his right,  a mass of splintered bone and distorted flesh, burst skin, punctured by ribs; smeared with blood. Red foam dripping from his face with every breath. The third, the middle one - it was more difficult with her. She stood before him, but not so her body. Without her mortal shell, everything was revealed and she stood proudly before him. Stood as if she felt superior.

The mage tilted his head. “And who were you to be given such honour?” A body torn from this world, from its existence. Not a single part of it left. Not even a memory remained in the world. No echo, no reverberation. What had she done that the masters had brought her back? “Did you fight for them? Back in the War of the Gods?”

He turned away from them. Despite everything, he had still served them for many years. Despite everything, this was still beneath him. “Only you are above me”, he shouted at the Daevas. “You are the only ones I will speak to.”

From the sand and in between the stones there began to emerge hundreds, thousands, countless beetles. All scraping chitin and jittering mandibles and twitching legs, they crawled over each other. Skittering here and there, congealing into a shape, growing up from the ground. A body of millions. Of carapace and six-legs and parts flitting around and the noise of a harvest being devoured and a village starving. Of a cloud of darkening sky without rain grew the figure and stood wordless before him.

“Have you decided to hear my request, masters?”

The answer was a whirring, a movement of thousand parts, an undulation. “As you know, I’ve had a student for eight years now. I would now like to ask you accept her into the circle of your disciples. She will be taught the art of blood magic in your name.”

Then he was back in his library and the noise in his mind also returned. He already missed the nameless city and its silence, but his task demanded him here. And he would fulfill it.

Chapter Text

Year 351 after the War of the Gods, Summer

Merun, Capital of the Empire 

From his vantage point on the roof of the watchtower, he could overlook the entire market district. Despite it being the middle of the night, the wide streets were still brightly lit and buzzing with activity. Lanterns hung from overhanging rooftops and stalls, keeping the darkness at bay. Offers were shouted, there was haggling, there were arguments, there was laughter and music. Someone dodged a cart and stumbled into a crate of turnips, scattering them all about the ground. Despite all the days he had already spent in the Imperial City, it was still a mystery to him how nobody in this city ever seemed to sleep. He wouldn’t be able to fulfill his contract with such bustling activity down there. He hoped the target would soon turn into one of the darker alleys. There might be a risk of losing her, but the shadows would offer him protection.

The avius dropped from the roof of the tower, the gentle wind beneath his wings carrying him from roof to roof. His kind hadn't been able to fly for a long time, but it was enough to ride the wind. He chose a house near the main road as his new vantage point. His target pushed through the crowd below him. Even at night, the ever-wakeful city demanded effort to reach your destination quickly. The woman chased away a beggar who had been following her for some time now. Only when she barked at him to get lost did he turn around and curse her. If she was making an attempt to not attract attention, she was failing miserably. Not that an orc would have gone unnoticed in Merun. They only rarely strayed into human towns this far east.

Two streets down, she collided with a fully laden man. He cursed loudly. And at that point it dawned on the avius: she was smarter than he had assumed. She wanted to be noticed. It was far more difficult to murder someone who was attracting everyone’s attention; who everyone was staring at. And if that wouldn’t be enough, she was still carrying two swords. The avius was less worried about those, however. If everything went well, they wouldn’t do her any good. He was prepared.

He jumped one house over so as to not lose her. She knew she was being followed and it became more difficult to keep up with her. She avoided shadows, stayed on wide streets, occasionally talked or argued with a merchant.

Plan B it is then.

The needle flashed briefly in the warm light of the lanterns before it found its mark.

Her melody must cease. And it would make him rich. And it would gift his sister her freedom.

The woman grabbed the back of her neck where the thorn stuck in her flesh and grimaced. With each beat, her heart would pump the poison through her body. Further and further. She wouldn’t even feel it at first; it’d take a few moments. And then it would be too late.

He smoothed the blue-green feathers on his head and continued watching her, to make sure his job was done. But the orc just kept walking as if nothing had happened. Had he misjudged? Impossible. Even at her size and stature, the dosage had to be enough.

She turned into a wider side street. It was less crowded here, no haggling merchants, no stalls and so she was moving faster. He hurried to follow her. From rooftop to rooftop. He glided a distance on the wind; crossed the street as a shadow. Climbed up a wall of rough hewn stone. Ducked into the darkness high  above the people. He saw a few pigeons and took a different path. If he woke them, she’d know where he was. Damn it, why wasn’t she dropping?

She looked left, then right and disappeared into a dark alleyway. So she wants to finish it like this. He got the chance to open her throat after all.

She stumbled as she took another turn and he realised with grim satisfaction that the poison was beginning to take effect after all. He flipped onto a roof directly above her. In the darkness, he could barely make out her outline. The paralysis spread. One leg dragged behind her, one arm hung limp. Now her size was no longer helping her. Silently he dropped from the rooftop onto his victim. But she ducked out from under him and he landed awkwardly on the street. He should have waited, he was too impatient. The element of surprise was gone. But he would not give her the chance to exploit this mistake. Before she could draw her swords, he leapt towards her and stabbed at the back of the knee of the leg on which she seemed to be bearing all her weight. A victim lying to the ground could fight no more.

But she didn't want to begrudge him this opportunity. She kicked at him. With a sickening crunch, her boot impacted on his collarbone and deflected his slash. The blade missed its target and instead found itself in the side of her calf. He stumbled backwards, fighting the pain that ate into his vision as dark edges.

His opponent clumsily caught the momentum of the kick, drew one of her swords and, in one fluid motion, struck a blow from above against the assassin's head. He narrowly avoided it and managed to deflect the blade with his dagger at the last moment.

Gods, he had hoped the poison would take effect much sooner. Something wasn’t right. He couldn’t stand against the orc for long; not in an open fight. His next attack had to be right.

He made two jumps back; wanted to give himself more room to manoeuvre; wanted to give himself time to find a weak spot. His victim was only watching calmly and made no move to pounce on him and end things. His nerves burned, his muscles screamed, his tendons twitched. His shoulder throbbed with dull pain. Why wasn't she doing anything?

Perhaps he could distract her? Maybe that would buy him an opportunity. Without taking his eyes off her, he reached into his pocket. A slow, deliberate movement. He didn't want to spook her. Then the air between them was filled with fine, yellowish powder and it smelled of sulphur. Now just a spark…

The orc disappeared from view. All that remained was a vague shadow. She was looking left and right, trying to keep an eye on her surroundings. Wanted to retreat but her leg gave way beneath her. Leaning on her sword, she knelt on the stone road. Things were as good as over. But she found him again. Fixed him. Glaring at him from dark eyes. He didn’t care. He drew the dagger across stone and sparks flew.

And then everything was but white. Even through closed eyelids the light was blinding. A handful of daylight in deepest night. It was as if looking directly at the sun.

Now he had to end it quickly. The flash must have drawn the attention of the guards. He had a couple of moments at best. One leap and he would be with her, his dagger plunged into her throat. Then he would have to negotiate the bounty again.

He tried to jump and was immediately thrown back down. His head impacted on the pavement hard and the sound made him want to vomit. His right arm was numb.

The bounty was definitely not enough.

He tried to fight his way back up, but he couldn’t. He ignored the pain in his skull. The dizziness and nausea. He looked at his arm. The blade of a sword was sticking out of his shoulder and with a jerk it severed muscle and sinew and broke bone. The tattooed face of his opponent hung over him. She chewed on something and swallowed it. She grimaced. Her weight bore down on him; he couldn’t move.

“Did you really think it would be this easy?”

She let go of her sword. “Hold onto this for a second.” Then she rummaged through the contents of a small pouch on her belt again and began chewing on whatever she found. “But I have to hand it to you: you almost had me.”

She spat on the street and swiped her face, before taking hold of her sword again. “A little less cockiness and you would have finished me off. They’d look good in her hair…” She stroked the feathers on his wings.

The avius breathed heavily. This was not at all how he’d imagined this. This was not how they had described his mission to him. It was supposed to be easy. His thoughts whirred wildly through his mind. A swarm of agitated insects looking for a way out.

“Mute?”, the woman asked surprised, “Isn’t this the part where you start begging?”

If she came just a little closer, he could at least peck out one of her eyes with his beak. Then perhaps he could escape. This damned asshole had taken his arm. He wanted to watch her scream. Wanted to kick at her. Dig his claws into her flesh. But she stomped down and broke his leg. He howled in pain.

She looked at him in disappointment and shook her head. “You’re making this a lot easier for me.” He wanted to see her dead. Wanted to watch her die. Wanted to watch as her life left her body, the light left her eyes. It was just a contract when he set out, but now he hated her.

She rose up to her full height above him and looked deep into his eyes but he could see nothing in them. No joy at her victory, no pity for him, no disgust at his assault on her life. Nothing.

“Next time they should send someone better.”

Chapter Text

Year 349 after the War of the Gods, Summer

North of Ardport, Grave of Titans

Leisurely the donkey trotted behind master and student. It had been carrying their burden for hours now. When they set off, the sun had just been about to set and now the moons - Sénbhe and Dhénia - were already high up in the sky, bathing the three of them in pale light. The silver-white sisters watched silently over the sleeping world  below as they travelled their ever-same paths up there in the endless sea of stars. Dhénia, the smaller one, always a little faster, always a little ahead of her big sister. Dancing across the night sky while their mother slept deep under the sea in the west.

“How much further?”, Iora asked her master, who hadn’t said a single word the entire time. It had made her increasingly nervous, as he usually tended to remain silent very rarely. What she wouldn’t have given for a lesson right about now. The silence on the other hand was gnawing at her. That was what made Iora even more uncomfortable than facing gods.

“Do you see that pillar up ahead, growing out of the Grave of Titans?” Without turning around, he pointed far into the distance with his outstretched arm. In the darkness she could barely make out what he was pointing at. “That is where we have to go. That is where I etched the runes into the stone all those years ago. That is where the Daevas will accept you as one of their disciples.” That explanation did nothing to ease Iora’s mind.

Afterwards, the master fell back into silence. The rest of the way to the bridge that would take them to the stone platform, he didn't speak another word and left her to her thoughts. He had often told her to use the time he wasn’t teaching her anything to think about things for herself, but in this silence there was no time to contemplate the nature of life or the development of different species. No time, no space, no peace. Her mind was a sky full of startled birds and dark clouds and a coming storm, carrying loose leaves and dust plumes in its wake. And she stood there trying to coax at least one of the birds back into its cage. She failed.

She had prayed for strength and for clarity. She didn’t know if it did anything. Had her ancestors even heard her? She didn’t even know who they had been. Riders in the steppe to the far south? Hunters in the Ironwoods? Her parents… Why had they left? In any case, it didn’t feel like they were going to stand by her side in this trial. Maybe the fault lay with the prayers themselves. Theology was one of the subjects her master had taught her, but that was nothing but theory. Family trees. The nature of the divine. How rites have changed over the centuries. But how to pray properly? Not the slightest clue. Did the knowledge that Irdorath was mother and father to all elves help her in any way? Hunter on the wind? Not really. She had tried to speak to her. Asked the god to stand by her if something happened, as she suspected one did such a thing. An answer she did not receive.

Finally they reached the stone pillar. One of many islands in a sea of nothing. Darkness, stretching into the abyss. And the only way to cross the black, which was no water, was a barely trustworthy bridge. It creaked and swayed under every step, but in the end they were back on solid ground. At the center of the plateau then the mage gave a sign that they would stop here. Iora tied the donkey to a withered, gnarly tree, which, despite all the odds, had chosen this barren place as its home and was clinging to the last remnants of life still left within it. She saw something poetic in its struggle for survival out here. She was not sure what that was.

While the master swept sand and dust over the edge of the plateau, the student lit the braziers the poor donkey had to carry for these last couple of hours. And whenever the teacher discovered another rune, she rushed to his side and poured either water or oil over it as he instructed. A circle. A sickle. A lightning bolt. A… tree?

Finally they were done and placed a last, ornate bowl at the center of the circle. The master seemed pleased. Here he stood as mage and ruler over the forces of nature. The flames flickered in the light, warm breeze, danced, leaped and their unsteady light clothed him in the superhuman. His features obscured. The shadows deeper and ever moving. The creases in his face undulating vines sprawling across his skin. His eyes, mirror to the flames, embers in their sockets, a pale light, a reflection, a gate. Right here he was no mere old man.

The furious jitter of the fires in the wind had chased away the calm light of the moon. The cold nervousness gave way to burning tension. Iora had had her doubts, certainly, but hadn’t she waited her entire life for this single moment? Hadn’t every moment of her studies prepared her for this? Eight years the apprentice to her master… This would be the culmination of all her patience.

She turned the thought over and over while her master knelt in front of the bowl and began to burn herbs and inhale the smoke. Apart from the soft wind and the crackling of the wood it was terrifyingly silent. Iora would have preferred it so much more if it had been loud; if something had happened. Now she could only watch her master as he threw another handful of - whatever - into the bowl again and again, changing more and more with every passing minute. She had never seen him like this, his face taking on a horrifying look. In Ardport– In Ardport she had once seen something like that. With the dust addicts in the dark and deserted alleyways where nobody dared to go. Mangled, inhuman faces, bleary eyes, their senses no longer in this world. He laughed. A thousand voices from his throat.

“Iora, heir to the name of the Windweaver, daughter of Irdorath, you heard the call of the Daevas and followed it to them. For what reason do you want to submit to them?”

“What?” He had never mentioned any of that. A price, yes, but not that. She didn’t want to submit to anyone. Hadn’t he raised her to live free? “You never–”

“You accepted my offer without hesitation. You have agreed to pay the undetermined price. So state your reason. Their eyes are on you now and your soul has been promised.” He spoke in a voice so cheerful it turned her stomach.

This had to be a test. He wouldn’t just sell her out like that. But what if he did? No. Eight years. Eight years he had prepared her for this moment. Of preparing herself for this moment. She would not back down. She saw Ardport. The streets, the snow, the boots, the blunt end of a spear. Felt them against her flesh and her bone. Felt the knife at her ear. She would not back down. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. And it was as if she breathed only smoke, not air. It ran thickly down her throat and spread throughout her body. She coughed. Tears gathered in her eyes. She exhaled. She would not back down. Again she inhaled. Felt as her body relaxed. How her mind relaxed. How the warmth crept into every fibre of her being and when she opened her eyes again, her thoughts were as spring water. The answer lay before her as if asked her name. And she was surprised herself.

“You surely want to hear power . Is that it? The Daevas would rejoice at my striving for power. If I would offer myself to be their hand. Their instrument in this world. Kill in their name.”

She looked deep into the eyes of the figure opposite her, who no longer had much of her foster father. Something else was sitting in these sockets. Something that shouldn't be here. But it was too late to turn back.

“But that is not who I am. I strive for knowledge. More knowledge than is contained in the Great Libraries. More knowledge than what the old masters wielded before the War of the Gods. Knowledge of the great whole and the smallest part. The brick and the house. The source, the stream and the ocean.”

“You want knowledge? Knowledge you shall have. Enough for you to drown in it. Enough for you to wish you could forget.”

The vessel of the Daevas spread its arms wide. And when it opened its mouth, no sound came past its lips. Silently it formed impossible syllables. And the stone underneath her feet spoke for it. And the rock screeched and on to her left and right the stone disappeared into the deep. With it the tree and the donkey tethered.

Iora had long wanted to run away. This whole ritual was so much more than she ever wanted to go through, but no muscle in her body obeyed. She was nothing more than a witness.

“Receive our sign.”

With ash from the adorned bowl the gods drew a rune on her forehead and one on her chin. She felt it on her skin and beneath. Then her master’s body rose and disappeared from her vision. All clarity had gone from her mind since the demonstration of power and now she was there alone with her fear and her surrogate father, who had cared for her like a real daughter, was so far gone from her it was impossible he would inhabit this body ever again.

This had to be a test. None of this could be happening for real. This had to be a test. Something wet ran down her cheek. This had to be a test.

She was the dirty child from the streets and the guardsman had caught her with the apple in her hand.

And her fate was no longer her own.

Behind her something tugged at her collar and then she heard and felt as her simple tunic was cut open. It slipped down her back. Then the hand - no longer her master’s - brushed aside her hair. Shivers run down her back.

She wanted to beg, plead, scream, cry. Not a sound escaped her lips.

“Creature of the wind, you are ours.”

The point of the knife pierced the skin on her neck. She couldn’t move; could only feel. First just dull pressure until her senses caught up with what her mind already knew. A straight cut down her back. For Iora it was as though the marionette would paint deep into her with white hot metal. The second cut described an arch from her left shoulder blade to her right. And again the pain from her back extended into her mind. She screamed. From pain and from desperation. She didn’t scream. Not a muscle twitched. Not a bit did she move.

The next symbol was a circle on the small of her back. At that her body gave in. Her mind had already drawn back and only observed the white lines forming in front of her inner eye. The blood ran down her back in small rivulets. But the Daevas yanked her back up and worked to complete their bloody art work. With no regard. Sanguine stroke by sanguine stroke. A painting in her being. Iora's body hung lifeless in their grip as they completed their work.

“This scar, this glyph is our contract. It binds you to us and grants our power.”

And so she understood. This was the end to her soul. And when the veil of unconsciousness finally fell over her to release her from the pain, she welcomed it with open arms.

Chapter Text

Year 351 after the War of the Gods, Summer

Merun, Capital of the Empire 

Accompanied by an organic, wet-slimily cutting sound, of meat and scraping of bone Giræsea pulled her sword from the lifeless body of the avius and hung it back in her belt. She didn’t bother with the body. Let whoever had sent him here pick him up again; maybe they would finally get the message. She hurried to get some distance between herself and the scene of the attack. The guards wouldn’t be long off and she really didn’t want to have to explain the whole situation to them. She really didn’t need another Kinbay.

Hopefully Thorgest wasn’t too worried about her right now. She had very little desire to return to the inn, realise that he had gone out again to look for her and then go looking for him herself. The hours she had already spent in this cursed maze of an Imperial City had already been more than enough. All she longed for was a cup filled to the brim and a bed. Not even a soft bed; just a bed. And she longed for Älyan's touch. Maybe she was still awake.

Damned city! If the assassin had just had the balls to attack her sooner, she now wouldn’t have to walk so far. She was insanely happy be finally be rid of him even if it was far closer than she would have liked.

Back at the intersection leading to the main road of this ring Giræsea looked left. She couldn’t go there. The whole thing with the beggar had drawn too much attention. Why did he have to follow her for that long? Did she look that rich? To the right then. She was going to miss the neatly ordered streets up here. Just one street down she turned left again, one block down to the right again. In that manner she zigzagged through the geometry of a city causing her more than a minor headache. Humans, dwarves and felines for the most part gave her a wide berth and Giræsea was glad for the unsteady light of the torches – who could tell how they might react if they noticed the blood. Perhaps Varnith would be merciful and bless her with a well somewhere. She wanted to wash her hands.

This ring - bordered on both sides by walls that rose high into the sky over several storeys and with countless battlements, towers and castles that were in danger of touching the clouds - served as a market for the people of Merun. The entire ring. Encircling the entire city. Giræsea was fascinated by this peculiarity of the Imperial City. The citizens of the other rings, the Uppercity high on the mountain and the city in the stone all vicited this central ring. She wasn’t really sure in what way it made any sense to arrange a market like this. Apart from maybe spending an entire day walking in a circle and admiring all the wares on display. A thought that had actually occurred to her and which she had also already discussed with Älyan. Well, it had never happened. They both knew why.

Giræsea could have sworn the trek back should have been half as short, but finally she made it, standing in front of the gate through which she had entered the market a couple of hours ago. Deeply set into the awe inspiring wall, which seemed to support the weight of the mountain behind it, so it didn't spill out like a pile of wet sand and which separated her impassably from the first ring of the Uppercity, this gate led down into the stone. Into the hive of the lower city. She snorted as she passed the guards; both of them almost asleep on their feet. Back down again…

Before her opened up a sheer endless tunnel - stone at every side and night deep in its throat. Deep, deep, deep into the mountain the wound was torn, with steady strikes and clear cuts. And then the light behind her was ousted to the surface as the gate was shut and the mountain swallowed her whole.

Without the glow of the many torches and lanterns, her eyes became more accustomed to the darkness with every step and soon she could make out the first outlines of the hive in the omnipresent murky light. There was no order here, no rings partitioning the city, no streets, just abandoned plans of structure and the clear lines marking the entrance to the Undercity soon vanished. Fiercely the city grew in and out of the stone. Caves and tunnels dug where there was room, chambers made of wood or steel or dividers of simple linen where needed.

Giræsea’s path led her past the few shops that had gathered just beyond the gate. Unlike the market outside, there was silence. Without paying them any further mind, she walked down the two flights of stairs to what had probably once been intended as the third floor, before the buildings had started to spread like a mushroom and eat their way deeper into the stone on all sides.

Further down, the shouts of an argument echoed up a broad shaft. In response someone further up on a balcony shouted something foul in a language she didn’t understand, then laughed and took another drag on his pipe. Someone stepped out next to him and they talked quietly.

Deeper and deeper she descended into the bowels of Merun. Suspicious of every dark alleyway. Maybe they weren’t this dumb after all and had sent more than just one assassin after her. Only once she saw the door to their inn did she allow herself to take a deep breath. It was nestled into a recess in the mountain and intergrew with the stone as if it had always been there. In front of small windows set into wooden walls hung small planters with a wide variety of colourful mushrooms. Despite the late hours, warm candlelight still shone through the dull-green window glass from inside and Giræsea was glad the counter was still occupied. One glance back into the ever-night of the mountain, then she stepped through the door.

A chandelier at the centre of the taproom - some candles already fully burnt down - kept the darkness from the street at bay with its last, warm light before - even here - the day finally had to come to an end and the last of the guests had to make their wine-prolonged journey to their beds. Two of them were still sat in an alcove talking quietly and when Giræsea opened the door, they quickly turned to her before falling into an awkward silence; the cups in front of them empty and the candle burnt out. A third hung over his table, snoring loudly.

She stepped into something sticky and continued walking.

Behind the dark wood counter, decorated with scratches and involuntary carvings, the owner sat in a chair and slept peacefully. His glasses had slipped off his nose and his whiskers occasionally twitched with a light breath. The corpulent feline had given them a warm welcome on their first day here in Merun and had taken good care of them ever since.

She sat down heavily on a stool at the bar and placed two silver crowns in front of the innkeeper with a loud CLINK. She would have allowed him his sleep - it was well into the night - but if she had to be awake still, then he might as well serve her. He startled awake. “What? Oh! Yes! Of course!” He adjusted his glasses. “Our esteemed guest from the far west. What can I do for you?”

An amused smile crept onto her lips as he smoothed his hair in the reflection on a bottle. “Kaheb, what you got for me?”

“I know I promised you something from Diræth'Asin, I know, I know, I know. But the delivery is still out.” He turned around to the shelf filled with bottles and ran his finger across various labels. “But maybe this would be something for you.” By then he had reached the shelves of unlabelled bottles and was crouching behind the counter.

“You know I’m not picky. Show me what you got.” The poor guy went to far too much trouble with them. And that night, she didn't have the nerve for it. She wanted a cup. Filled up all the way. And then she wanted to go to bed.

“No, no. Only the best will do for my guests. Here we go.” Kaheb placed a bottle made of dark glass on the table. “The man who sold this to me said he got it from Tel Sent. I don’t exactly know what it is either. Shall we open it?”

Giræsea agreed with a flick of her wrist and a nod, and the feline set about removing the wax around the seal with a knife. She doubted that the bottle had really travelled all the way from Tel Sent just to end up in the Undercity.

“Did the dwarf walk past here?”, she asked casually.

“Oh, yes. He came back a few hours ago and didn’t seem particularly pleased. Talked to me here for a while before going off to his room.” The wax was gone and struggled with the cork now. “I might be out of line, but your companion… She hasn’t left her room all day again. Is everything allright?”

Of course he had to ask. But he sure as fuck wouldn’t get an answer. “Everything’s fine.” She placed a few more silver crowns on the counter for him, took the bottle and two cups and left him standing there. Without turning around again, she held up the bottle - “Thanks for that” - and disappeared from the taproom.

She probably should have discussed her plans with Älyan and Thorgest a little more, but then Thorgest would probably have insisted on accompanying her. And that, in turn, would have only led to another situation like the one in Rúnknǫttr. Probably. Only with a lot more beard involved. Well, everything had gone allright.

Shortly before reaching her room, she already found him standing there in his nightgown. One hand in his braided beard, the other on his hip.

“So, the young lady returns at last.”

She almost had to laugh. “Calm down, old man. Not all of us live to be hundreds of years old. Here, take this.” She offered the bottle to him. “That might relax you a little.” Maybe he even bought that she hadn’t just been fighting for dear life.

He ignored the bottle. “Look at yourself… one arm still half paralysed. You took the antidote far too late! You know it will get you killed if you’re this careless.”

Of course he knew exactly what had gone down. And he had noticed the missing antidote. And of course he only had her well-being in mind, she knew all that. If it had only been an hour earlier that evening, she might even have appreciated it.

“I had to make sure she showed himself. Do you think an avius would face an Orc under normal circumstances?”, Giræsea tried to justify herself.

He scratched his chin. “An avius? In Merun? Not the most inconspicuous choice.” He was right, but she was too tired to give it much thought right now.

“I don’t know… Maybe they’re not so bright after all. What do you expect from three idiots who have never left the Sea of Sands?”

“You’re underestimating the Kurr. They’ve been hunting you left the Sea of Sands”, Thorgest said, visibly worried.

“Yes. And so far it's worked out every time, hasn't it?”

“But that will change if we stay here for too long. You're not exactly subtle. How many orcs have you seen in Merun?” He was right. Of course he was right. It was awful.

“Thorgest, please. Do we have to discuss all this here and now? You know as well as I do why we're here. We'll get out of here as quickly as we can.”

Giræsea pushed past him and stepped through the door behind him into her room. She turned to him once more - “Tomorrow we'll find him and then we'll be out of here” - and closed the door behind her.

Chapter Text

Year 350 after the War of the Gods, Late Autumn

Camp of the Imperial Militia near Andras, River Lands

Two days. Two days without food or water. Two days in the cold and mud and fog. Two days, but finally he had reached Andras. At first he had been running. He just wanted to get away from Cruidín. He had regretted that fairly quickly. Doggedly he had run for longer than he could. With every step he had felt those accursed monsters behind. Soon he had been exhausted. His lungs burned, his muscles screamed. But he wrested the way from his body.

Night had been worse than the day. Colder. Wetter. Despite his exhaustion, he barely slept. Every second he expected death to reach for him from the night and drag him into the darkness.

On the second day he started to question whether he should just leave behind his heavy crossbow. Without its weight he would be so much faster. No. He clung to it; it was his life, his rope that saved him from drowning. He would not give it up.

Around midday his senses started to dissolve into small wavelets – The fog inside him as the fog around him. Every thought, every intention mere pale shadows through a milky white haze. He relied solely on his leg carrying him further. One foot in front of the other. Just keep going. Step by grinding step. On and on. He would reach Andras, there the walls would protect him.

With the sun a last memory, hidden behind jagged firs, dark shadows divided against the crimson sky, finally, on the evening of the second day, he stumbled into the encampment of the Imperial Swords. The banners had already greeted him from afar: the black sword on the blue and white background, the golden wreath around it. Saints, was he relieved to finally see them. The desperation that had kept him going all this time threatened to leave his body and his legs started to buckle.

And then it hit him like a punch to the face: reinforcements had already been on the way. Unfortunately, too late. Too late for Róise or Caolán. Too late for Cruidín.

Crossbow shouldered, he stumbled past the tents. Past soldiers calmly sitting and talking; calmly going about their tasks; cooking, mending holes; sharpening axes, spears, swords. So calmly. Far too calmly. The did not yet know that in the west the line of defence had fallen, that death was marching for them, running. With carapace and claw and serrated mandible.

He had to find an officer; someone who would listen to him. They had to listen to him or all these men and women would walk to their demise, their chests swelling with pride.

Step by exhausted step, he fought his way through the camp until someone finally stopped him at the third ring of tents.

“Solder! Rank and name!”

Slowly he raised his head to see who was shouting at him; any discipline and quick response bled from his body. In front of him stood a woman in the uniform of a second sergeant, but something didn’t seem right. The details were off.

He didn’t salute.

“Áed Cahill. Private. Sixth Bow squad. Third platoon at the western frontier.” The words felt jagged in his throat. He coughed.

“Why did you leave your post, Cahill?” From above she looked down on him. In her voice there was no pity for his sorry state. The crossbow slipped off his shoulder. The steel of her question tore through him like through wet paper, leaving nothing but soggy, pulpy shreds.

“We were overrun. There–” He faltered beneath her gaze. No, he had to report what had happened in Cruidín. “There were no elves. It was something else. Killed them all.” He wasn’t sure how to describe it. Had he even seen it? How his comrades had been eaten? Or had he just been imagining that?

“And what would that be, soldier?” She had no intention of believing him. She would not believe him. She had already made up her mind about him. He still tried.

“It looked like elves, but… with growths and… carapace like beetles. As if they had ascended straight from the hells. Saints… they devoured everything.”

“So lead us to them”, she said with a wicked smile. “Then we’ll see if the eighteenth platoon can’t handle it.”

“Please! Listen to me! Send a scouting party, they can confirm what I said. In the meantime.. Fortify Andras! Or evacuate the city! You must–”

“Private, lead us to them!” She didn’t believe him. Of course not. Why should she? As if he didn’t know what he was telling her. Aside from him there was nobody left who had seen what he had. The others were dead.

“No, I won’t go back to those things.” Should they go if they wanted to die.

Her expression had changed; with disgust she stared down at him. “A coward. A liar. A deserter. You are a disgrace.” She spat the words in his face. “There is no place for you in the Imperial Militia.” She turned away from him in contempt. “You know yourself what happens when you desert your post during times of war. Take him away. Tomorrow he’s going to Merun.”

“To Merun?” Panic flared up inside him.  It spread through his body as twitching threads, as taut strings plucked by vicious fingers. No. No. No. No! Bloody hells, no! His life shouldn’t be his first concern right now. “Fine, take me to Merun! But by all the saints, send scouts to our outposts and evacuate Andras!”

Gloved hands seized his arms, jerked them behind his back and tied them with rough rope. He didn’t fight it. At least he wouldn’t have to fight anymore. He had to laugh. This woman wouldn’t believe him and for the other soldiers, too, he was nothing but a mad coward trying to run from his duty. At that moment, when he realised that no one would believe him, he was overcome by a sense of calm that he had not felt in the last two days. Not since he had stood on that battlefield.

“Take me to Merun!”, he screamed. “Let the people die! But their death rests on your shoulders.”

All the gnawing thoughts of what would happen to the people - with their teeth and their chatter and their twitching legs, nails on glass, wood-splinters in the coils of his mind - they all blurred into grey again. He had done everything in his power. It would cost him his life. Everyone here was as good as dead. Hopefully at least the gods would recognise his attempt.

The had taken his armor, his crossbow, his knife and they had dragged him into a tent and tied him down. He had let it happen. From here it wasn’t in his hands any longer. They had left him to his own devices between crates of supplies and rolled-up tarpaulins. And having to no longer keep up appearances, he collapsed from exhaustion. The march had taken its toll. Merun didn’t matter now. If one of the saints was sympathetic to him, he would fall asleep here and never wake up again. With his last clear thought, he asked Naomh Cairistiòna to make it so.

#

When he woke his mouth was dry, his tongue swollen and his throat burned. When he swallowed then it felt a sticky, thick, unmoving mass in his throat. His heart pounded with slow, heavy thuds; life-drum inside his chest. He was still tied to the pole at the center of the tent where they had left him. Now there was someone standing over him, though. The man nudged him with his boot.

“Here. Drink.”

The words only made their way through his sluggish thoughts when the man handed him the waterskin. He drank greedily, coughed, then continued drinking. The water ran from the corners of his mouth, over his chin, dripping to the ground. He drank until the waterskin was empty.

“Ní Tíghearnáin doesn’t want you dying here. She prefers knowing you on the sands in Merun.”

Áed put his head back and looked up at the man. “Thank you.”

The soldier re-corked the empty waterskin again. He hesitated. “The people out there are talking. Is it true? What you said?”

Áed nodded. “Yes.”

“Hm.” The soldier looked at the ground. “You’re still a deserter. You should have held Cruidín.”

“We should have held Cruidín… I would have died there with the others.”

“Then you would have died a honourable death. For the empire and the emperor.”

“I will not throw away my life for the emperor.”

The soldier snorted, turned around and left the tent. “Just like the woman…”

“Woman? What woman?” Áed shouted after him but got no answer. He stared at the white canvas above him, how it resisted the gentle wind, threw waves, fell back again.

There had been few women serving at his border post. One had to have made it out before him. From outside he heard the camp being broken up. Tarpaulins dragging on the ground, the clank of weapons being gathered. Carts being loaded. Who else could have made it out from the outpost? Who had been on guard duty? No. It couldn’t have been one of the guards. She’d have raised the alarm. Right? Outside two men argued. Maybe one of the guards had fled their post the moment she had seen what had been storming for the camp. He would probably have fled, too. Had fled.

Above him the canvas billowed in the wind. So this was how it was going to end. Not as a soldier at the frontline; not as a peasant on a farm; not surrounded by family; as a deserter in the arena. He should have fled. Far away. Maybe to Finavarra and from there to Damh. And from there he could have made it to Bay’Asin. But what the hells did he want in the Sea of Sands?

#

Áed was finally picked up. Two soldiers tore open the tarpaulin, yanked him to his feet and untied him from the tent pole.

“I hope you like long journeys. It’s close to a month to get to Merun.”

They dragged him outside and Áed didn’t resist. The sun was blinding and his leg barely carried his weight. He was led to a cart where in between supplies there already sat a woman. She refused to even look at the soldiers around her. One sitting in the front, two others on their horses as reinforcements. Nobody seemed all too excited to be here.

“Onto the cart!” a soldier commanded and Áed obeyed. Then he was tied down again. The woman opposite him also refused to look at him, but he thought he knew her. Could it… No. Was that really Sara? There was no more pride in her bearing, none of the fire that had been there just three days ago. But it had to be her. How many women with only one arm served in the Imperial Militia? He lowered his gaze to the wooden floor of the car after staring at her for too long. They had both survived the attack just to now die in the capitol. Maybe one day someone would make a joke about it in a tavern. Some might laugh.

The officer who had greeted Áed so kindly approached him again. “Some final inspiring words for your comrades before you leave?” she said with a way too friendly grin. For a second he lifted his head but remained silent. He didn’t want to give her the satisfaction. “Nothing? Well then.” She gave a sign and the party set off. “I hope you like the capitol.”

#

Nobody spoke a word. There was nothing to speak about. In his estimation, Sara was too proud to talk about her escape. He himself simply didn't want to. What else could they talk about?  How nice the weather was?

Even as they set up camp for the night, Sara remained mute. And so all that remained in the darkness of the night was the chatter of the soldiers as they cosied up by the fire. Sara and Áed on the other hand stay behind on the cart. Tied and in the cold. With bindings too short to lie down they sat all night and were silent at each other; watched the cloudlets rising in front of their faces; stared at cold earth, cold wood or the cold sky above as the ice started eating into their bodies.

For food they had been given when the soldiers were done and what they had left over. Little more than scraps, but for Áed it had been the first time he had eaten in days. He had wolfed it down with little dignity. He had not cared. Nobody had been watching him. And when he had been done, he had sat again. Shunned by sleep, banned from fire’s warmth, in solitary cold and only icy silence his company. He sat and counted the stars hanging unchanged in their spheres as if the gates to the underworld hadn’t opened just a couple of miles west from here and spewing demons into the world.

#

The next day went by in a similarly uneventful manner as the first leg of their journey. Woken by a beating, scraps for breakfast and then hours of watching the scenery. Only fields and meadows to the left and right of the road, here a tree, there two, maybe a creek - just as everywhere else this far south. They came past a farmer’s family including farmhand toiling on their field. They gazed up at the soldiers, then bowed and went about their work again. Since the start of the war people around here have shown more respect for the Imperial Militia.

Áed still hadn’t  exchanged a single word with another human past the third day of their journey, but he was starting to understand his travel companions quite well. The command was with a corporal, obviously unhappy with having to head back to Merun and who had most likely hoped to prove himself at the front. The two privates of the Swords, the dragoon from the Lances and the two archers from the Bows on the other hand seemed quite happy to not have to fight after all. Full pay and just having to ride half way across the empire for it - things could not have worked out better for them. Of course nobody dared mentioning that in front of the corporal. Two of them also seemed to know each other rather well. On another icy, waking night, he heard them sneaking away.

#

Thankfully he wouldn’t spend the fourth night sitting or out in the cold. In the late afternoon they reached a small farm, which was no doubt an old way station from the time before the War of the Gods; massive, from one piece, moulded from liquid stone. An impressive, huge, bulky and ugly building. Grey and edged and stone and stone and stone. The second floor alone had windows and even the stable was made from solid stone. When the convoy arrived, there was a little girl at the door who immediately disappeared into the house, only to reappear a short time later with a man, probably her father. The man bowed curtly to the corporal and wanted to know what had earned him the honour of this visit. After having the situation explained to him briefly - naturally some details, such as the fall of the fort, were omitted - he was more than willing to offer the travelling party shelter. Since the start of the war people around here have shown more respect for the Imperial Militia.

Sara and Áed were led into the stables with the horses and tied up there as well before the troop disappeared into the way station. So they sat alone opposite each other. Their hands tied behind their backs. Still she held her head bowed; her red hair hanging down her face, covering her eyes. She too was still wearing the blue uniform of the Imperial Militia. Same as his, the soldiers had torn off their rank insignia; a greater humiliation for her than him.

“Did you see them?” he tried carefully. It felt strange to talk after such a long time.

She briefly raised her gaze in his direction - dull eyes behind wild strands - and then lowered it again. When he’d already assumed she wouldn’t say anything she replied: “Of course… How could you have missed them?” Her voice was frail. She sounded beaten.

“How did you make it out?”

Áed immediately regretted that question. Her response was venom. “How do you think I made it out?” Her head jerked upward, fire burning in her eyes, devouring the world and her. “Do you want me to say it? Do you want to hear it?” She spat the words as if their taste was bitter and set with sharp edges. “I ran. I was on watch and when I saw what was rolling through the sunblood, I ran, damn it! You would have done the same! You did do the same!”

She must have surely wanted to kill him for knowing now. A corporal who fled her post. Tantamount to treason in times of war. But that made two of them.

“I am not going to die in that damned arena” she hissed, “Not if I got a say in it.”

Áed didn’t know how to respond to that. That there was probably no chance of escape? That he would run, too, if only he could? In silence he sat, until he noticed the horse next to Sara starting to become nervous. At first it was nothing, a brief flinch, a step to the side, until it finally backed away from her completely. And then he finally recognized why. With every breath small clouds formed in front of her face despite the almost cozy temperatures inside the stable. Then a thin thread of smoke rose from behind her back.

She took her arm off her back, the still smoking ends of the rope around her wrist, and brushed her hair out of her face. She stood up, a little unsteadily, but her presence commanded respect. The rope fell gracelessly to the ground.

“... not in the arena.”

Swaying slightly, she walked over to Áed and placed her hand on the shackles around his wrists.

“So… a mage.” He made an effort to sound as neutral as possible and not let shine through how giddy he was not having to die. He could not be grateful to a mage.

She snorted, but didn't respond. But when it started to get cold around him, too, he didn’t see any cloudlets of breath rise in front of him. Then Sara cursed quietly and sank to her knees. “... bloody hells... not good enough.”

“What do you mean not good enough ?” The hope of escape started to fade. “What’ wrong with your magic?”

“Nothing’s wrong with my magic! It just got limits or rather… I got limits.” She looked around. “But we’re gonna make it out.” In her voice there was a certainty Áed could not muster in this situation. “Shit. All right. This just has to work.” Sara disappeared from his view.

“Are you gonna tell me what you’re planning?” Áed wanted to know, but he got no answer. “Just distract him when he brings the remains from their dinner”, was all she thought necessary to tell him. Then he was alone with his thoughts again. What in all the hells was she up to? Whatever… she should try it. Things couldn’t get any worse. They couldn’t do anything beyond dying.

As every evening, the same soldier came to bring them a bowl of cold leftovers. He saw that Áed was alone, dropped the bowl and cursed. A big part of it was that he would probably get little sleep that night because he had to look for Sara.

He began to roughly search the stable, grumbling to himself. “Cathán, damn... Who ties such shit knots that even a one-armed one escapes?”

When he returned unsuccessfully from his search, he shouted at Áed, who until then had done his best to sit there with his head down. Unaffected. “Son of a bitch! Where is she?”

“I don’t know”, Áed lied. “I was sleeping here until you woke me with that screaming of yours.”

The soldier ran a hand over his face and looked nervously over at the farmhouse. “Shit... Do you think that's funny?”

“Of course not.” Maybe a little, but admitting that would hardly help him now. 

He grabbed Áed by the collar and pulled him towards him. “Where the hells did she go?”

Faster  than Áed could have responded, the hand was gone from his neck and the soldier reached for his knife. Then Sara had already knocked him to the ground. She groaned and then elbowed him in the face. His head snapped back and hit the ground.

She pulled the knife out of her thigh and looked at it. After a moment's thought, she cut the man's throat. She showed no remorse. She did not hesitate. The soldier would not wake up again. Sara wiped the blade on the soldier's uniform and then stood up a little unsteadily and limped over to Áed. He didn't comment on what had just happened.  If he hadn't died, they would both die in Merun in the arena. The situation was that simple. Sara cut his bonds.

“Can you run? We have to go.” Áed looked at her thigh. The dark stain on her trousers started to grow.

“How about thank you ?”, she ground out between clenched teeth. “And if we run we won’T get far.” She looked over at the horses. “If we ride, we’ll be a good bit faster.”

Áed freed his hands from the ropes. “We should bandage your leg first and then see a medicus as soon as possible.” He took the dagger from her and the cut a long strip from his shirt before handing it back. This wasn't the first time they'd been forced to bandage a wound with scraps of a dirty shirt. It would become infected if they didn't clean the wound soon and bandage it properly. Áed had seen it happen several times. But at least she wouldn't bleed to death. He tied the strip tightly around her leg and then helped her up.

“Can you ride?”, he asked her.

“Well enough.”

They hurried to saddle two horses, which took far too long for Áed’s liking. If they stayed for too long, someone would start missing the dead man in the meantime and come looking for him.

Áed helped Sara onto her horse before mounting his own. “We should make sure we get out of here. Did you see the forest path when we arrived? That's where our tracks are most likely to be lost”, he suggested.

“I don’t care. As long as we’re gone from here”, came the quiet reply from Sara. Then they disappeared into the night.

Chapter Text

Year 349 after the War of the Gods, Summer

Grave of Titans

The ground beneath her was hard. Her bones dug through her flesh in its direction. She wanted to roll onto her back. She couldn’t. Her limbs still didn’t obey her. Trapped in her own body she lay there. Her eyes– Could she open them? No. Her world remained darkness. But she was not alone in this starless night and that frightened her more than the alternative. A faint light. So close and yet barely noticeable. A glow that had burnt itself into her and from which she had hoped the darkness would protect her. But it had followed her all the way here, so deep inside her. It had eaten so deeply into her.

And as soon as she understood what she was looking at, it showed itself plainly to her: The mark of the Daeva, their seal, a pale shimmer, barely noticeable yet impossible to miss. She was bound. In flesh and in soul. Had she ever read of it? No. She didn’t remember reading about it in any of the books of the impossible library. Of the Daeva he had only spoken in person. And yet she knew and understood what it was. And how she had received it. How it was branded into her. And the consequences it would bring.

Why didn’t he warn me? Why did he betray me so?

She remained inside herself for an eternity, in silent darkness, absorbed by the symbol in front of her, on her, inside her. She loathed it, but she couldn't turn away. She had to get away from here. She pleaded with herself to return to the world, leave behind the mark, step out of the darkness. Commanded herself. Quiet at first, then louder, finally screaming at herself. Louder, ever louder. She screamed until her voice gave in and her throat was an open wound.

The first step was difficult.  It felt like having to learn to walk again. Her body would obey but she didn’t yet know what orders to give. The second step felt like wading through morass. The resistance not inside herself but in the surrounding darkness. But with each consequent one it became easier and bit by grueling bit she regained control over herself.

And once again Iora lay on the hard ground. But this time her body obeyed her commands and she managed to open her eyes. Reality hit her like a hammer hits an anvil. The glaring sky; the even more glaring sun; the unbearable white of a single cloud. Her body in the dust and dirt of the Grave of Titans. The smell of ash, sweat, blood and vomit. Sour, metallic taste on her tongue. A soft lump between her teeth. A mixture that made her want to throw up all over again.

She sat up with some effort and let her gaze wander over the place which would now forever carve its image into her memory with unyielding strikes. The fires had burned down to mere ghosts of white ash. In the bowl before here the memory of the herbs that had torn her mind from her just the night before. And still the stone was crumbling all around her and she feared that she would soon plummet into the depths with it.

Of her master she found no trace.

Tired, Iora looked down at herself. Except for her breaches, she sat naked on this rock, the remains of her tunic torn and partly singed on the ground next to her. The unrelenting sun reflected in her metallic ribs. Blurred, distorted, white-hot. A new day, still ignorant of what the night had done to her.

She took a deep breath. Then another. And another.

She could not go back. She… Why? Why didn’t he tell me what was gonna happen? What he would do? Why did he sell my soul so lightly..? Why did I agree to it?

Tears ran down her face. The man who had taken her in, off the streets, offered refuge, taught her…

He had caught her red handed when she had tried to steal his purse in Ardport. She had thought she’d gotten away. Had disappeared into an alleyway, climbed onto a roof and from there entered into an abandoned attic one house further on, which she had used as a hiding place from time to time. And exactly there he had been waiting for her and kindly asked she return what she had stolen. Had asked her if this was supposed to be her life and whether this was everything she expected of it. When she had replied with having no choice she said he wanted to offer her one. From that day forth she had been his student.

She had been ten years old back then. Eight years had passed since then. He had taken good care of her. Raised her as his daughter. Tried to teach her what he could, but this path– she could’t go down this path.

She rose on shaky legs and almost collapsed again. The night had taken all strength from her, but here she couldn't stay. And she would not wait for her master to return. Rather she'd die out in the waste.

On soft knees, she crossed the wooden bridge that led to this lonely pillar at the edge of the ravine. When she had solid ground under her feet again, she turned to the right and set off in a straight line without a second thought. She followed no reason. She just wanted to get away. As far away from her old home as she could. Along the gorge, the Grave of Titans, always forwards. Never looking back.

#

Her legs carried her, she made sure of that, ordered them, drove them forward, but her thoughts weighed heavy. Flowed thickly. Swam in lazy circles. Stayed where they were.

The midday sun scorched the dry land, scorched her skin and scorched her spirit. Iora didn’t know anymore where she was; followed only the gorge to her right. She had now been wandering for hours in the heat. Sweat  ran down her body and burned in the still raw cuts on her back. The pain drove her onward. Ever onward.

She was thirsty, needed water, badly. She had been exhausted at the set out, but now she felt as if she’d trip any moment now and lay where she fell. A dried out husk nobody would ever find.

But then something stood divided against the shimmering horizon, breaking up the monotony of the wasteland: A donkey with its rider. O spirits, finally.

He had to have water with him. This far out. It was probably a whole day to Ardport from here. At least that far again to the next dwarven burg. No one could travel that far without supplies. He seemed to be resting and since she had few other options, she headed straight for him. She was ashamed to step in front of him like this. Half naked and covered in blood and sweat. But what could she do? Dying here would be worse.

When she was close enough for him to recognise her, he raised his hand in greeting. Then he seemed to realise what state she was in, dropped something and began to run toward her. When he reached her, the dwarf was breathing heavily, his head bright red.

“Child…” - He struggled for air - “...what happened to you?”

Water was her only thought. “Water” was all she said. Croaked. The word cut through her throat. She looked at him imploringly.

“Of  course, of course. Right away”, he hurried. He reached for her arm and she flinched back from his touch. “Easy, child. You look like you’re about to collapse. Let me help you.” She didn’t move. Stared at him. He made no moves to touch her again. “Come on, I got water in my camp.” He turned away from her towards the donkey and the shade and the promised water. She wanted to follow him. Stumbled. He turned back and in his eyes she saw the worry. When he offered to steady her this time, she didn’t shy away from him. He put her arm over his shoulders and tried to support her, but when he tried to put his arm on her back, Iora drew in a sharp breath. The mark of the Daeva burned white-hot before her inner eye and if he hadn’t already been holding her, she would have collapsed.

“Not… on the back”, she pressed through gritted teeth.

After some laboured breaths she added: “I can do it myself.” She waited until he had pulled away again. “Thank you.”

The dwarf looked horrified when he discovered the blood on his arm. His bushy eyebrows drew together. “By Ninḫursaĝ’s beard, what happened to you?”

“Please, just give me some water and I’m back on my way.” She wanted to go on. She didn’t want to talk to him. Wanted to be gone.

The dwarf led her silently to his camp and still seemed to be trying to assess what he was dealing with. Let him think what he wanted. He hadn't insulted her or tried to stab her yet, that was enough for her for now.

“Child, sit down. Drink. Rest a bit. And then please tell me what happened to you.” She wouldn’t if she could help it.

The dwarf had strung a tarpaulin between two poles, which now provided them with shade as he kept filling Iora's cup from his water hose. She tried to keep her distance. Even though he had only helped her so far, she didn't know what else he was up to.

Nevertheless, she now took the time to scrutinise her host more closely. He was wearing simple, light clothing, appropriate for the weather in the Grave of Titans. A belly was showing beneath, evidence that he wouldn’t decline a good meal. His black beard he had probably braided neatly a few days ago, but now single strands hung from it. There were wrinkles on his dark face, especially around his eyes, but she didn’t know what that meant for a dwarf. Maybe he was sixty, or maybe already two hundred. His head was clean shaven and there were marks on his temples she didn’t recognise, but they resembled runes used in some languages in the First and Second Age. Her curiosity won out over her caution and it distracted her from the dull throbbing in her back that sent flames across her skin with each heavy heartbeat.

“Master Dwarf, the runes at your temples, what do they mean?” She then quickly added: “If I may ask.” Those were the first words she spoke since they had met. The dwarf didn’t seem to mind.

He traced one of them with his fingers. “Those are Eneer and Hinee. Fire and water. Spirit and life.” He chuckled. “That is what’s burning on your mind right now? Say, child, what do they call you? And” – his features turned more serious – “how is it that you are wandering so far off anything with such cuts?”

He leant back and looked at her back. Iora winced inwardly. He seemed friendly, but what if he recognised the mark? Knew what she was. She was overcome with shame. She wanted to flee. She had been here too long.

“I– My name is Iora. What’s yours?” she said quietly.

He got up and went to his donkey to rummage in a bag.

“Iora? An old name. A proud name. I once knew somebody of that name.”

Having obviously found what he was looking for, he came back to her with a smaller pouch. “My name is Thorgest. Not that special a name, but it does the trick.” He chuckled again.

He sat down next to her again and asked her: “Please turn your back to me. The cuts aren’t deep, they don’t need stitches, but they should be cleaned and bandaged. May I?”

She nodded and turned away from him. She had to know. She gathered all her courage and asked: “The cuts– How bad is it?”

“Not particularly. They probably would have inflamed if you hadn’t found someone to treat them, but there is no danger now”, the dwarf replied as he poured something from a flask onto a cloth. He didn’t recognize the rune on her back.

He applied the cloth to a cut on her shoulder and dabbed the wound.

Spirits.

It burned. It burned on her back and in her mind. Again she saw the symbol clearly in front of her, while the edges of her vision turned white.

“Hold still. Please. It burns out the impurities from the wound.” His tone was sharp, but softened as he explained: “It will subside quickly, but unfortunately you will have to go through this.”

She nodded. “Just be careful, please.” The mark of the Daeva slowly faded until it only pulsed lightly under his touch.

He had put the cloth and bottle aside and was now looking more closely at the cuts. Iora felt it. “The cut even goes clean through the metal on your shoulder. I promise this is the last time I'll ask, but how did this happen?” 

Could he finally stop asking? That was her business and hers alone. It didn’t concern him. He may have saved her life, but she owed him nothing.

“So then you won't get an answer for the last time. That's my business.” With that blade of steel and ice she hoped to end the matter once and for all. He nodded silently.

Next, he asked her to raise her arms and began to wrap her upper body in linen bandages. He needed two rolls for this. She moved carefully and the bandage didn't seem to chafe. “Thank you, Master Dwarf.” She made an effort to sound friendly again. His curiosity was annoying, but he took good care of her and that was the least she could do.

He looked up briefly from putting his tools back in his bag. “Please, you know my name. Stop it with the Master Dwarf . We’re among friends.” He gave her a smile and then turned back to his bag.

“Thank you, Thorgest.” – She paused – “I know you've already done a lot for me, but would you have any clothes for me? I cannot continue traveling like this.” She was incredibly ashamed to ask this of him. A thoughtless question.

“Gods! Of course. Just a moment…”

He began to rummage in another bag. “You're in luck.” He turned to her briefly. “You're not that much taller than me. Just maybe a little slimmer. Here.” He tossed her a pair of white trousers. “They'll be a bit loose on you, but we'll sort it out.”

Next a blue shirt came flying, a red ribbon, probably meant as a sort of belt, and finally a ball of white cloth.

“This makes you look like you're from the north. Here, put this on”, and he unfolded the white burnoose in front of her. “It will protect you from the sun and prying eyes. Elves are no longer particularly welcome around these parts either.”

#

“Where does your path lead next?”, he asked. In one of his bags he had found some bread and cheese for them both. Iora had refused at first, but Thorgest had insisted. She didn't have the strength to refuse a second time.

She leaned back, set herself on her arms and looked up at the cloudless sky. “I don't know. Away. To the north. To the west. As long as it's away from here.”

“I see.” He ran a hand through his beard. “I'll be moving on to Myrar as soon as the sun allows. Maybe another two or three days from here. I don't know if that will help you, but it would be a start.”

Her eyes widened. “You want to take me with you? You've done far enough already.” Besides, she still wasn't sure how far she could trust him, even if he was making it really hard for her to remain suspicious.

“Don't be foolish. There's nothing out here.” He looked over at her with concern. “Accept the help. From Myrar onwards, you can go your own way again.”

Chapter Text

Year 350 after the War of the Gods, Late Autumn

Somewhere between Andras and Merun

They had ridden all night; the empire’s hounds at their backs and if they only lapsed for a second, their blood would soon drench the earth in Merun. They had ridden far away from the old way station, first along the road, then down a narrow path between meadows and bare fields, where the last forgotten stalks kept solitary watch. Then into the forest, whose name Áed didn’t know. And as they rode further and further through, the trees came closer and closer and then began reaching for them, appearing to want to grab them for their pursuers. Gnarled branches thrashed about, hands of dry, edged leaves and twigs dug into clothing and hair, and a darkness - with a voice of leaves and hoofbeats - screamed their names into the night. And as they finally left behind the discordance of bark and bramble, of nettle and needle, of thistle and thorn, there was no more path, only open field and the moons above them.

They left the woods behind, following a straight line into the unknown. They rode with the wind, with beating hearts. They rode for hours, left behind green land, followed forested field borders, forest edges, found a small path and left it again. And finally they reached a narrow river and followed it upstream.

For the entire time, they did not speak a single word. What was there to say? Their situation was bad. Sentenced to death and on the run. Áed didn’t know his way around these parts and trusted that Sara did and he followed her. She was wounded and he did not know how much longer she would survive without a medic. He said a silent prayer to the night sky above them that Naomh Cairistiòna would not take her yet.

#

A first thin red line started gleaming on the horizon as the river led them to an old millhouse in the early hours of a new morning. Its wheel didn’t turn anymore and the icy water only ran across the wooden paddles indifferently. Just behind the house there began a forest that seemed to be clinging to life with the last of its strength before winter finally put an end to it. Here the world was still, without the wind and the clamour of hooves; everything was asleep and Áed, too, was at the end of his rope.

“Should we rest here?”, Áed asked as they rode gently towards the bridge that would take them across the stream. “We can’t go on like this. The horses need rest. And so do you.” And by the saints, so did he. Sara scoffed, but he could tell by the way she was sitting: She had reached her limits, too. Here they could rest, it was remote, nobody would find them and when they had regained their strength, they could follow the road. There had to be a town nearby, or a village at the very least.

“I don’t need a break”, she replied brusquely, but then added more gently: “But the horses do.”

Áed almost rolled his eyes. “Fine, the horses and I then, but we rest here. I’m done.”

They crossed the bridge made of massive, old and weathered beams; the river below murmuring its steady prayer to gods that no one in these parts worshipped anymore. The yard on the other side consisted of three houses, the mill itself, a stable and a small house for the miller. Half-timbered with dark beams, white plaster, red roof tiles and green shutters.

The horses they brought into the stable. There was still hay and Áed went to fetch some water from the river. Then they themselves went to the house. Sara had refused Áeds help getting off her horse. She had fallen more than she’d dismounted. Her bandages were dark-red-wet, her face pale and despite the cold there was sweat upon her brow. She limped with every step her leg threatened to give in, but she refused to make a sound.

The knocked on the door and received no answer. Neither on the second attempt. Áed looked through a few of the windows and found no one inside. “There’s no one here”, he said.

“Then we won’t disturb anyone.” Sara opened the door - it wasn’t locked - and entered. The morning sun painted the yard in the warm oranges of a new autumn day, but Áed was ready to collapse onto a bed.

The house, the kitchen, the living room, was clean, tidy, everything in its place. The pantry wasn’t full, but it wasn’t empty either and there was a neatly made bed in the bedroom.

“We should move on around midday, but until then this is ours”, Áed said as he returned with some stock from the pantry. Stale, dark bread, apples, cheese and salted meats. Sara dropped onto a chair, exhausted and felt her thigh; she drew in a sharp breath when her fingers touched the centre of the red mark. “Can you go see if our host has anything we can use to rebandage my leg? It would be a shame if I bled all over the bed.”

#

It was still cold in the living room but thanks to the fire in the stove a cosy warmth was slowly settling in. Water began to boil in a pot on top of it. Áed had found a shirt in a closet in the bedroom and cut it into wide strips, which he then boiled. In the meantime, Sara removed her old bandage. Sticky strands stretched between cloth and flesh and cloth. The linen hung wet between her fingers and painted her hands red. The wound was still bleeding, albeit less profusely.

“I hope we’ll find a medicus in that village down the road. That has to be cleaned”, Áed commented as he tossed the bloody bandages into the fire.

“Or you could see if our host has any schnapps. I don't want to have to rely on our luck.”

Áed nodded, too tired for a proper reply. He had no idea how large the next settlement was, maybe there was nobody who could help them. And the less attention they attracted, the better. After a short search, he found a dark-glass bottle on a shelf. He uncorked it, smelled it and then grimaced. What were people distilling here in the countryside? But it would do the trick.

“Thanks.” Sara took the bottle, had a big draught and then grimaced as well. “Well then…” But she didn’t sound so sure about it. She pressed her lips together trying to suppress any sound fighting its way out through her throat as the schnapps burned through her wound. She took another swig and handed the bottle to Áed. He too drank. It tasted as disgusting as it smelled. Afterward they bandaged Sara’s leg with the clean linen and Áed sat down on the bench, happy to not have to stand anymore. He nodded towards the bedroom. “You should lie down. The bed is yours. You need the rest. We still got a couple of hours until midday. Who knows when we’ll get another chance.” He lied down on the bench. “In a couple of hours we continue on. Make use of that time.” We should also take as much supplies as we can carry. Maybe there is even some silver to be found, he thought.

If Sara - in her pride - wanted to protest, she didn’t. Most likely she was too tired as well. She limped over to the bedroom and shut the door behind her. Then Áed was alone in the living room and alone with his thoughts. They crawled through his mind, whirring, buzzing, too chaotic, too many to drive away. In every moment of calm they returned. Thoughts ever returning to the attack. To the decaying bodies of flesh and carapace, to claws and split jaws and drool. What in all hells was that? What in all saints was that? What in all gods was that? They had razed Cruidín with an effortless brutality. Felled Áeds comrades and eaten them where they lay. That was it, from which the elves had fled. Death by bolt, arrow or spear had been a better lot to them than this. And Áed understood the desperation with which they had thrown themselves against the border. Again and again and again. Saints– And we killed them. For Empire and for Emperor.

He held the pendant he had found outside Cruidín between his fingers and traced the crescent of the moon with his thumb. Who had worn this necklace before they had met an ugly end just outside the wooden palisades of Cruidín? A hunter from the Iron Forests? A rider from the steppe? Elder of a clan? A parent desperately trying to get their child to safety? The child themself? And Áed began to feel something he would have thought the months on the frontier would have beaten out of him: Pity. And guilt.

#

Áed woke from his uneasy sleep when a flash of sunlight hit him in the face. Sara let go of the curtain and went back to her breakfast. She seemed to be feeling much better than she had in the morning. “You could have woken me”, Áed complained, still feeling drowsy. The bench was hard, his limbs ached, but saints, would he have liked to lie longer still.

“I have.” Sara grinned at him, but then quickly became grave again. “We should leave soon and get as far away from here as possible. I don’t want us to be picked up if word gets out who we are.”

“I agree. Where to, then?”, he prompted and took a piece of smoked bacon. This breakfast was far better than the rations they had been fed with for the last couple of months. He would not miss out on that. “Southbound to the free cities? Osena maybe? The Grave of Titans? I’ve been told the cities in the sky are gorgeous - dwarven masterwork. Or do you want to go east? The Haphas is well disposed towards the Empire. I don’t think anyone would bat an eye if two humans more or less mingled with the felines.”

“Merun”, came her short but definite reply.

“Merun? Are you fucking serious? Has the blood loss taken your mind?” Áed was stunned. Hadn't all their efforts been aimed at preventing exactly that?

“I got business there still, that…” She trailed off. Considered. “...and now it’s more pressing than before.” She looked directly at him. There would be no discussion. “It is paramount that I reach Merun. Or I hope it still is when I get there.” A heavy burden hung on every sentence; each one passed her lips with great thought, but only with difficulty.

Áed sighed. “All right, fine by me. You ride to Merun. As you wish. What about– What about whatever overran Cruidín?”  He wanted to steer the conversation in a different direction. He had nothing more to say about Merun. This direction was no less unpleasant however.

“I've never seen shit like that before. When I saw the first one– Holy flame! They were already behind the palisades when I saw them. I don't know how they got in. And– They were eating.” In her eyes Áed saw the spectacle of bodies and blood and desperate screams.

“And if that is what the elves fled from? Dashed themselves against our lines again and again because of that. Threw themselves at death’s mercy?” He had not intended to speak this open. He didn’t know how she might react to it. How faithfully she followed the emperor and his orders.

“Yes. So what? Does that change anything? Does it make you feel better to have run as well?”

To that Áed found no reply. None he wanted to speak out loud. So they finished their breakfast in silence. There was nothing to salvage their spirits now. When they were done, they packed as much supplies as they thought they needed and wrapped it in cloth. They couldn’t find any bags so they would just have to tie it to their saddles as is. The sun now stood at its zenith, high in the sky, but still could not assert itself against the chill and clouds, but at least they wouldn’t have to feel could now, even if the occasional gust of wind get through their coats.

They had just finished stowing the last of their baggage when Áed raised his hand and motioned to Sara to be still. They had just been talking about what they would do next when they reached the town - or the village; they had at least agreed that the first thing they should do was find out where they were. After that, their paths diverged. That was fine by him. He would not follow her to Merun. Then Áed had thought he had heard something. They broke off their conversation immediately and listened. Áed had not imagined it. He heard something behind the stable; something scratching over rough wood. He drew the knife he had also taken from the owner of the millhouse and crept along the stable. He lurked round the corner and cursed the saint of luck and misfortune.

There, behind the stable, in the grass and muck and on withered leaves, a man sat leaning his shoulder against the wall as if wanting to rest. He looked so exhausted, sunken into himself. Then Áed noticed the grey hair, plastered to his skull red-brown; his blank stare; the monotonous, absent movement. And then the horrors of Cruidín. He stumbled back. Where blood had dried on the old man’s body, there was no more flesh, but oily-black-shimmering carapace. His jaw hung down limply in two. And it was no hand scratching the weathered wood, leaving bright marks. From a stump of torn skin and torn muscle and splintered bone there jutted forth a thorn of the same disgusting mass, smudged rusted-brown.

Áed hurried back to Sara. “We have to go!” His heart beating wild in his chest. At Sara's uncomprehending look, he added: “The miller is one of those things!”

“Indeera, why?!”, she cursed. “We have to warn them!”

Before Áed could stop here or even had the chance to ask what in all the hells she was talking about, Sara drove her horse across the bridge. A thunder of hoofbeats. He followed. Along the path, away from the mill, away from the forest behind it, in which gods knew what was hiding, and away from the river that had shown them the way for hours. And in time the path widened, became a road, cut through the landscape like a scar, dividing fields and meadows, cutting through a small, old forest with trees so tall that they could ride comfortably underneath their branches, crossing brooks and another river. And then they reached a fork in the road with two signs pointing the way. Dubnagh and Moore. And behind them was a scene straight out of the War of the Gods – or Cruidín.

The palisades - probably erected in fear of the elves - had collapsed in parts, torn down. People fled the village through the open gate. Those who were not quick enough ended up like countless others: With entrails exposed under the dull autumn sun, with blood quenching the cold earth's thirst, with glassy eyes and choked off screams and helpless whimpers. With teeth and claw and mandible digging through their open bellies, not yet dead and never again alive. 

“We’re too late”, Áed shouted, but Sara didn’t hear him or didn’t want to. She rode on. A straight line for the open gate; for the hell beyond. “Sara!” He cursed. He cursed louder. He chased after her. This was an incredibly stupid idea. There was nothing for them to do here. People were running for their lives on both sides and they rode straight through the gate into the chaos of what might have been an idyllic village just a few hours ago. A cacophony of a thousand cries hung in the air; where one broke off, another began; an endless chorus of the lost. They rode along the street, through the thick of it, right up to the fountain in the centre of the market square. Again and again they came across these things with their black carapaces, which tried to chase them and then quickly gave up when they found an easier mark. Others they found already hunched over their prey, feeding. They scarcely found inhabitants of this village alive. Those who had made it out might have a chance, but here between the houses lay only the dead and dying.

Áed had seen death in his months on the frontier, had shaken hands with the reaper, had cut stalks in his harvest. But this sight made him feel sick, tightened his throat, made his heart hammer wildly in his chest and cut the edges of his vision black. “Sara!” She didn’t hear him. Thick, fleshy strings hung between red-tainted teeth, dripping, falling back into the body to which they belonged. The flesh put up resistance; it tore. Áed spurred his horse on and caught up with Sara. She jumped out of the saddle in front of a small house, stumbled and almost fell. She didn't let this stop her; she pushed open the door and ran inside.

“Éanna?!”, Áed heard her cry. “Shit! Éanna? Are you there?” There was desperation in her voice.

He dismounted and followed her inside as well. Saints, this was such a fucking sodding idea. They were still alone here, none of these things had followed them this far. But how long that would last, he didn't want to find out. Nothing was in its place here, unlike in the millhouse. The plates with the remains of a stew were still on the table, the pot on the hob had been knocked over, two chairs lay overturned on the floor. Sara ran up the stairs and called for Éanna again. Áed looked over his shoulder again, then grabbed a knife from the kitchen and climbed the stairs too.

Upstairs he found her in a room, empty aside from a bed, a shelf and a desk and chair. With trembling fingers Sara took a book from a drawer in the desk. Nothing on its leathery-brown binding betrayed what was hidden inside. She hugged it tight to her chest and looked up through the roof, whispering something Áed couldn’t understand. THen she turned towards the door and him, tears in her eyes and down her cheek. She whispered: “We have to go.”

She hid the book in her coat and climbed back onto her horse. They blew through streets, back to the marked square – “To the right, to the other gate!” – over overturned stalls and crates, over apples scattered on the ground, over corpses and finally through the smaller gate to the east. And Áed felt sick at the thought that they couldn't save anyone here. That their only options were to flee or stay and die too.

“Where to?”, Áed shouted to Sara in front of him. He didn’t dare to look back.

“We follow the road. This is the quickest way to get to Dunvegen.”

Chapter Text

Year 351 after the War of the Gods, Summer

Merun, Capital of the Empire

Giræsea woke into a world that took cruel pleasure in spinning in front of her eyes and if she held them open for too long - in a vain attempt to see clearly - it made her feel sick. So she surrendered and fell back onto her pillow. “Fuck…” She closed her eyes and lay still. Should the day wait a little while longer for her. She listened. And only found her own breathing. Älyan was gone. Giræsea rolled over and looked at the empty pillow. Where to might she have gone? She traced the rough fabric with her fingers. Hopefully she didn't let herself get caught doing something stupid. The thought warmed her heart and made her smile. Of course she would do something stupid and Giræsea was already looking forward to the story. Tell me about it later , she thought.

The world still twirled around itself, its dress shadow and light and wood and stone and the sheet next to her and the wax of the candle. Giræsea closed her eyes again and sunk into the cosy warmth of the uncomfortable bed. Happy despite everything. And despite everything she was pleased how the previous day had gone. Sure, it had been close, but that was one less Kurr mercenary. And if they were even a tiny bit lucky, they would gone from here in less than a five-day and again harder to find. Gods, she would not miss this city. She did not understand how so many people were drawn to Merun. It was the largest city on this continent and she could find nothing good with that. Densely packed houses everywhere, built upwards and downwards and outwards as far as the walls would allow, before they began to overgrow on each other. Thousands of thousands of humans and dwarves and felines and everyone running after their lives in an endless torrent. Endless day– night banished by ever-burning lanterns and torches, and yet there were entire quarters of this city whose inhabitants never saw the light of day. That’s where those in Merun ended up who were not privileged to the sun or sought to hide in the shadows. She belonged to the latter. And yet she had been found. Oh well, that was of no import anymore. Soon she would be gone.

She sat up wearily and brushed her hair out of her face. She didn't know how Älyan managed to be up this early and then vanish without a trace. She too had been celebrating with her the night before. They finally knew their next destination; they had reason enough to. And the opportunity. A bottle of mysterious contents and an uncomfortable bed, it had been enough for them. It was more than the road ever afforded them. She tasted her lips for any lingering savour of the previous night and was disappointed.

Again she brushed a strand of hair, which just didn’t want to stay in place, from her face. Then she sighed and looked for the end of her braid. She found the leather strip and undid the knot. Thorgest had made such an effort, but the braid was starting to dissolve. And in the peace and quiet of her room she helped it along its way. Beads made of metal and wood passed through her fingers and she laid them out on the bed. Next followed the yellow ribbon that had been woven into her hair. Still weary fingers opened her braid, strand by strand, knot by kont. Up to her head and across her temples. It was a simple moment of quiet and peace, a moment that had nothing to do with her search, her running away. A moment without the crowds in the streets or markets, without the noise and - she told herself - without having to worry that someone would try to drive a knife between her ribs.

She brushed her hair to her left side, stood up then went over to the wash basin. She was glad she could afford at least some amenities, even after months on the road had depleted their means. She thought of the home she would probably never again see, as she was washing her face. Did she miss the Sea of Sands? How the sand glistened in the setting sun when a breeze carried it away? Sitting around a fire together and listening to and telling stories? Her family? Did she regret leaving? Having left them in the dark? Perhaps – Confronting that question was hard. But it was better that way; Thorgest was right: “What would you have told them? You did what you thought right and in that you will help them.” O, how she hoped he was right. Five winters had passed since she last returned to the Sætteni to then leave them forever. Her dreams had shown her the way. Away from home into a far-off lands. No destination; hardly more than a direction. And they had given her a terrible premonition. And now the Ironwoods were overrun, nobody knew how the steppe was faring and there were first sightings in the Sea of Sands. She didn't know what her role in this play was supposed to be.

She saw her face in that small, milk-cloudy mirror. A tired expression rested on sharp features of ash-grey skin. Pointed ears sticking out underneath black hair. Down her lower lip there ran a black line, tapering to a point just above her chest. It and the markings on her cheeks were a reminder of her home– tattooed after she had made her decision to leave it. As black rays of a sun they framed her narrow eyes. She was a Sætteni and she would wear it. Two pairs of tusks protruded left and right from the corners of her mouth, her pride, a sign of Varnith’s favour. Giræsea didn’t much care for the gods, but she would take their blessing if it was offered. The jewellery on the bridge of her nose on the other hand, she had earned. Two pairs of stout thorns made of metal jutted from her skin just below her eyes. The first she had received after she had undergone her Mandara. Of twentythree she had been the only one to survive. A tragedy still spoken of in her tribe from time to time until her departure and probably still today. It was usual for at least half of those who underwent this trial to make it. They had all placed their lives in the hands of the Sea of Sands - the hands of the gods - and trusted in their righteous judgement. For days she had wandered through the desert on her own, only the thought of how proud her tribe would be on her return within her. Until it finally dwindled. But she had proven that she was worthy. Had wrested her life from the Sea of Sand piece by piece, had learned to survive. And she had learned the value of a strong community. Ten freezing nights she had spent on the sand, alone and without knowing where she was. On the eleventh day she had stumbled into the circle of tents and collapsed in front of the members of her tribe. She had hardly eaten since she had taken off her blindfold out there. Insects, spiders, mice, roots, whatever she had found. It all she had eaten raw. Her parents had shown her what she had to do to survive. But she had ached for the simple meal that followed a successful hunt. When the party returned, dragging a carcass behind them that would feed the tribe for a week. She had yearned for milk. A simple cup of milk. She would have even foregone spices and honey. Her only mercy during that time had been her finding water on the second day. The gods had thus shown her their favour and she had survived where others had died.

One winter after her return, she had her first vision-dream.

She didn’t want to think about the second pair, the golden thorns. There was too much pain in her pride. She averted her gaze before she could see her mother’s features in her own.

She sighed and stepped back from the wash basin to look around her room. She found the bottle, which had kept them company the night before, on her desk between sheets of parchment – last night’s labour, when she had woken with sweat upon her brow and a racing heart. The bottle was still half full and so Giræsea re-corked it and placed it next to her pack by the still empty closet. The parchment she gathered, sat down on the chair and looked at her drawings one by one. She had been sorry - still was - for waking Älyan when she had sat down on the table with a candle and started her work.

She put the first sheet down on the desk without even thinking about it. She knew what she would see, she had drawn it countless times. Eyes. Hundreds of eyes. Nothing was left of the parchment beneath, everything was covered in it. A mass of soft, densely packed, bulging, never-blinking eyes. They were all staring at her. Giræsea felt them watching her – judging her. In her dream, she had collapsed, had been brought to her knees under their unforgiving gaze and then reduced to a pitiful wretch.

The second drawing, too, she didn’t see for the first time. She was standing between the houses of Arigarðr. She felt the heat of the flames, tasted the smoke. Everywhere in the streets surrounding here lay the dead in the thousands, she knew it. Dwarves, felines, humans, orcs, elves. But she could not see them. Giræsea was surrounded by people shouting her name, who cheered, who celebrated her victory with fists, spears, axes raised to the sky. She had been standing here so many times, had cheered with them, had shouted her triumph into the dawn, thrust her red-soaked sword into the orange sky, a mirror to the tower still standing proud against the sunrise. But every time she stood here, the city’s destruction increased. It felt less and less like a victory and so the desperate aversion of a defeat.

The third drawing she did not want to look at. She wanted to tear it to pieces and burn it. She hadn’t had the heart to finish it, but the dream had seared itself deep into her; she would not forget. With just a few lines everything broke back to the surface. She had held that sword, which she had always held in Arigarðr, blood on its blade and the grip firmly between her fingers. But she had not been able to raise it to the morning sun in her triumph. And when she had looked down, the blade had been buried deep in a body. She had let go of the sword in horror when a weak hand had reached for the steel sticking out of its stomach. Trembling, bent over, no more breath raising and lowering her chest, the figure had been sitting on her knees. Giræsea had recognized her immediately. Of course she had recognized her immediately. She had fallen to her knees and held Älyan's face between her blood-smeared hands. 

She had woken sweat-drenched and with a heart threatening to burst from her chest. She had looked over at Älyan to reassure herself that she was still there, that she was still alive, that her chest was still rising and falling. She had sat there and listened to her heart breathe until the storm and the thunder-roar in her chest had given way to a gentle breeze. She had resisted the urge to touch Älyan, to assure herself she was real; she hadn’t wanted to wake her.

Nightmother, why do you haunt me so?

When she had finally got up to cast her dreams to parchment and lit the candle, she had woken Älyan anyway. A whispered request to apologise and a kiss on her forehead and the elf had soon fallen asleep again.

This was followed by further sketches and scenes that she had not yet seen, but whose content was not unfamiliar to her. It had accompanied her for years. The Ironwoods in their death throes. Metal frames of past giants, withered leaves, earth on which nothing grew. Carcasses. Corpses and not-yet-corpses. Decay without her bright colours.

Only one new scene had joined all the familiar ones. She thought she knew the city, somewhere deep in a coil of her memory. She was sure she had been there before. Somewhere in the Sea of Sand. She would discuss it with Thorgest, he was good at such things. What worried her more was the storm rolling towards the walls, the torrent of brown and yellow and red, of dust and sand, burying everything beneath it, but - shit - which of her dreams didn't worry her?

She put the stack of parchment back onto the desk and sat down on her bed. She didn’t know what to do. For a long while she sat there, trying to sort her thoughts, trying to find meaning in it, find something she could draw action from. And finally she made a decision. She would take one step at a time. She would bring to an end what she had come to Merun for. And once she was done with that, she could worry further. And she made a second decision: She would never go to Arigarðr. She would have to explain to Älyan and Thorgest, but she would come up with something. And with that decision in her heart she took the parchment, lit the candle which had offered its light for her work just the night before, and burnt it. She never again wanted to see what black coal had wrought on bright ground.

When nothing remained but ashes, she went to the pile of her clothes which still lay where she had thrown it the night before, pulled her trousers from it and put them on. Then she bound her chest and went on searching for her shirt. She forwent her boots and armour; she would get them after a good breakfast. With the image of the unknown city, she left her room and knocked on the door opposite hers. Thorgest opened her, his beard already neatly braided, the very image of order. His head was clean-shaven, the blue waistcoat over the white shirt fitted neatly, even if it was a little tight around the belly, his boots clean and a smile on his lips. The dwarf looked more like he should be staying in one of the inns up in the city proper rather than down here.

“Good morning”, he greeted her, then “Oh–”, when he noticed her hair. “I've put so much effort into it.”

“You may thank Älyan for that”, Giræsea said sotto voce, but then added: “No, Thor, seriously, I got a new one.” She raised the drawing to draw his attention to it and his face darkened. “... oh…” – “Yes.” He stroked his beard while he thought about it and then finally looked up at her again. “Come. Let’s have breakfast first. I don’t want to discuss any bad news on an empty stomach.”

She had no objection and so she followed him along the corridor and up the stairs into the tap room. Unlike when she'd returned last night, it was now well attended. It was mainly humans who had gathered here to have breakfast - or lunch? Was it already that late? - to find something to eat for a small coin. How long have I been sleeping?

The smell of fat, spices and beer hit Giræsea. At least that would lift her spirits a little. While Thorgest went to the innkeeper at the counter and ordered for them, Giræsea looked for an empty table and sat down. When he joined her and placed a mug of thin beer in front of her, she asked: “Do you know where Älyan is? Has she told you anything?”

He took a big draught before answering. “Oh, you know her. On the hunt again. She mentioned something about taking a trip beyond the inner wall, somewhere up the Thuurith.” He seemed far less concerned than Giræsea when he told her Älyan's destination. An elf in Merun was dicey enough, but in the upper city?

“She should be more careful.”

“Aye”, Thorgest sighed. “But you know as well as I: it’s her curse. Once it’s taken root inside her head, we can’t stop her. And you know she can look out for herself.”

“I’d rather she didn’t have to. It’s enough for her to carry that round, she shouldn’t wake it.” How could he be so old and yet be so careless about it? She had better bring a good story for what Giræsea's heart had gone through. 

Thorgest waved it off. “She’ll be back. Trust.” He took another sip and then became serious; his bushy brows drawing together. He pointed at the turned over sheet of parchment on the table. “May I?” She slid him the sketch.

As he was looking at it, she began: “I don’t know where that is, but I think I’ve been there before. Somewhere in the Sea of Sands. Probably an Asin judging by the walls. I was standing there, in front of the gate, and there in the distance were no longer the rolling hills of sand, no longer the fine dust listening in the wind, no horizon, there was only this wall rolling inexorably towards it.”

He pointed at a spot in the sand storm. “Do you know what that is?” She denied. She didn’t know exactly what she had seen. Yes, there had been shapes in the uniform yellow-brown, but she didn’t know what they meant. But they had also rolled relentlessly towards the city.

“Gods, this cannot be any good sign.”

“Do you know the place”, she asked him.

“No, but give me some time. My memory isn’t the best anymore.” He didn’t look up from the drawing. “How clear was the dream.”

She pointed to the parchment. “As clear as you see it here.”

“That’s not good. That’s not good at all.” He handed her back the drawing. “It is too clear. Too precise.” He ran his hand over his bald head, visibly agitated. “I– I don’t know what city that is. The only thing I know for sure…” He trailed off; continued more quietly. “... is that we can’t do anything. It will happen. Probably soon. Maybe it already happened and you’re only seeing it now. There is only the question why you’re seeing it. The Dreammother seems to deem it important.”

“She could express herself a little more precisely”, Giræsea complained. “We're groping in the dark here, while I just keep dreaming about how everything is going to the dogs.”

“Enjoy your breakfast first and then we'll see. Somehow we'll manage.”

Chapter Text

Year 349 after the War of the Gods, Summer

Grave of Titans

When the sun was low in the sky and the heat of the afternoon had subsided, they broke camp and continued their journey. Thorgest had kept his promise and asked no more about her wounds, and Iora was grateful for that. They were none of his business. “So, what do you want in Myrar?”, Iora asked him as they rolled up the tarp.

“Oh, I'm just passing through - after that I'm heading north to Qarahad. I just want to stock up on my provisions in Myrar, which you're eating so eagerly”, he said with a wink. “I'm also meeting an old friend there. I hope she's not in any trouble.”

“Please, I’m hardly eating as much as you are, in a single day”, Iora replied dismissively, feeling guilty right after. He hadn't had to give her any of it and had still helped her. She played it off. “Does that happen often? For her to be in trouble?”

They had just stowed the last of Thorgest's belongings in bags and loaded them onto the donkey - Nasr was his name, as Thorgest had told her. It wasn't much. Probably better that way when one travelled alone through the wasteland.

“When first I met her she was sitting outside an inn in Diræth’Asin, with a black eye and her shirt covered in blood and wine. Torn knuckles and drunk. Not her best day.” He laughed into his beard at the memory. “She refused to talk to me back then. Didn’t want my help either; it took some convincing. But in the end she allowed me to patch her up.”

“A brawl in an inn? Did she tell you how that happened?” This wasn’t the sort of friend she had expected from the dwarf. Brutish, uncultured, got drunk and then got into fights. Iora didn’t like her.

“Yes, but that's her business. And please don't tell her that I told you this story.”

“Not a word past my lips.”

Then they set off to continue their journey northward under the far more favourable sun of an early evening. And even if Iora didn't trust this dwarf and had perhaps even misjudged him, it was good not to have to go alone. And it was good to have a destination in mind instead of wandering around blindly.

#

When finally even the last rays of the sun had disappeared behind the horizon and Sénbhe and Dhénia followed their eternal dance in a field of flower-stars, they finally set up camp for the night in the faint shadow of a mighty boulder. Thorgest asked them to look for firewood - or anything flammable - while he himself took care of setting up the tent and tarp and tending to Nasr. Her task turned out to be a lot more difficult than she had anticipated. For the most part, all that grew in this stretch of land was dry brushwood, which the gods had probably created specifically to withstand both this barren environment and her assault. When she finally returned to him with two arms full of pitifully thin but all the tougher twigs, Thorgest had already finished his part of the work. As a greeting, he handed her a cup, which Iora gratefully accepted after she had placed her honourably slain prey in front of the small tent. The guilt that had wormed into her mind because he again shared what little he had with her again, was instantly burned out of her as the liquid fire ran down her throat. After a long day she had welcomed the drink and taken a big draught. Too big. The taste of anise was overwhelming. It clung to her tongue and the back of her throat. And underneath it all, it was sweet. She grimaced and when she exhaled, the same warmth rising from her stomach burnt through her nose. She covered her mouth with the back of her hand. “That’s not water.”

Thorgest laughed out loud and Iora wasn't immediately sure if she mightn’t take offence. “No, no. It's been a long day today, we deserve something more. Drink”, he encouraged her and toasted her. Doubting, she looked down at the cup in her hand. The pale light of the dancing sisters mirrored in the milky-white contents. She thought she was prepared, but even at the second sip, she grimaced. Thorgest again laughed. “My last bottle, but you should never skip an opportunity to drink with new friends.” He emptied his own cup. “And I’m more than happy to trade my araq for some good company.” He stopped. “Wait. How old are you? Can I even give you this?” Purely out of protest at this statement, Iora emptied her cup. And regretted it. “My goodness, child, you don’t have to prove anything to me.” He at least was having fun.

He sat his cup on the ground and began to pile up the spoils of her hunt. Iora toyed with her own cup and watched as the warmth from her belly started to spread throughout her body. When he was finally done, he inspected his work and was satisfied. Then he took a very small twig and held it between his hands. A thin wisp of smoke rose between his fingers and as he blew lightly over his open hand, the first little flames awoke and began their twitching dance. He placed the stick with the others.

Iora looked at him with wide eyes. “Are you a mage? Can you teach me that?” She had thought there were no more mages, she had been so sure. Since the War of the Gods and the Edict and the Inquisition– In Ardport she had heard of executions, of torture. She had thought the knowledge had died long ago. But her former master– Of course there could be others. “You must teach me,” she blurted out.

“Oh, that’s just a small trick I picked up. I can teach you that one. But you have to be careful. You know how things are these days.”

She sat down next to him by the fire and watched the erratic dance. She knew how things were these days. But she already couldn't show herself on the streets as an elf, so what difference would it make if she could weave magics or not? “I thought there were no more mages”, she half lied.

“Oh, there are some of us yet. Though there aren’t many of us left, we’re still here”, he whispered in a conspiratorial tone, but then he stared back into the flames and sadness crept into his voice. “But I miss them. There are too few left. No one left who can or wants to share the knowldege, who wants to teach the next generation to understand. The world is poorer without magic.” He sighed. “We all carry the scars of the war of the gods around with us.”

That had significantly dampened her enthusiasm. To distract herself from the unpleasant feeling - and perhaps him as well - she held the cup out to him to give her a refill. She didn't want any more of it, but it seemed better than dwelling on that moment.

#

When Thorgest handed her a piece of the flatbread, she took it gratefully and then asked him hesitantly, “So you know about the time before the War of the Gods? What was it like back then? What was the world full of magic like?” Of course, she had also asked her master, but right here sat someone who really knew.

“Some say it was the age of gods, of Gatewardens and great heroes.” He tore off a piece of bread for himself. “An age of wonders. And maybe of adventures, if the stories are to be believed. The people back then weren’t so different than they are today, but the world… It was more alive, imbued with the magic of the gods. I don’t want to say that we’ve forgotten them, that’s not right. We still turn to them, pray to them, ask for advice, ask for their blessing, hope that they will show us the way home. And we hope that they will hear us and show us their compassion. But can we be sure that they are there? How many have been washed away by time’s currents? It was different back then. It is said, you could sense them all around you. Nomdatir and Ninḫursaĝ in the crags, mountains and earth around us, Tivone in the rivers and lakes and clear mountain streams, Dhadia in the Southern Sea, Dhat-Badan in oases, Demæthe in the woods that no longer exist. Tarnath and Varnith and Haphas in the fires and the sun. Anfúar in icy winds and Irdorath in a mighty tempest when she calls for a hunt. It was a world in which the gods were alive, a world that was alive through them. When you look into the fire, do you see them? Indeera? Naarus? Nythys?”

He handed her some cheese and seemed to wait for an answer. The elf bit into her bread and stared into the fire. The flames ate greedily at the branches. A thin wisp of smoke danced above them in the hot air. Sparks floated up and slowly fell to the ground again. But it was just a fire. There was nothing divine about it.

“No”, she replied, disappointed. She would have wished it.

“Neither do I. I would give much to feel them. They haven’t showed themself in this world for so long, people are beginning to forget them. And they are finding new gods.”

The other question burning inside her, Iora held back, until it burst out of her. She couldn’t resist it, no matter how inappropriate she deemed it. “And who are you, who knows so much about it all? You are a mage, you know how to heal, or play the part quite convincingly at the very least; speak of ancient times.”

If he took offence at her question, at least he didn't show it. It wasn't as if he owed her any answer, but she at least wanted to know who she was dealing with. “I'm just a wanderer and a medicus and maybe I've learnt a bit too much about the world in my long years.” He smiled, perfectly at ease. “But allow me the same question then: Who are you?”

She thought a long while; chewed on the answer for a long time, like a stale piece of bread. “Nobody. Not anymore.”

#

Despite his offer, Iora set up her own camp for the night, away from the dwarf's tent. She felt safer with the embers between them. And she wanted to be alone. “Don’t look at me like that”, she snapped at Nasr who was simply unfortunate enough to be looking in her general direction. Later, when she was sure Thorgest was asleep, she took her blanket and curled up on the other side of the boulder on the still-warm earth and tried to sleep.

She cried that night. Wept for her old life; how it would never again be. Wept for the betrayal. For the man she thought she’d known, the man she had thought closest to a father she ever had. And she wept for the world, which seemed to lack all colour in the cold light of the moons. Wept for the shame that burned inside her and ate away the last remnants of her soul. And for herself, who she no longer was, couldn’t be any longer.

#

Iora was woken by the first rays of the rising sun and the world in its warm tones no longer seemed as cruel as it had the night before. Defiantly, she walked back to the fireplace, determined not to answer him if Thorgest would ask why she had been away. He was good enough to not. They took down the tent in silence and loaded Nasr up again - Iora apologised to him and scratched him between the ears. Iora was grateful for not having to talk. The cool morning still betrayed nothing of the oppressive heat that awaited them at midday and would force them to rest. They therefore decided to set off as quickly as possible to make the most of the time they had left. Thorgest offered her some dry cheese and bread as a small breakfast and then took one last look at her bandage. He decided that it would last another day. And so they left, following an uncertain path that only Thorgest could see.

In the mind-emptying waste of the Grave of Titans the world and Iora’s thoughts blurred into an ever-same cloud of dust, stirred ‘neath her step. And through that veil of ash and rust, she began to see it in a distant corner of her field of vision: The symbol of the Daeva. Pale, pulsating, with twitching edges. But when she gave it her attention, it withdrew deeper into her.

The memories of her master she had banished to a distant room of her mind, deep in the labyrinth, which she did not want to enter again any time soon. The march through the wasteland, the mindless rut, it helped her. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other. Don't stand still. There was a certain satisfaction in moving further away from her past with every step.

#

They stopped to rest round midday. The sun was high in its path and forced them to do so. All around them was endless nothing. They had left the chasm they had been following an hour ago and had crossed the plateau without any other point of reference. Iora had followed the dwarf. She had trusted that he'd known the way. Now she looked around. It was mostly scrub again, nothing that indicated life, except perhaps a few grasses with stalks that looked more like needles. Solely a pair of withered trees defied the scorching midday sun. They stretched the tarp beneath them and sat down in its shade.

“Thank you for taking me with you”, Iora began. “I wouldn't know where to go on my own. I would have died out here.”

“Oh child. I wouldn't have just left you standing there. We travellers have to help each other where we can. Otherwise this would be a very lonely world we live in here.” And he meant it so. “You will still have the chance to return the favour. And if that doesn't happen, then help someone on your journey who is less fortunate than you. Then it shall be repaid.”

That evening, they had set up camp next to a small grove around a spring. It was the first time since she had left the little hut in the middle of nowhere that she had seen so much green, so much life in one place. Insects buzzed and a few last blossoms held on late into the summer. An oasis in the middle of a landscape ravaged by forces the likes of which the world had not seen since those ancient days. Thorgest had told her that he always visited this place when he travelled northward. Iora had been looking for dry branches for a fire again and Thorgest had pitched his tent in the meantime. Then he wanted to make good on his promise and explain his trick with the fire to her.

“Here, take this twig in both hands. Like so.”  He demonstrated. “The fireplace here is too large for my skills to light it just like that. It would need a better mage for that. But I can work with this branch as a focus. Look at it. Feel it. It's made of the same material as all the other branches here. The same wood. So you can create a connection between them. You just have to recognise how they are one. That's the first step.”

Iora held the twig between her hands. It was nothing special. Dry wood. She wasn’t so sure what she was meant to feel. But whatever, she would feel.

“You have to be firm in the will that whatever you do with this stick will happen to others in this pile. It has to be a fact for you. If you break it, another will break too”, he explained.

And with that he had lost her. “But– Didn’t you want to show me how to produce fire?”, she interrupted him.

“Patience, patience. To do this, you first need to understand how things around you are connected. This knowledge will take you further than the ability to set fire to a small piece of wood”, he replied. “Pick a second twig. And then concentrate on the two. They are one and the same. What happens to one also happens to the other. They are connected by the webs of magic. And when you realise how they are one, break yours. The second will follow.”

She wasn’t convinced, but she did as she was told. She selected a second stick and memorised its image. Then she closed her eyes. She imagined it. As best she could, she formed its details. And when she broke the one in her hand, she imagined how the other one broke as well. But when she opened her eyes again, nothing had happened. She tried a second time. Nothing. A third. A fourth, a fifth. Again and again she started over.

Thorgest had left her to her exercises and meanwhile set about lighting the fire and cooking a small dinner. “And?” he finally asked her.

She shook her head. “Nothing. I don't know what’s the point. They're two. They aren’t one. How are they supposed to be one?” She was disappointed and frustrated.

“Well, that's the point of this exercise. You will understand, but it will take time. No one is born a mage”, he encouraged her, “But you see that it's possible.”

It chose two new ones and tried again. And again. It amazed her how little her own mind would obey her when she demanded something of it. It should be so easy to imagine two sprigs breaking as one, but to be convinced that this was so was an impossibility. She couldn't remember how long she had tried, but it was getting dark, she felt drained.

“Today was your first day in contact with magic. You will understand. Come. Eat.” She didn't find any real comfort in that, but she wouldn't tell him that.

#

That night she had spent under the open sky again. Nestled against a gnarled old tree, she listened to the almost deafening sounds of the oasis. Whirring and scurrying and rustling and rippling. They had drowned out her thoughts, the whispering of the closed door in her labyrinth.

For the next day, she had looked for a few more twigs to practise with on her way. She would get there by the time they reached Myrar. Even if she had almost run into the Nasr twice with her eyes closed. Thorgest just managed to save her both times.

During their break, she tried to get some sleep. She had to admit to herself that she wasn't used to walking for so long. Not in this heat. And she hadn't slept well.

The second half of the day she used up the rest of her practice materials and then went on without. Thorgest left her in peace for the rest of the day and pursued his own thoughts. What they might be, Iora didn't know. He hadn't told her much about himself. But neither had she told him. Gods, she was probably the bigger mystery of the two of them.

“It’s not far now. We should reach Myrar tomorrow. Do you already know what you’ll be doing once we get there?”, Thorgest asked in the evening. A question she hadn’t properly asked herself. Her only goal had been to get there, and even that only because she knew it was her best chance of survival. So, what would she do when she got there?

“Survive, just as now”, she replied curtly.

“Don’t you have any family?`Nobody you can go to?” He sounded genuinely worried. She struggled with herself, but finally decided that she owed him something for taking care of her.

“I grew up in Ardport. On the street. I had brothers and sisters there. But as time went on, there were fewer and fewer of them. In the end, I was the only one left.” This truth had to suffice. It being eight years past he didn’t have to know.

He nodded. “I think I understand.” But he didn't seem happy with the answer. He was very quiet for the rest of the evening - as he had been all day. So she returned to her exercises. What else could she do?

“Child, we need to talk”, Thorgest finally said in a heavy voice. He pointed at her with his cup. “The glyph on your back, I know it.” Iora faltered. This was what she had been afraid of. Afraid of since the moment he had bandaged her, offered her help, taken her on with all that cheerfulness. Of course. The dwarf continued to speak, slowly and with words carefully chosen: “I know what will happen to you.” Every word was a sting. The heart in her chest beat faster and her mouth went dry. She stared at him, transfixed, watching closely to see what he would do next. She had claws, he didn't, if she was quick enough–

“I've seen them too often. But yours is still fresh. Maybe there's still hope.”

She found it difficult to speak. She wanted to flee, but– “What do you mean? What will happen to me?”

He sighed and stared into the fire. Followed the small sparks with his eyes as they rose into the night sky. “Oh poor child. You don't know? How could you let yourself in for this?”

Oh, she knew. Maybe not two days ago, but she understood. It would eat at her soul. Piece by piece she would disappear. She had seen it. She would become which should never stand on this earth. It was all wrong. It didn’t belong here and yet it was inside her. Was her.

“Can you help me?” She felt so weak. “Please…”

“It is part of you now”, he replied, his words bitter and set with the unspoken grief only a life too long and too storied could work. Their finality forced tears into her eyes. Hot droplets of desperation, of shameful weakness. “I cannot be cut out. You will carry it in you for the rest of your life. It will grow inside you. And it will try to break down your will. Every day. Every week. I want you to understand that.”

A first hot streak ran down her cheek. “But there has to be something. Anything”, she begged. “Don’t you know of anything?” The words tasted of ash. Why would it be so much easier with him shouting?

“I told you: There is hope, but you have to fight it. I can help you strengthen your will, but you have to weather the storm.”

She didn’t dare speak with him after that. Didn’t even look at him. So he knew what she was. What he might be thinking, only the spirits knew. That night, she felt even more abandoned in her loneliness than before. She didn't say a word to him the next morning either. When she looked at him, she saw the pain in his eyes. She felt too weak for her exercises. Her senses too numb and her mind too agitated and the whispering too loud. It was just as right after her awakening. She was alone and all that drove her forward was the sheer will to put one foot in front of the other. She wanted to run away, but where to? There was nothing. So she kept going. Always straight ahead.

Until in the far distance she noticed a wall of pale-yellow stone. Myrar. So there it was. She had never before seen a dwarven city. Stone and metal and artfully coloured ornaments. Stout battlements and massive gates. And gardens in the wasteland. She could see them. Flat roofs that towered over the wall and the greenery on top of them. Terraces and colourful awnings and trees and blossoms. And just a single bridge that ran from a street to the plateau on which the city was located.

When they reached the bridge, Thorgest spoke for the first time that day. “Best pull your hood low over your face and hide your hands. As long as you stay with me, hopefully the guards will leave you alone.”

Iora did as she was urged, but still didn’t have it in her to speak herself. Whatever was there to say anyway?

While she stepped towards the gate covered up, her companion behaved entirely openly. Her mind itched. Her nerves were on edge. They would see he was a dwarf and hopefully let her pass. And what if they didn't? He waved to one of the guards as they passed, but they didn’t seem to pay them any further mind. And then they were inside the city.

Chapter Text

Year 350 after the War of the Gods, Late Autumn

Dunvegen, Riverlands

As they reached Dunvegen before the fall of night, it betrayed nothing of the fate that had befallen Moore just hours before. Peaceful it lay atop a hill, only one road leading up towards small, stout houses, rather hills than real buildings, built from stacked stone, with small windows and thatched roofs or even grown over with grass and moss. They slowed down their horses. In front of them, a boy drove a small flock of sheep through a gate in the layered stone wall, down from the pasture and towards the village. They passed him and he gawked at them with wide eyes. A sheep bleated. The cold autumn wind carried smoke, the smell of fire and voices down the hill. Music and laughter; and as they came closer, the smell of food, of fat dripping into the fire, of fresh bread, of roasted onions and apples and garlic, of cider and berries. “Who’s up first!”, one girl shouted to another and began to run up the road, leaving the other alone with the geese. “Hey! Come back! I’m gonna tell mum!”, she called after her sister. That one only laughed. From the thicket between alders and hazel and a curtain of orange and yellow and brown leaves and with a lot of rustling stumbled two young men in fine clothing and looked up at Sara and Áed, surprised - caught out - and a little drunk. Áed greeted them with a wave. Then one of them laughed and pulled the other along towards the village. “Come on! We’re gonna miss everything!”

Áed remembered Moore, the screams, the blood, the dead. It was only a couple hours riding– It was a different world. The people celebrated. And Áed didn’t know how the reconcile both these realities.

“I grew up here”, Sara broke the silence, with just a hint of ease in her voice. She pointed towards one of the small hills with the small windows on the outskirts of the village, behind it a small fence, empty and dilapidated. “You see that farm back there? That one belonged to my parents. I grew up there between chickens and sheep. Those two running up over there” - she meant the two young men - “are Ciarán and Éanán– Don’t know whether they recognized me. My mother had thought Ciarán a good match for me back then. Well, I don’t think that would have worked out particularly well. But nice to see that those two aren’t butting heads anymore.”

Why she had left all that behind to join the Militia, Áed didn’t want to ask. Everyone had their reasons. “Do you still know many people here? Anyone you want to warn? Is that why we’re here?”, he asked instead.

“I haven’t been here for some years. I don’t even know who still lives here. Old Odhrán, maybe. Nothing’s gonna kill him; he’ll probably even outlive me. We used to listen to his stories back as wee children.”

At the top of the hill, on an open village square, there was a fireplace with glowing coals and a grate above it, and the cook was joking with an older man before hurriedly turning over a few skewers. There were people everywhere and they laughed and danced and ate and drank and they made merry and Áed wished he could be caught up in it all. The music interwove with the conversations and laughter and a fiddle traded off with voices, while a drum kept a steady beat and a flute hopped back and forth between them. They dismounted and led their horses through the crowd, but even so they still attracted a lot of attention. Some pointed at them - or at Sara? - and then began to talk to each other more quietly. “We’ll go straight to Odhrán”, Sara decided and left no room for argument.

One of the two young men they had met on the street was forced to listen to a long tirade - presumably from his parents - here, away from the crowd. Áed didn’t listen too closely, but he caught the most important points. “What were you thinking?” and “We’ve all been waiting for you!” and “Do you know how this looks?” Other members of the community discreetly moved away when they too realised what was happening.

“By the saints! Sárait?”, a voice slurred off to the side. Sara didn’t look at the man. “You got to be mistaking me for someone else.” He followed them. “No. No! It is you!” He laughed. “What brings you back to us?”

“Get lost! I don’t know who you’re mistaking me for– I don’t give a shit! Gread leat!”, she hissed at the stranger.

“Fucking bollocks– Just wanted to say hello”, he muttered to himself as he staggered back to the festivities.

Áed looked at Sara and raised an eyebrow. To his wordless question she responded: “I have absolutely no nerve right now for people who think they knew me as a wee child. Less so when they’re drunk.” When the stranger was finally gone, she pointed to a building that seemed quite large for the village. It even had stables. “Over there. Let’s hope he’s still alive.”

They led the horses to the stable and instructed the stable boy to treat them well - They had saved them from really fucked-up situations twice over now. Then they went back to the front door, above which hung a golden horseshoe. Sara pushed open the door and let Áed go first.

Four steps lead them down into a twilight tap room; only little light poured through the small windows, too little for the large room, and even the candles with their tamed flames were not enough to dispel the gloom completely. And so it seemed like night had already fallen despite the broad light of day outside. What Áed noticed to his surprise was how clean the place was: no smell of beer in the air, no sticky stains on the floor, the tables wiped clean, nobody lying around unconscious. Tables, chairs and benches were all neatly arranged and women hurried back and forth between them to fulfil the guests’ wishes. To the right of the entrance stood a simple counter; a plank over stone, piled like the walls around the fields outside. Behind it at the wall were shelves with various bottles and above it a raven’s beak. And in between, at the counter, there stood a bear of a man. Áed reached maybe up to his chest and was probably only half as broad. His grey hair was tied back in a ponytail and his face adorned by a bushy white beard. As they entered he was just laughing at a joke a girl had made. Sara headed straight for the bar, stood before the giant as if he was the stable boy from before, leaned on the polished counter and looked at him seriously. “Odhrán, we have to talk.”

Puzzled, he looked at her. “Sara… Where did you leave your arm?”

She didn’t seem to have an answer ready for that. For a long moment they just stared at each other. Until the corner of the man's mouth began to twitch and it finally burst out of him. He laughed so loudly that some of the guests looked over at him in surprise. Apparently the girl at the counter didn’t understand what was happening any more than Áed did. And it seemed Sara was weighing the options of shouting at the giant, slapping him or storming back out through the door. “What on Indeera's sacred flame is this fucking bollocks? I come round here after years and you make me think you've gone half-witted in your old age?”

The giant wiped the tears from his eyes. When he was finally able to breathe calmly again and with a bright red head, he replied: “Lassie, let me have some fun. Yes, it’s been some years. It’s nice to have you back! Come on, let’s give you a proper welcome.” He came out from behind the bar.

“Right might be the absolute worst time for jokes”, Sara replied sullenly.

“Oh come on”, he dropped to one knee and held his arms open wide. “I’ve missed you.”

“If you promise me to cut the bullshit…”

“I promise, Sara.”

At first she hesitated, but then closed the distance to him and wrapped her arm around him and he hugged her tightly. “You could have written to me more often, you know? I was worried. And you’re pale, too.” Then he looked over to Áed and seemed far less pleased than before. “And I see you’re still hanging around with the Emperor’s bloody bastards. Please don’t tell me–”

“What the–”, Áed began. How dare that old sod! Sara stopped him.

“Calm down you two. Odhrán, he is a deserter. Just as me. That’s why we’re here.”

The giant still eyed Áed suspiciously as he stood up. “Damn. All right. That doesn't mean I trust him. What's going on? What finally brings you back to me after such a long time?” He went behind the bar and started tapping beers. “We should at least drink together. Who knows how much longer I’ll be here.”

“Stop talking rubbish”, Sara reprimanded him. “But I’m serious: we need to talk. Do we have some privacy in the kitchen?” And with that, the gravity of the situation seemed to finally get through to him.

“Zofia, would you take over the bar for me?” The girl nodded in response. Then they went back into the kitchen. A small room, an open fire, a pot above it and a table on the opposite wall. It smelt of fire and smoke and stew. “Caelan, get out. I have to talk with these two.”

The cook put down his knife. “Then you better handle the stew. I don’t want my reputation to suffer from this.”

“Yes, yes, allright. Get out of here.” Odhrán nodded towards the door and Caelan went outside. “Good, and now you two tell me why you look as if the earth is about to open up at any moment and drag us all down to the hells.”

Sara took the initiative and Odhrán drew a sip from his jug. “Odhrán, this is Áed. We were stationed together on the frontier. Áed, this is Odhrán, the Giant of Kynvell.”

“I should have never told you that story. Please let that name die already. I’m Odhrán the landlord. Nothing more and nothing less”, he replied.

Áed nodded to him. Though he didn’t know the name. Maybe somebody the folk here out west knew. “We’re here, because we have to evacuate the village”, Áed explained.

“We’re here, because I wanted to warn Odhrán”, Sara corrected him.

Odhrán raised both hands to stop them. “Wait, wait, wait. Please start from the beginning. You still haven't explained anything to me.”

And so they explained. Told of the day when Cruidín had fallen and hell had broken loose on them. Of their escape, their capture and their escape again. He listened to them. Silently. Nodded. Drank. Listened to them talk about Moore, where probably no one was alive anymore. And his face didn’t budge. When they finished, he exhaled heavily. “The gods won’t even let me have my peace in my twilight years.”

“Saints damn it, Odhrán! Not the time for jokes! Everything out there is going to the dogs. You have to get away from here. All of you. You have to convince them. People will listen to you. And if not– Then you at least”, she pleaded with him.

Áed couldn’t read anything in his expression. Didn’t he have anything to say about it, damn it? “If you can move the people like Sara says–”, Áed tried to draw a response from him. Some kind of reaction. Like made of stone Odhrán had sat there until he interrupted Áed. Which didn’t exactly help to raise Áed’s opinion of him either.

“If that is true, then you'd better pray that the gods have mercy on us. It's only a little over a day from here to Moore.” Deep wrinkles furrowed his brow. “You couldn't have just visited me like that, could you?”

“That’s all?”, it burst from Áed before he could stop himself. “That is everything you have to say about it?”

Odhrán looked at him contemptuously. “Lad, at least give me a moment. I can’t just go about shouting for people to leave their homes. We’re going to the Túath; they should hear your story.”

“You got too much faith. Who is it? Still the same?”, Sara said to the giant.

“Well, what do you think?”, he replied. She snorted.

 #

“Caelan, your stew is doing fantastic. It’s a real shame that we don’t have any more guests to eat it”, the landlord said to his cook, now back in the tap room. Then he made a few steps into the room, clapped his hands loudly and waited until it was quiet. “Dear guests”, he began, his voice filling the room completely. “Unfortunately I have to ask you to leave the Golden Steed. Go home. Pack your things. And be ready to leave Dunvegen. Doom comes marching from Moore! You have oft listened to my stories, now listen to my warning: get to safety.” Quiet murmuring, uncertainty, questions that nobody wanted to ask the landlord directly. But no one got up to leave the inn. “I implore you: get yourselves and your families to safety. Forget the bill, but heed my words.” Good mood seemed to return over those last words; even so the people were still reluctant to get up from their chairs and only did so after finishing their drinks.

“Very dramatic”, Áed commented and Odhrán ignored him.

“Didn’t we want to speak to the Túath first? Before we scare the people?”, Sara asked, less than happy.

“Call it a flash of inspiration”, Odhrán replied with a shrug.

While the giant gathered the barmaids at the counter to talk to them, Áed turned to Sara: “Do you think they'll listen to him?”

“I hope so. You saw what’s headed for us– Dunvegen doesn’t have a chance.”

“Shit, Sara, how is this supposed to work? Even if we get these people to leave... What about all the other villages? We can't warn all of them in time.”

“No, we can't. And we won't save them. You shouldn't think about it. We have to go north.”

Odhrán continued talking to the women: “And if they don't listen to you, then come back here on your own. Bring what is important to you, what you can carry and wait here for us. We'll come and get you when we get back.” They nodded eagerly and disappeared through the door along with the throng of guests. One of them remained standing; it was the one he had spoken to when they had entered the Golden Steed.

“Zofia”, Odhrán turned to her, “tell Peadar to harness the horses to the cart. Then load up what you can find in the kitchen. Have Caelan help you with that. I have a feeling we’ll need it.” She nodded in reply with a grim expression on her face and then disappeared through the door as well.

“Áed, would you bring me one of those chairs.” The giant stepped behind the counter and looked upward at the raven’s beak on the wall. “Old friend, never thought I’d hold you in my hands again.”

Áed - albeit reluctantly - brought a chair from the next table behind the counter and Odhrán at least nodded his thanks.

“Are you planning on bashing their skulls in if they refuse to listen?”, Sara wanted to know and Áed thought he could hear that she might even be serious. And the tone in which Odhrán replied didn't exactly reassure him. “If I have to, yes.”

#

Loudly the raven’s beak impacted on the ground as the Giant of Kynvell set it down in front of him. Steel on stone. They had entered uninvited and now he demanded the attention of those present. “Honoured councillors, I'm terribly sorry if I’m interrupting right now.” He looked at each of the men in turn. All of them were easily twice as old as Áed and seemed to lead a far better life than him as well. All dressed in expensive fabrics, richly embroidered, clean-shaven or neatly trimmed beards, a table that seemed to bend under the weight on it and iron circlets on four heads and indignation on every face. “What do you–” A man in a white shirt, a short beard and an iron circlet on his head - as red as his waistcoat - had raised his voice against Odhrán, but was immediately interrupted by him again.

“I bring ill tidings. Moore has fallen.”

Silence. No one dared to speak while the men at the table processed the news. THe first to grab a hold of himself was a corpulent councillor in green robes with a sword on his left breast. “And is there any proof of that?”

On that Sara and Áed stepped up next to the giant. Sara saluted and then began: “Sara Redmond. Corporal with the third platoon, assigned to the Western Frontier Guard. We were stationed near Moore. Our post was overrun. We were the only survivors. We rode to Moore to warn them, but we were too late. We didn't find any survivors.”

Those around the table began talking to each other, weighing up what they had just heard; the word lie was dropped more than once. “What if it’s true?” - “We can’t just take anyone’s word for it.” -They were all too preoccupied with each other to pay any attention to the three still standing near the door. “That’s ridiculous. There have never been any attacks here.” Áed gave Sara a look seeking help, but she just shrugged her shoulders. He took heart; these discussions were jeopardising the lives of people out there. “Honoured councillors–"

“We didn’t ask for your opinion!”, the man in the red waistcoat snapped at him.

Another also stood up, his iron circlet richly engraved, his red robe lavishly embroidered and his face marked with countless wrinkles. Of all those present in the room, he seemed to Áed to be the oldest. “Rohan, be quiet! We will listen to them. Please, my lad, say what you have to say.”

“Are you serious, Riordán?”, the other wanted to know, outraged, and Áed thought he could see a vein threatening to burst on his forehead if he didn't calm down soon, but Councillor Riordán didn't respond to the interruption.

“My father swore to lead and protect Dunvegen. Just like his father before him. And his before him. And so have I. If there is even the possibility that the citizens who trust me are in danger, then I will listen to what these people have to say.” He looked at the other three councillors in turn, the one who had objected last. “Bricín, Émer, Rohan, do you agree with me in this assessment?”

Bricín, Émer - the man in green - and Rohan - the latter reluctantly - nodded. “I’m still convinced that this is a waste of time.”

“That we will judge after we have heard their entire story.”

Odhrán murmured, just loud enough for Sara and Áed to hear him: “So I won’t need this here after all.”

“So please, tell us what has happened. How bad is it?”, Émer - the man in green robes - wanted to know. Áed described to him how Cruidín had been overrun in no time, as if there hadn’t been hundreds of soldiers of the Imperial Militia stationed there. He explained that it wasn’t elves, they had to fear, but monsters of a different kind, he had never seen before. And he told them about Aoibhinn, Carthach, Siollán, William and all the other comrades who had fallen, with torn flesh and teeth in their guts. He glanced over how they had been arrested for desertion in Andras and sentenced to death, both of which the members of the Túath needn’t know. And finally he told them about the gates to the hells which had once been Moore.

“This is serious. If even an imperial outpost can be overrun this easily…”, the councillor who had not spoken before chimed in. Bricín. He rubbed his chin and paced restlessly behind the table. Except for his bald chin, he reminded Áed of a luchorpán from the old stories.

“This easily? With all due respect– We had been undersupplied for weeks. We lost an entire platoon the week before. Those that were left fought to the end.” Áed didn’t like the way he portrayed things. Good women and men would never again see a sunrise and this cake-eater allowed himself to drag their memory through the mud like this.

“Yes, but that is of little use to us now. I very much doubt that we have a company of Swords stationed here that we don't know about”, Councillor Rohan said pointedly.

“Please. Stay calm”, Councillor Riordán intervened. “We want to protect the people of Dunvegen, not fight.”

“So call on the citizens to evacuate the village! At worst, we only got a couple more hours. And the longer we talk, the less time we have.” Sara was right, it all went far too slow for Áed’s liking. This once they were here in time. This time it was possible to save the people. If only they would finally act.

Riordán and Bricín nodded.

“I will have guards go from house to house. They should inform the people”, said Councillor Émer.

“People won't be thrilled about having to leave at night”, Rohan pointed out.

“They will manage if they want to live”, Odhrán replied calmly and Áed tended to agree.

“Yes… Yes, it seems they will have to. Bricín, can you send riders to the neighbouring villages? They should have the same luck as we do. I will send someone to Captain Ausaláin. Saints willing, he will send troops”, Riordán contemplated.

“And the wedding?”, Émer interjected now, even if with very little conviction.

“You can’t be serious. The two of them should finally join hands and then get out of here with the others if they value their lives. They can still celebrate when they're safe”, grumbled Odhrán. That seemed to be enough for the other councillors as well.

So they left the Túath's house and made their way back to the Golden Steed. Odhrán was the first to speak. “That went well. If I had known they would agree so quickly, I wouldn't have needed the old thorn.”

“Aye. Now it's up to the people”, said Áed.

“I still don't understand why you had to take the hammer with you”, Sara said to the giant, grumpily, but he just laughed it off. “You never know.”

On their way, they were often stopped by excited people who wanted to know from Odhrán whether he knew or had heard anything about what exactly was going on. He answered their questions as best he could and explained to them what was going to happen; that they would be leaving Dunvegen. This only helped to calm their moods on rare occasions. The village was in disarray and the cheerfulness that had greeted them just an hour ago had vanished. The air tasted like before a storm, when animals were hurriedly driven in, shutters were closed and anything that wasn't secure was tied down. Donkeys, goats and oxen were harnessed to carts, packs heaved onto them, instructions shouted. Where he could, Odhrán helped. Still the women and men of the guard were going around, knocking on doors and windows, spreading the bad news. The wedding feast had been broken up and the last remaining guests were arguing with a woman in uniform who told them to pack their things and join the rest of the community. Odhrán tersely explained the situation and that it was better to follow the woman's instructions. Not a cloud hung in the red sky.

“Why aren’t you a member of the Túath? The people here respect you; listen to you”, Sara asked.

“That's not for me. The days when I made decisions for other people are long gone. I just want to be a simple landlord.”

In front of the stable of the Golden Steed there stood now a large cart with two horses in front of it. The stable hand who had  taken Sara’s and Áed’s horses before, was just dragging a sack onto it. “Is it really true, Odhrán? Zofia isn’t talking shit?”, he wanted to know by way of greeting.

Odhrán nodded. “Aye. We’re leaving the Golden Steed. Are Zofia and Caelan ready?”

Peadar replied: “Both of them are still inside. I think they’re getting something from the kitchen.”

“Good. We’ll depart with the others. We should have everything in order until then.” Then he turned to Sara and Áed. “I hope your horses can go a little bit longer.”

“They will have to”, Áed said.

Chapter Text

Year 351 after the War of the Gods, Summer

Merun, Capital of the Empire

“Gira, you’re worrying too much. Nobody saw me.” Deep in the shadow of her hood Giræsea could see naught but Älyan’s mouth - she grinned. A wide and toothy grin, showing the sharp fangs behind those soft lips. And as she raised her gaze Giræsea could see two stars gleaming in the dark. Her heart - a predator with the blood of her prey dripping from her lips; a prayer, a cheer, for her successful hunt. And in her claws she held her triumph: A heavy tome, bound in leather and brass-studded; artfully decorated – alternating jagged and flowing lines, interwoven as Giræsea had seen many times this far east: Vines and leaves in an embrace with steel grates. “I wish you could see it! It is gorgeous! It shines as the sun behind a rain cloud– I wish I could describe it to you better.” Älyan held the book against her chest. “Oh, the things I will find in it.” And her voice was the first droplet on dry sand, and the rain and the flood that wanted to sweep her away.

Giræsea rolled her eyes. This had now been the second time since they’d been in Merun for Äylan to break in. Or at least the second time she knew about. But she also knew that it would get them nowhere, arguing about it with Älyan; Thorgest was right: It was her curse. Giræsea couldn’t move her to stop unless she wanted it herself. And then Giræsea would be there to offer her a hand. “So I hope this one will keep you occupied longer than the last one, then”, she said and hoped it contained everything she wanted to say.

The elf twirled around, her cloak flowing in a wide arch, and then she dropped backwards onto the bed next to Giræsea; the hood falling from her head. “Gira, I can feel it: This is the only book on this continent where I can find something Thorgest doesn’t know yet; where he won’t say Aye, that’s how the people tell it, but more truthfully…  How do you think he'll look when I can tell him something new?”

At Älyan’s interpretation of Thorgest Giræsea had to laugh. She put on her second boot and stood up. “Don’t walk all over him. Thor has a hard enough time with the both of us.” Then she threw on her jibbah - the arms master had sold it to her as a gambeson, but it was a fucking jibbah - and knew Älyan was rolling her eyes. Next thing she took her breast plate and put it on over it. “Could you please–”, she began her sentence but Älyan was alread on her feet and by her side. “Of course.” Nimble fingers danced over leather, threading straps through eyelets and fastening buckles. She just about reached up to Giræsea’s chin. Without her asking for it, Älyan reached for the broad belt and dropped to her knees in front of Giræsea to put it on her. Buckle by buckle she tightened it, and Giræsea had to remind herself that she had a task to fulfil and no time to spare for the distractions that were presenting themselves to her all too clearly. 

“Turn around”, Älyan ordered as she began hooking the two halves to the leather skirt onto the belt. Giræsea obeyed. Then Älyan stood up to judge her work. Nodded. “Do you need help with that as well?” She held up the shoulder plate.

“Only if you’ve got nothing better to do right now.”

She laid the piece on Giræsea’s right shoulder and fastened the first strap around her chest. “Arm up.” The second one she closed around the inside of her upper arm. Giræsea moved her arm to make sure everything sat well.

“Are you really sure he’s down there? What if we’re wrong?” The worry in Älyan’s voice cut sharp across the hope she had built. Of course that thought had occurred to her: What if it wasn’t him or it was him but he couldn’t read the inscription or he couldn’t open the casket? What then? Then they had traveled half the continent for nothing - Rúnknǫttr, At-Tumr, Kinbay, Merun - and they had no more leads. They had to start back at square one.

“It has to be him. You heard the pilgrim. Everything points towards him. But soon we will know.” She put all the confidence she could muster into these short sentences. But now was not the time to doubt anymore. What else could they do now? First I have to get down there and find the temple. Then we’ll see.”

“Is Thorgest gonna come with you?”

“No. He said he’s got both hands full with you up here. And what’s ever gonna happen down there?”

“I would’ve managed without him.” Älyan put one hand on her arm and the touch felt as fragile as a butterfly’s wings. “Atti, I don’t want you to disappear down there.”

“Now you’re worrying too much. Nothing’s gonna happen to me.” Giræsea softly cupped her cheek, gently stroking the metal with her thumb, touching her forehead to Älyan’s and closed her eyes. Nightmother, if Älyan hadn’t returned from her hunt,  if she had waited for her in vain– She didn’t want to imagine it. And to know she could do the exact same thing to Älyan, for her to carry this fear, it broke her heart. “I will come back. I promise.”

Älyan reached for her hand. Gracious Varnith, she didn’t want to go. She wanted to stay here with Älyan. Whatever was in that accursed casket, she wanted to– A kiss. And the endless-overlapping-winding circles of restless thoughts lay still fur just this moment and if there were no other guarantees in this world, there was this one: She would return to Älyan.

“If I find so much as a new scar on you, I’ll personally curse you”, said Älyan with a wary grin and then took a step back and Giræsea’s heart fluttered in the cage of her chest. “And now go. Hurry! I want to be out of this cursed city.”

“I’ll be back here by tonight and we’ll be gone by tomorrow.”, Giræsea promised her. She would find the man, open the casket and then return. It was so simple. And when she’d return deep from the bowels of earth, stone and steel, from endless night deep underground, Älyan would be waiting for her.

She sheathed her swords, grabbed her pack and went to the door. She opened it; turned around once more, not yet ready to step on the other side– To close the door behind her. "Be careful", her heart called after her. She replied: "I can't promise anything." But of course she did. She lingered there, in the doorframe, and smiled awkwardly, didn't know whether she should say anything, until it was too late. She waved at her heart one last time, turned around, and left. 

#

Three ramps downwards, now along a footbridge over the abyss, in front of her a staircase that nestled close to the rock face and led steeply downwards, deeper, deeper, ever deeper. Blood vessels of stone and iron; living blood of the Undercity - Droplets of humans and dwarves and felines. The farther down she went into the beating heart, the closer together the houses grew. Cut into the rock; like mushrooms on the bark of a tree they hung over the abyss; or grew like trees from the darkness of the same. Down here there were almost no more torches to keep the ever-night at bay.

At last Giræsea found herself in a wide, shallow cave, the ceiling so low, she could touch it if she stretched out her arm. The inhabitants of the Undercity had set up a market here and so she made her way through the tides of the crowd, let herself be carried by them, swam with them– She didn’t find her rhythm. She surrendered to the tides and was washed from stall to stall, past bakers, potters, fine-smiths, mushroom farmers; She was surprised to find things she had thought she wouldn’t see so far beneath the surface. Why exactly she thought there wouldn’t be any bread, she couldn’t tell. Cages with live chickens, sheets of fabric, herbs, salves, potions. Two men in bright costumes played their instruments and dances, a child clapping in front of them. She put down a half crown for the baker and took a honey biscuit. She had now been following this labyrinth through the underworld for almost three hours, she had earned it. Sunshine in a flaky crust, if otherwise she got nothing but night. It was a reach for the baker to be able to help her, but what was there to lose: So she asked him if he had seen the man she was looking for. She described what she knew of him: a human, not that tall, blond hair, he had a beard and a tattoo on the back of his left hand. Of course the baker hadn’t seen him. She thanked him anyway and went on.

When she had finally reached the other end of the cave, a small flight of stairs awaited her, walled on both sides by stone, and she followed it. It smelt of soot and piss and she wished she was back at the market.

Again Giræsea reached a chasm. Again she couldn’t see the floor at its depths and she made the decision to not fall down there. Along the wall was a ledge, just wide enough to be called a road and she followed it. At the next fork in the tunnel she again followed her instincts: left. Where exactly she had to go was hard to tell. She had somewhat of a rough direction and it pointed down: farther, deeper, towards the deep roots. So when she found a ladder that let her skip two levels she took it instead of following the road. The deeper she went, the more she lost her sense for how deep she already was. Stone melted into stone melted into stone.

Far into the stone again, away from gorges and bridges, she passed a chamber, a garden; the workers inside busy harvesting mushrooms. The fruiting bodies in the baskets on their back glowed an eerie blue and gave the cave a surreal quality. Thorgest had told her about them, the mushroom gardens of the Cities in the Stone, but this was the first one she ever saw for herself. Their fruits formed the basis for all aspects of life down here: They could be eaten, fed, to then eat what ate the mushrooms, or you could use them as a substitution for torches.

Giræsea guessed that she was now fifteen or twenty levels deep into the stone; half a miracle that this tangle could even be separated into levels. The base of the city came ever closer. In return she had lost any feeling for how long her descent had already gone on. Without natural light she had no other points of reference. No matter how often she went down into the Cities in the Stone, she would never get used to it.

Ever downward. Over stairs, ramps, ladders, walkways, tunnels. Until she finally made that last step through a hewn archway and then stood ‘neath open, black sky. Above her naught but the darkness; night without moons, without stars. In front of her lay a village of ordinary houses of layered stone, with roofs, and behind it - she could hardly believe it - a lake. On it she saw vessels without sails and fisherfolk casting their nets. Close to the shore, hunched over figures stood and seemed to collect something. The murky blue light was ever present and so she could see almost to the other shore of the lake. It filled almost the entire plain, up to the wall where it disappeared into a crevice.

So then– Where to now? Where was this Tivone temple? She had no better idea, so she sought her way in between the houses towards the lake. A dwarven goddess of sea and stream must surely have her temple at that enormous, unmissable body of water.

Despite all the people she could see around, it was quiet as only a cave could be quiet. The stone and darkness swallowed steps, words, the rustle of fabric, the babbling of water; only if you got close enough, you became a part of this small reality somewhere in the ever-night. This deep beneath the earth, the darkness was a something, it had substance; the air was thick with it; you breathed it, heavy and wet. Giræsea never felt comfortable in it. She needed the sky above her, she needed distance, not the black, that spread inside her with every breath and slowly filled her chest and belly, and the space behind her eyes and would only let her breath again when she was back on the surface.

Only as she got closer did the sounds of the fish market begin to envelop her; the voices, the impact of a knife on wood, the jingling of coins, a barrel being rolled across the stony floor. And as she made her first steps between the stalls, the sounds of the harbour began to interweave with them. The sounds and the smells and the taste of the air. Salty. Fish, nets, wet rope. With it the smell of smoke and fire, of fat, of food. She made her way between the - almost exclusively - dwarves. She had no idea where she actually had to go, as she finally admitted to herself. So when her stomach started to grumble, she decided she had done well enough on the first leg of her day and that a break was in order, so she followed the smell of food until she found - between all the raw fish and mushrooms and plants harvested from the lake - a stall with a brazier full of glowing coals and a griddle on top. Atop it lay fish with charred skin which the dwarf behind the stall pulled off when she deemed it right and the sprinkled spices over it. When one of the fish was ready, she placed it on a greenish flatbread, cut it into rough pieces, added various vegetables that Giræsea didn't all recognise, rolled up the flatbread and then put it back on the grill. Then she handed one of the other flatbreads off the griddle to a dwarf, receiving a couple of coins in return. She worked fast and she worked concentrated. “Next! Yea?” The next dwarf indicated with raised fingers that he’ld take two. Then the cook pointed at Giræsea and she raised one finger. The dwarf nodded.

“Would you show me the way to the Tivone temple?”, Giræsea asked, as she traded half a silver crown for her lunch - was it lunch time?

“You’re not from around here, are you?” She gestured at Giræsea with her tongs. “The armor and all that.” Giræsea nodded. “On the other side of Loch Denhín. That cave over there, that’s the temple…” The cook bent down towards Giræsea, close enough so she could count the hair of her beard and the wrinkles in her face, and added in a way so no evil spirits could hear: “And there the souls are carried by Her water down to the underworld.” Oh wonderful, the gate to the underworld.

Giræsea thanked her for the flatbread and for the information and would have liked to give her another halfcrown but her purse was already getting lighter as is. She looked for a quiet jetty by the harbour, sat down and looked out over the lake, as she ate. What ever had led him to that Tivone temple? For the gate to the underworld to be down here? That was no explanation. Their goddess was no goddess of the dead. She could ask him when she had found him. It was useless to worry about it now. They had been lucky enough to find even this lead. She let her thoughts be carried away and watched the boats.

The lake - Loch Denhín - seemed the quiet centre of the world - static. All along the walls of the cave there was construction, digging, tunnels and houses driven into the stone, stone and brick layered to buildings, to towers growing high into the darkness, connected by walkways and bridges, with each other and the roads along the walls. The perpetual growth of a city already gargantuan; inexorable transformation. The lake in contrast lay still, without wind to whip its surface into waves. A plane mirror.

When she was done, she followed the shoreline. At first she had made the mistake of walking too close to the water and had stepped into the muck awash everywhere. It smelt disgustingly musty and she wondered for how long she would be carrying that with her now. The children of the Undercity on the other hand didn’t seem to be perturbed by it. They ran, they leapt, they stomped, and laughed when the mud splashed. Laughed even louder, when it hit someone. After half an hour she thought it might have been a better decision to pay for passage across the lake instead of walking along the shore. Then she remembered her financial situation.

When she finally reached the crevice and the temple, there was no mucky shore anymore; only shallow water and rock. She waved goodbye to the idea of making it out of this with dry feet and stepped into the narrow canal. Woven flowers of fabric and straw and those plants growing in the lake floated around and between them even real water lilies somebody had to have brought from the surface. Deeper into the cave and the blue light men and women in unadorned white robes went about their duties in the service of their goddess. She saw a man talking to a woman weeping. Giræsea’s decency bid her not to eavesdrop. Two others carried off a bier deeper into the cave. To the side two young temple servants sat on a small island and wove blossoms while talking.

“Can I help you, my child?”, asked an aged dwarf, the water reaching to his knees and the tip of whose beard also touched the wet. In his voice he heard his age but he spoke easily and with joy. Contrasting with the others, his collar was ornamented with blue embroidery.

“Holy voice”, Giræsea bowed before him and hoped the title was appropriate here as well or that she used the right kind of words. “I am looking for someone and I am hoping that you can help me.” The man smiled, but said nothing. She took it as a sign to keep talking. “A man is said to have come past here.” She described him as well she could. The man who was supposed to be a prophet of her own goddess. She gave special attention to the tattoo on the back of his left hand: The moon, the closed eye and the stars. “I’m seeking his guidance in an important matter.”

The Holy Voice thought for a bit and scratched his chin. “I do remember someone like that. He stayed with us for a span of days. He spent a lot of time with Sister Zuhra and Brother Hamza. Unfortunately Brother Hamza has left for his pilgrimage a tenday ago. But Sister Zuhra is still with us. I will bring you to her.”

“Have my everlasting thanks, Holy Voice.” Giræsea bowed deeply.

He led her deeper into the temple, past servants, then left, down a long corridor, on and on. He did not speak. Then the corridor broadened and led into a shallow chamber from where multiple ways went on deeper into the stone. Deep niches were carved into the walls and beams between them decorated with engravings. No, not engravings. Names. In artful calligraphy. And in the dark niches Giræsea then made out the bones that inhabited them. The pillar at the centre, carrying the ceiling, too, was not engraved stone– Those were bone stacked high. Thigh bones, ribs, skulls. An ossuary. She saw someone kneeling in front of a niche and heart softly spoken words. No temple servant judging by the clothes. The Holy Voice kept leading her forward. “Sister Zuhra serves the souls that have yet to find their way to the other side”, he said briefly, but with reverence in his voice. They passed an archway at which two skeletons were settled with the duty of eternal watch. All clean bone and polished steel and fine fabric. And then Giræsea found herself in a gallery of the dead. There was no more stone to be seen safe beneath her boots. Walls of osseous matter with a thousand empty eye sockets whose shadows seemed to ever follow her. Mosaics of splinters, colorful glass, finger and toe bones and pebbles: black, red, blue, white. Skulls neatly aligned, with flower crowns, real or painted. And again the ceiling was supported by a trunk and branches of thighs, upper arms, shins, the bones of the forearm; the ceiling of shoulderblades as tiles. And the hall was lit by the shine of hundreds of candles; on the walls, in eye sockets, on the pillar and as cast flowers on the water - lit by tiny flames transforming the ever present darkness into dancing shadows and giving new life to the bones of those long gone, allowing their ghosts to show themselves. Here stood Sister Zuhra and opened the door for these ghosts, candle by candle. Nothing in her clothing separated her from a simple temple servant.

“Sister Zuhra”, the Holy Voice greeted her and bowed as the Keeper of the Dead turned toward him. Giræsea followed his lead and still stood taller than Sister Zuhra. “I bring a guest. Her questions have led her even to these depths.”

“Keeper”- Giræsea was sure she should have learned the appropriate titles for dwarven clerics long ago on her travels and was frustrated that she hadn’t - “please forgive my interrupting your service.” She described the prophet to the Keeper - even if she didn’t name him as such - and when she mentioned the tattoo on his hand, Sister Zuhra said: “Oh, of course, of course. He was here for a while. We talked a lot about the underworld and the next life. He had a lot of questions. Some of them quite peculiar. I would have liked to have him around for a while; he was quite the help during my service. He had a certain way of treating the dead; he would have made a good servant.”

“Do you know where he is now?”

“I can take you where I took him before. But from that point on you are on your own. But I hope our Lady of Tides may guide you.”

#

In the all encompassing darkness - a suffocating darkness, a darkness she could feel on her skin - there was nothing left but the pale fungus glow and the feeling of stone 'neath her fingers as she tried to not lose her way. And that damned water. It was in her boots, in her clothes and with every step it seemed to rise. First up to her knees. Then to her hip. And now up to her chest. This was the river of the dead, the stream down to the underworld, the godly tears washing away the souls. Sister Zuhra had led her to the gate leading out of the temple and said her goodbyes there. She had no feeling for how long she had been walking since then - it went overboard long ago - the first doubts of her undertaking had only crept up as the walls started to move in closer. With every inch the water about her flowed faster, ever faster, tugging at her, pulling her ever deeper into the bowels of the world. Why? Why are you sending me down into the underworld? She pushed aside the doubts; that whisper telling her to turn around, that she should talk about it with Älyan and Thorgest, that the prophet - the mad man - might have found naught but his own death down here and that she was now hurrying after him with determined step. No. This last drop of faith in her goddess she kept close to her heart.

Then she was trapped. Without light, without breath, without purchase. Only ever-present water and darkness and noise and stone. So much stone. Her body dragged across it, it punched the breath from her chest; her skull rang and she tasted blood. And everywhere water, water, water. With one impact her arm was wrenched upward and it felt like it was torn from her shoulder. She lost her pack and the last shine from the mushrooms. And with them went her breath and water took its place and filled her completely. Breath. Breath. Breath. No pain. No impact. No taste of blood. Only one thing remained as a desperate predator in the cage of her chest clawing at the bars. Breath! But there was only water and stone and darkness and noise. Fingers clawed rock; tongue tasted salty water; eyes wide and still only darkness. Her throat, as if strung by a noose.

Then - for just the blink of an eye - air. For just the shortest moment there was something other than water. She spun. No more stone. She fell, the wind rushing past her and roaring at her face. Too quickly she understood that she was going to hit the ground. Too quickly she understood what would happen then. And she thought Älyan and she thought I love you , and I’m sorry, and shit , and I love–

#

The silence was the dull thrum of her heart. The silence was a place that had swallowed her. The silence was a field of stars in full bloom. But there was no moon among them.

“I have no sway over them, unfortunately.” With a deep, soothing voice the night herself spoke to her. Spoke in a voice like long shadows at the fire and dew on tents and warm tea. Out of the drapery of silence and starry sky stepped a woman with skin as night, hair in which the stars rested and a crown of golden dots and circles along her forehead. And her dress was the reflection of the night sky in a lake. Gold adorned her eyes. Giræsea was missing the words to speak. She could only gaze up at her. This had to be a dream. Or she had hit her head too hard as she fell.

The woman laughed as a far way thunder rumbling, promising rain. “Of course this is a dream. But this deep into the underworld we don’t have to be too precise about it all.” She spoke in a voice as if she had relieved a trader of a few dates without being noticed. She knelt before Giræsea and was eye to eye with her. “We are both here for a reason, so we shouldn’t waste any time, even if I wish it was less urgent. The casket, is it still with you?”

Giræsea found her pack next to her and rummaged around. Still she was lacking words. Was she sitting in front of a goddess?

“I’m no goddess, no, but I might have taken some of their power for myself. But that is a long story and you got more important things to do.” She reached for the casket and brushed her fingertips over it. “So you tried to open it already. Couldn’t wait?” And there was no blame in her voice. It was the voice of a mother who caught her child snacking on freshly baked bread. “It’s been a long while since I opened it, but we have to be patient a bit longer. You will find my student and he will open it for you.” She handed her the casket and looked at Giræsea thoughtfully. “You are not that different, you and him…” Giræsea waited in vain for an explanation.

“So he is still alive? Am I on the right path?”, she asked finally when she had found her voice again. And: “Will I return afterward?” And she was scared of the answer far more.

The woman in front of her tilted her head and smiled. She exuded a warmth. “You will find him, do not worry. He will await you. And there will be a path back into the world for you.”

“And what for all this? What for am I traveling half the world? And why these vague dreams?” This was her chance to ask questions and she would take it. And she would receive answers.

“I would be disappointed if you didn’t ask. So have my answer as well as I can give: Keep an eye out for what is happening in the West. Observe and learn from it. And pray to the gods you will have no need for what bestow you. As for the dreams: They are my dreams. I show them to you in hopes that you can understand them and prevent what the prophesize. You are my eye and my hand in this world.”

Godsdamned bullshit! “All of these are more questions. Please! Damnit! I need answers!”

“And you will have them in time.”

#

And then again there was water and there was stone but this time there was light and the feeling of having been fucked over. A glowing mushroom was washed ashore beside her face. Her bones felt as if they had been caught between a hammer and an anvil, her skin as if between millstones and her head as if a wagon wheel had rolled over it. She brushed the wet hair from her face and her hand came away stained watery-red. She put her head back down on the wet stone and lay there, half in water, half on land. Unceasingly the waterfall behind her roared its droning curses. 

Séntte! Gára ittaye! 

She dragged herself from the water, cursed, sat up, cursed some more and as the blood from her forehead slowly stained her vision red she cursed even louder. She took the mushroom and threw it against the rock face, where it burst into chunks of glowing mass. It left bright splodges between the colourful lichen; more darkness seeped from the walls and the ceiling. And then the realisation sank in: she had nowhere else to go but forwards. She had left it irrevocably behind her, that last way back. Up to this point it had been her decision, now she had none left.

She sank to her knees and stared at the wall and she breathed. And she breathed and sat there. And she didn’t find it in her to scream. And she breathed and sat there, in search of the strength to stand back up. Faith had led her this far and what sense would it make to now lose that faith? Then she would die without hope. If She had a plan– Was it part of that? Or was she walking blindly into the underworld just so she’d have a shorter way once she died?`Damn it… And Älyan? She had made a fucking promise and more than anything she wanted to keep that promise. And so she stood up. She searched for her pack and found it there by the water where she had awoken. She didn’t look inside. She left it to fate what now was left in there. Her swords lay next to it. Then she wiped the blood from her face and was glad that none followed and looked up at the ceiling - over and over covered in that colourful lichen. “If all of this was just a dream or that part about the way back to the surface a lie– I swear to you, I will find you after I’m dead.” She collected a couple of chunks from her mushroom and resigned herself to barely seeing. Then she followed the wall and hoped to she would find some kind of exit from this cave. She had not faced her Mandara and gained the favor of the gods to die ingloriously here, deep beneath the earth.

She found the exit in an archway; hewn into living stone as if it was set from bricks and adorned with symbols that were foreign to her. It was big enough for her to fit through if she were twice her size, maybe thrice. It gave her hope. If there is carved stone, then there were paths one could walk; Thorgest had taught her that in those years. Behind it followed a corridor of straight walls and even floor and with recesses in those walls at regular intervals. There was an empty bowl of metal in all of them. Oil lamps? From a time when these tunnels were still inhabited? Or were they still? Her path led her forks, crossroads, doors leading into empty rooms, each one as tall as the archway. Every time she relied on blind instinct to guide her and was certain she chose the right way. She passed rooms so enormous the sparse light she still carried was not enough to illuminate it. One of them she entered. The ground ended abruptly in front of her and as she stood at the edge, she saw huge steps disappear into the darkness; each one taller than Giræsea. Stairs led downward from level to level and though the steps were smaller she struggled to follow them. Five levels. Six levels. Eight levels. Until she eventually reached the lowest one.

From here she saw nothing but the terrace-steps disappearing into the formless darkness and the court at their centre. Eight sides and a floor with inlaid rings of gleaming metal, adorned with carvings of constellations. The fox, the archer, the lyre, the crown. Giræsea found all those she knew. She put down her pack on one of the steps and followed the orbits. It was remarkable. And as she felt: ironic: Above her naught but endless dark and below her the stars. Is that how the Gods see the world , she thought and deemed that thought ridiculous.

Then there were constellations she did not recognize. Their outlines, carved into the metal, she did not recognize as star signs either: A winged horse, a bird, a ferryman. Whoever had lived here had known these strange skies. She wished she had paper and a pencil. She would have loved to draw these strange depictions. Älyan would be delighted.

But in the end she had to tear herself free from their spell and continue on her way. She left the hall through one of the four gates on this level and followed her path through the bowels of this city. Along corridors and streets, past crossings, up staircases. Up. Ever up. Giant steps. Each one a challenge to her. Ever upward. Hours must have passed since she had left that cave with the waterfall. And - she didn’t know for how long she had been unconscious - maybe even more than a day since she had departed from the inn in Merun. And then she stood in front of a closed door and didn’t know if she should feel glad about finally having reached her destination or whether uncertainty would eat at her. What if none of this would be worth it? Dim light feel through the crack between door and frame, scarcely more than a glowing mushroom provided, but she read it as a sign. Her search was finally at an end.

Chapter Text

Year 350 after the War of the Gods, Late Autumn

Riverlands

They rode towards the tail end of the caravan stretching before them like a streak of light far into the night. Many had joined them, many hadn’t. Nobody had forced them. They had always lived up on that hill, generation after generation, and they would remain there. It was their home. Maybe they’d be lucky. Áed couldn’t find it in his heart to hope for that. As through the Black Sea, Caoránach ploughed through the night, with scales of torches and fins of wagon wheels and hooves. But unlike Caoránach their caravan was a thing, feeble for its size. Many people walked, including many old people, and so they made only slow progress. Odhrán had offered two of them a ride on his cart. They sat at the back with what supplies they had managed to save. Íobhar and Muirinn. They didn’t talk much and tried to stay awake with an iron will. Zofia sat on the driver’s seat in the front with Odhrán; and Caelan and Peadar had to walk. Peadar in particular had complained about this.

Áed felt helplessly exposed on the street; it was tugging at his nerves. There was nothing for him to do but march east with these people, nothing he could do to prevent an attack or even just guess when the next would come. And so he rode next to Sara at the end of the caravan. Those last few days had been too much and if he started to brood on them too much, he feared his nerves would snap. “Sara?”

“Yes?” She kept staring ahead into the night.

“That book - the one from Dunvegen - What’s that all about?” That question had been on his mind for a while now and he finally found the courage to ask it. Sara’s condition had been improving steadily and by leaps despite the exertion; though she still looked pale.

“That was Éanna’s codex. Now it’s mine”, she said curtly and didn’t seem to expand any further. “Was she a mage, too?”, Áed tried anyway.

Now she glanced over at him. She looked exhausted. “Yes. We studied together at the monastery, back when– In a different life. She had a couple years head start. She found me when she was deployed here for the first time. It was the first time I ever left my home. In the end she was sent back to Dunvegen and I joined the Militia.”

“I thought there were no more academies or monasteries. Not since… Well. Not since the War of the Gods.” So there still were some mages. Despite the best efforts of both the Empire and the Dwarves in the West. Even the Haphas out East tried to at least control its mages. “And what about the–”

“About the Inquisition? It’s quite simple actually: As far as the Emperor, the Militia or the Inquisition is concerned - or anyone within these borders for that matter - there are no more academies or monasteries. And with there being no more academies and monasteries, there is no looking for them.” She breathed in, held her breath and then blew a small cloud into the night sky. “Of course there are no more academies. We were taught in secret. What few of us are still alive, live in hiding. Different teachers, different places. I traveled a lot.” Quieter: “I miss it.” Áed imagined a bitter smile on her lips. But maybe the shadows deceived him. “But a story for a story. So: What is yours?”, Sara asked.

That seemed only fair to Áed.

“Far less interesting. We had a small house outside Hara, up north. My father was a charcoal burner. And what does a son do, when he doesn’t want to follow in his father’s line? He goes out into the world and tries make a living some other way. Until he finds out for himself that this doesn't work and washes up somewhere... Or joins the Militia.

“You’re from Hara? You’re far from home then”, Sara commented.

“The Emperor commands and I follow.” Áed shrugged. “I haven’t been back in a long while. I don’t know if it’s still my home.”

#

“How far from Dunvegen to the fort of Captain Ausaláin?” Áed had rode up next to Odhráns cart. It was the middle of the night; they couldn’t go on like this forever. The people were at their limit - He was at his limit. Again and again there were discontented murmurs and he only had his time in the Militia to thank for not joining in himself. But he also knew that they had to cover as much distance as they could. Better exhausted and in a bad mood than dead.

“If we continue the entire night, we might be there by midday. But I highly doubt that we can pull that off. Even your horse looks like it’s about to give in.” Odhrán, too, sounded tired at this point. What time was it? Past midnight?

“Shit… I don’t like the thought. We are completely defenseless”, Áed said.

“So? There is nothing we can do about it. Best we can do is hope that Ausaláin sends us some Lances, but if he doesn’t…” The giant shrugged and Áed understood the implication. Without the protection of the cavalry they’d be few to survive an attack. And those who did, would so purely because others would die for them.

Within the hour a rider eventually arrived from the head of the snake and announced that they would be resting here and move on at sunup. Small cloudlets rose into the night sky at his every word, golden by the shine of his torch. And Áed prayed to Naomh Seaghdh it wouldn’t be the wrong decision. And he cursed, because he knew that there was no decision. The people were at the end of their rope and he, too, had been riding for two nights straight– He felt as if he’d drop off his horse if his mind slipped for a moment. Guards were posted and Áed wasn’t so sure whether he should thank Naomh Cairistiòna that he’d at least be awake when he died. Most other people lay down as they were on their carts on the road or the damp grass beside them. Only few of them had blankets. Shivering, they pulled their coats tight around themselves to escape the cold, stretching its fingers out for them and creeping through their clothes and into their bones. Áed nodded towards Sara and they got down from their horses, tied them to the cart and sat with their backs to the wood. “Another night out in the open, I guess…”, he commented. Sara had helped their guests, Íobhar and Muirinn with a blanket and now sat next to him. Shivering. Whether due to the cold or her exhaustion probably didn’t matter. They looked out over the fields and the walls of piled stone towards the small forest and Sara murmured: “What I’d give for a tent right about now…” Áed replied, before he had the time to even think about his words: “Even your other arm?”

Silence.

Then Sara laughed. Weak and weary. “Maybe even that, yeah.” They listened to the silence and the night and the murmur and rustling. The moonlight without crickets chirping. The gleaming stars and the horses breathing. And when exhaustion finally took his senses he slipped into sleep in autumn’s frosty embrace.

#

Acquired instincts took over his body when he heard the scream. Áed was awake and standing before the conscious part of himself had even realised what was happening. He had fallen asleep on his watch. Reckless, so fucking reckless. The elves were here! He reached for his crossbow– grabbing at nothing. Of course. He remembered where he was. A scale on Caoránach’s body as she - awoken by the scream - slowly started to stir. The caravan was in turmoil; wild confusion. Eyes darted around wildly in the night and Áed searched with them; searched for the wall of disfigured bodies that rolled through the night towards them and would devour them. No, he wouldn’t just die. His hot blood and frantically beating heart fought against his limbs, stiff with cold. With clumsy fingers he searched his belt for his knife. He gripped the handle, but it slipped from numb fingers and fell to the ground.

“That came from the front of the caravan!”, Odhrán yelled at him. The giant, too, was up already, the raven’s beak already in his hands. Deep shadows hid his face but Áed could tell he was prepared for anything.

“Are we being attacked?” Sara stood as well, tense and ready to either fight or flee.

Áed was still searching the darkness in vain. “I don’t know.” He had just heard that one scream. Behind him Zofia, Peadar and Caelan began to stir. “What is going on?”, Zofia asked, still drowsy.

“You stay where you are. I’m gonna have a look”, Odhrán replied and then went towards the direction of the snake’s head. Áed looked over at Sara, and she in turn at him. “You should–”, but he got no further. Sara pushed past him and followed the giant. He could tell that she was still trying to avoid putting weight on her leg and wondered when they would finally get some time to rest.

“What are you doing here? Stay with the others”, said Odhrán and Sara looked at him the same way she had just looked at Áed. He stopped talking. “If there is any weird shit going on, I want to know about it”, said Áed and was certain that Sara felt the same way. Odhrán huffed. “All right then.”

The moons still hung high in the sky and let themselves be envied by the stars, but on the horizon, where the tops of the fir trees formed a line with the fields, a light blue slowly began to flow into the darkness, leaving only black silhouettes of the trees. A thick veil of fog lay over the fields and was cut to pieces by the first faint rays of the sun. The stout walls cast long shadows across the grass, wet with dew. More and more people started walking around, asking questions, talking in hushed voices; an amalgam of  helplessness and fear. Others tried to calm down children. Áed kept hearing cry again and again.

And eventually they found her. A handful of guards had surrounded her and tried to keep away prying eyes. The put up little resistance when Odhrán pushed two of them aside to see what was going on. Her belly blossomed red, a terrible flower, her throat slit, dark foam, dead glass in her eye sockets, orange light of the rising sun, the soft earth dinking blood, greedily, cuts on her forehead, a crown. Naomh Cairistiòna, protect her soul.

Despite the first light of a new dawn, the guards talked by the light of torches. “Wasn’t she married to the son of ol’ Cormick?”, one asked. “Aye. Saints. Do you know where he is?”, another said. “The twins are already out looking for him.” Then an older man blocked their way. “Odhrán, you have to go. We will handle this.” The first furrows showed on his face and the edges of his moustache were already turning grey. Áed wanted to protest, but Sara nodded. “It’s alright, Donnán. We’ll go.” The guardsman looked at her and apparently tried to attach a name to her face. “Sárait?” But she had already turned around and left. Áed and Odhrán followed her.

“Have you seen that sign on her forehead?” She had led both of them a little ways off to where nobody could overhear them, hopefully. She proceeded to draw lines into the air with her finger. Áed shook his head. He had been too distracted by all the blood. Saints and Gods above, there had been so much blood. “Do I have to worry about what you’re about to say?”, asked Odhrán.

“It’s a beacon, or rather: She is a beacon. If you know what to pay attention to, you can see her from miles and miles away. She will burn and burn and burn until there is nothing left of her.” And the terrible implication hung in the air.

“The we have to move. Immediately”, Odhrán said. Worried.

Áed looked back and forth between them. They knew something they didn’t share with him. “Do you mind getting me up to speed here?”

“Somebody is using her to sic those fucking beasts on us”, Sara explained.

“Which leaves open the question as to Why”, Odhrán said and Áed added: “And Who.”

“We can try to answer both those questions later. Right now we have to get away from here. The entire caravan”, Sara decided. “We have to talk to the council.”

“And what are you planning on telling them?”, Áed asked.

“I will think of something”, replied Sara.

“Good. The both of you head to the council. I will talk to the people. The sooner we can head out, the better”, said Odhrán.

#

“Riordán, we got a problem.” Sara skipped the formalities of a greeting and her tone assured that none would follow.

“More problems? Since you arrived in Dunvegen there have been nothing but problems! What aside from a murder do I need to know?” The counselor paced, anxiously. His hair was dishevelled and his magnificent red robe fitted as if it belonged to another man; proud, standing tall, da head of the community; not this man who drowned in a flood of responsibility, desperately trying to reach land.

“This is more than simple murder, counselor”, Áed said and Riordán looked at him with an expression like weighing whether he really wanted to hear what they had to say.

“You know about the symbol on her forehead?”, Sara asked and Áed hoped she had come up with a decent lie. Riodán nodded. “We have seen something like that before. At the attack on Cruidín. And Moore as well”, she continued. “I don’t think that this is a coincidence.”

“And what kind of connection are you suspecting?”, the counselor wanted to know.

“Somebody is trying to lure the monsters here”, answered Áed, but Sara jumped in to add: “We can’t be absolutely certain, but the symbol was there at both attacks. What if they follow it?” She seemed to consider the thought. “The woman was pregnant, wasn’t she?”

Riordán was dumbfounded. “You can’t be implying what I think you are, Corporal. Witchcraft?”

“We have to assume as much. We should continue onward immediately. We are no longer safe. And as much as it pains me, we have to leave the dead behind. We can’t bring her or they will follow us.” And it was a request but Sara’s tone did not allow for any objections.

“Do you have riders and swift horses?”, asked Áed, as a thought occurred to him. “Let them ride west. They should take the dead. That will lead these monsters on the wrong trail.”

“But we can’t–” Sara interrupted Riordán, before he could continue. “I know what the Gods would think about this, but we don’t have the luxury of trusting in Gods. We have to help ourselves.”

#

On their way back to Odhrán’s cart Áed wanted to know: “So what was that about the pregnancy? I mean, it worked, but still, what?”

“There is a superstition in these parts about witches killing mothers and their unborn children to sustain their powers”, she explained without looking at him.

“And? Is it true?”

She stopped and looked at him bewildered. “Of course not! Gods! Don’t fall for that kind of damned superstition.”

Of course he hadn’t believed it, but well, maybe… There was many a strange thing in this world. “Just wanted to be sure.”

She snorted. “Are you afraid I might drink your blood during a full moon? That maybe you’re next?” She raised an eyebrow. He didn’t know what to say to that. He had heard that there were rituals involving blood. Did she belong to– She walked past him and patted him one the shoulder. “Come on.”

Caoránach had awoken and the people were restless. Questions were asked and half-knowledge shared. Rumors bloomed in between their shards. After a night far too short a new dawn had broken and brought with it the reality of danger and running and exhaustion and bad news. And it brought hope to soon be safe when they’d finally move on.

They found Odhrán with a group of dwarves and he said his goodbyes. He stood, learning on his hammer and shielding his eyes from the morning sun. “So, how did it go?”

“Riordán is thinking about it. And maybe he also thinks that there is a witch behind it all”, Sara said sotto voce. Odhrán grumbled in response. “At least that will spur him a bit. But even so, this might have consequences.” He didn’t sound all to happy about it, but Sara waved it off. “Not if the culprit is found. Can’t be too hard, finding someone all covered in blood.”

“I hardly believe that they’ll still be around”, Áed said. “I wouldn’t if I killed someone. I can’t be that hard to find out if someone’s missing.”

“Didn’t someone say the husband of the deceased has gone missing?”, Sara pointed out.

“Do you think it was him?” Why would somebody do that? Kill his own wife just to then endanger everyone in the caravan.

“How should I know? We don’t have any other leads. And those guys”, she pointed towards the guards, “would certainly agree.”

“So, what are we supposed to do?” Áed certainly wasn’t happy about the situation but at the moment there was no other one to choose from.

“What do you think? We head back to the others and await departure”, Odhrán decided. “Riordán will come around. And when he does, Bricín will follow his lead. As for the other two… Well… It will work out.”

The day still didn’t really have a mind to properly break and if he had the choice, Áed would still be lying in his tent, behind the palisades of a base and the armed guards of the Militia. And he would tell himself that he was safe there. The sun - still tired - had not yet climbed above the treetops and thick fog still hung over the meadows. How long before the enemy would catch up with them?

Chapter Text

Year 349 after the War of the Gods, Summer

Myrar, Grave of Titans

On this side of the gate you could sense nothing of the wasteland outside the walls, just one turn of the head away. They followed the main road away from the gate deep into the heart of Myrar. The paving stones were set so precisely joined, no knife could fit between the seams. To the left and right of the road, stone houses grew on top of each other; the bricks laid as precisely as the paving stones. Roofs were terraces were yards. Archways opened up a view of an inner courtyard to the wandering eye. Above their heads bridges spanned the chasm between houses and connected the alleys running along the roofs. Balconies hung over the street; the railing of wood ornamented with fine carvings and hung over by flowers. On a ground of dark green, blossoms of blue, purple, yellow, red. To protect from the relentless sun, colourful canvas tarpaulins were stretched between the houses and when they swayed in the soft breeze, shadows and dots of light played on the dusty ground in front of them. Along the house walls Iora noticed channels in which water splashed before disappearing into a house. And there were trees and shrubs growing everywhere. Deep green bay leaf, olive and pomegranate and orange trees with their fruits too young for the harvest, in courtyards and beside the road and in alleyways. On a roof Iora saw pots with cacti, deep red bounty raised toward the sun. Where the War of the Gods had left naught but waste outside the walls, life was flourishing here.

The street led them deeper and deeper into the city and the further they got the more lively it got and the more colorful the world became. Painted doors and shutters and wooden screens; green and red and yellow and blue. White ornaments along the walls. Blue blossoms on tiles. And the people–  There were so many of them. An ocean of colorful fabric, embroidery, hundreds of voices, chatter, laughter, arguing, running children, hurried chores; noise, patterns, shapes, colors; and so many smells she could identify and so many she could not. Two men sat at a table in front of a house, drank from small cups and had a conversation. At another table a dwarf laughed and pointed at a board and the colorful stones before him. Two others cursed. A mother handed something to her two children and they ran off, a clear goal ahead. They all followed their own lives; single thread interwoven, endless, into a tapestry, into a city. Not even in Ardport had Iora seen so many souls in one place. And then her wonder was overshadowed by a dark thought and she pulled her hood deeper into her face. Two streets further on, Iora and Thorgest passed a stall where, on long tablets, lay dried figs, dates, raisins and apricots. The vendor approached Thorgest, praising her wares, but Thorgest politely declined. She tried the same with Iora, who didn’t understand the language. She looked away in the hopes that the woman wouldn’t see her face.

Thorgest guided her to the right, up a flight of stairs between two houses and down a narrow alley way. “We should avoid the market. Can’t have someone recognize you. But this way we can have a stroll around the little alleys of Myrar. And how often do you get the chance?” Iora nodded. What was there to say, he was right. “I think up there– Yes.” Thorgest pointed towards an alleyway that was almost too narrow for Nasr. An archway brought them through a house and into a small courtyard. At all sides the walls grew high into the sky, lined with colourful windows and balconies. In front of a door stood a single stool, but nobody was sitting on it. Inside one of the houses somebody sang but Iora didn’t understand the words. And at the center between all the houses, just above the ground, there hung an orange tree. Planted into a round pot of gold metal and kept aloft by heavy chains. Roots that had - with the years - bored through the metal and were now searching for water on the stone below; that hung over the rim of the pot and off the chains. Arms of wood with fingers of leaves reaching for the far-off sky.

Iora stood in awe of this tree and Thorgest must have seen the look on her face, because he chuckled softly. “It's beautiful”, she said.

“A friend I once had had it put up here. I used to visit him here often.” He stepped over a root, closer to the pot and laid his hand on it. Very gently, as if he was afraid of waking someone up. “Nahid…” He turned back to Iora. “Unfortunately he no longer lives here. You might have gotten along.” He pointed towards the stool. “That is where we would sit and play takhteh.”

Thorgest led Nasr to the opposite side where a wide gate led back onto the street. “Come now. We should move on. I don’t want to leave her waiting too long.” But before she left the courtyard, Iora turned back a final time to gaze at the orange tree. Her entire life she had spent first in that port city and then in that even smaller hut. Now it started to sink in what the world held in store for her.

Eventually they reached an open square, enclosed on three sides by low houses and on the fourth by an ornate stone railing. From that side the noise of the market drifted up towards them. At the centre of that market, an enormous tower grew into the sky from the sides of which water poured deep before being collected by channels and directed through the city. The pool in the centre of the square was also fed by this tower. Surrounded by eight apricot trees, it lay quietly before them. With white tiles, painted with blue fish and intricate patterns of knots and blossoms and vines. It gave the shallow water the appearance of the dark-blue sea. A single figure sat on a bench underneath one of the apricot trees and looked out over the pool and the railing and the tarps and the roofs of stalls. A leaf fell from the tree and caught her attention. She watched it until it landed on the water, soft circles spreading across the surface. Then she picked it up and laid it on the ground next to the tree. She looked down at her lap and when she noticed the arrival of Thorgest and Iora, she put aside the parchment.

“So you finally show up. You had me waiting for four days.” She sounded annoyed but she didn’t mean it. She swung her legs to the floor and stood up. She was tall. “Oh no. Nasr.” She hurried towards them. Her loose shirt billowing, hinting at her broad shoulders. “Did he have you walk the long way again? Poor lad.” She dropped into a crouch before the donkey and pet his nose. She looked up at Iora. An orc. Tusks, sharp features, pointy ears, ash-grey skin, her neck covered by a long black plait, braided from thick strands, almost reaching to the ground when she crouched. She was more handsome than pretty. “Can you imagine that he kept me waiting here for four days?”, she complained again.

“I…” Iora was sure that at some point she had learned how to speak, but for the life of her she couldn’t do it. The green suns with their black rays consumed her. Swallowed her whole.

“And this isn’t the first time. What was it like back in Ashkemin?”, she just kept talking without waiting for Iora to answer her.

“At my age you just take a bit longer sometimes. But I’m sure you spent that time well. Get here.” Thorgest stepped up to her and spread his arms wide. She hugged him and Iora was certain she’d just lift him off the ground. “Next time I’m gonna buy a book from somewhere”, she said and laughed. “I would never let it get to that”, Thorgest replied, also cheerful. Then she looked back up at Iora, turning her head a bit to take a peek beneath her hood. Startled, Iora took a step back and pulled her clothes tighter around her. “And who have you brought here?” She stood back up to her full height, towering over Iora by a good bit. “You traveling in company is news to me. Is Nasr not enough for you anymore?”

“You can take off your hood. You don’t have to worry about her”, said Thorgest. “Iora, this is ayma’Iymer Giræsea. I told you about her. Giræsea, this is Iora. My new student.”

His student? Yes, he wanted to teach her about magic, but– Their paths would diverge here in Myrar. He could go on to Qarahad - or wherever he intended to go - and she would– She would think of something. Further northward. Westward. It almost didn’t matter to her.

“Honored.” Giræsea - with one hand to her chest - bowed before Iora who still didn’t quite know how to act. Reluctantly she brushed the hood from her head and felt uncomfortable doing so. “Since when do you take students? And an elf nonetheless!” She seemed to turn over the idea a couple of times. “An interesting choice.”

“She is quite talented.” He didn’t seem to want to reveal any more.

“Come on, your way has been long enough. Do you want something to drink? I’ve been waiting long enough for good company.” She beckoned them to follow her, gathered parchment and charcoal pencil and led them to a house at the edge of the square. Iora managed to catch a brief glimpse of the last drawing. It showed the tower above the market, in rough strokes, broad lines, the water in quick lines. This was the woman who got drunk in taverns and got into brawls? The woman who had sat under the apricot tree and drawn the city?

They entered the house. Nasr sadly had to wait outside. It was dark inside and Iora felt more at ease knowing that no one would see her here.

“How did you come by this house?”, Thorgest asked and Giræsea replied: “Oh, yes, it isn’t mine. Last time I passed through here from Ashkemin to the south, I made friends with the owner. Nice bloke. I think he’s in Qarahad right now.”

“Oh, that’s nice of him to let you live here in the meantime”, said Iora. Quietly. She didn’t dare speak any louder. She felt a stranger; as if she was intruding on the company of these two. A foreign object in the flesh of their friendship.

“Let?” Giræsea glanced over her shoulder. “Oh no. But I know where he’s hiding his key ever since I brought his drunk ass home that one time. Actually quite nice here. Please, sit.” She absentmindedly waved her hand towards a low table and some cushions. Scattered on that table were more drawings. Dreams on paper, charcoal figments in which you could divine the city if you just looked at it the right way. Its houses, edged and with thick strokes, the winding lines of trees, vines and blossoms, harsh light and soft shadows, smudged. In just a few strokes, the people at the market.

Iora did as she was told and felt even less comfortable but didn’t dare say anything. The orc acted as if everything was perfectly normal. Thorgest sat down next to Iora. “Giræsea, we’ve talked about this already: If you can’t afford an inn, please talk to me”, he said.

“I don’t need an inn. Everything’s perfectly alright as is, I think.” The orc put down her newest drawings on the counter and took some glasses - real glasses - from a cupboard. The light refracted through them, casting rainbows against the wall; she held them a little differently and the sun reflected in them. “I think I’m doing quite well for myself.” She filled the glasses with water and sat them before them.

“You know–” Giræsea interrupted Thorgest before he could air his displeasure any further. “Yes, yes.” She raised her glass. “To you finally getting here after all and to me not sitting on my ass all alone anymore.”

Iora raised her glass as well. “The city is gorgeous. Was it really all that bad?” She drank. It was wonderful to drink water that hadn’t absorbed the taste of the waterskin. Iora emptied her glass.

“You can’t even begin to imagine how boring it is around here. I haven’t drawn this much in a while”, Giræsea said and pointed towards the table.

“It’s a credit to Myrar that there is no work for you here”, Thorgest said with a smile.

“At least I had something to do while I was waiting for you in Ashkemin. Same in Géned’Ythem. You remember Géned. You remember what kind of mess you ordered me into? …fucking mess. It was only half as bad by the time you arrived.” She looked over at Iora. “Did he tell you about that?” Iora shook her head no.

“That was an honest mistake and I’m still sorry about it”, he said and Iora believed that he meant it.

Giræsea bent down to him and held out her open hand. “Yes, yes. No words. You know it.”

Thorgest put down his glass in between the drawings and rummaged through a pocket of his robe. He pulled out a small pouch and handed it to Giræsea. “That leaves one. Then I won’t have to feel bad anymore”, said Thorgest. She looked at him in surprise. “Feel bad? I was having fun! I just want what you promised me.”

Giræsea opened the pouch and smelled its contents. “Oh, that’s good. Where did you find that?”

“I got that one from the Red Plains. I know a felin there. I thought I should bring you something you can’t really find around here. You really should travel east yourself one of these days”, Thorgest replied. Giræsea ignored that last comment and turned away. Her head disappeared into a cupboard where she began searching for something.

“What was in Géned’Ythem”, asked Iora and it cost her some courage, but her curiosity won out in the end.

“Do you want to tell her or should I?”, asked Giræsea without turning around. She was crouching in front of another open door. “Oh, you tell her. I’m sure your memory is still better than mine”, he replied.

“So, Géned… I was in Maræth’Ythem at the time and just went through some things bla bla bla, when a messenger showed up for me. Don’t even ask how that crazy dwarf managed to find me. But there I sit, wondering what to do next and a letter shows up, telling me there’s important business in Géned. So I joined the next troope passing through Maræth on their way east. And so I reach Géned’Ythem and the entire fucking ythem is overrun by kaftarlar.” She noticed Iora’s quizzical look - She would have never dared to interrupt her. “Kaftar. Like… A dog but all wrong. Taller, broader. With jaws to crack bones. And fucking clever. Anyway... I certainly couldn’t go there, so I looked for somewhere to spend the night and think about what to do next. And I’m gonna be honest, I had little mind waiting for Thorgest.” She looked at him. “I’m sorry, but there was nothing but sand and kaftarlar. And so I looked for something where I could spend the night with enough distance between me and them and think about what I was doing with my life. I got lucky. I found the hunters stalking the kaftarlar. We got along quite well and in return for some water and food I lent them a hand.” She was slowly getting frustrated with her search and was closing the cabinets far less gently than at the start. “He has to–”

“In the end she had a cord with eight ears when I arrived”, Thorgest commented and to Iora that sounded a lot more like the woman getting into drunken brawls. She pictured her: Giræsea stood tall, a knife in her hand from which the blood dripped into the sand. The cord at her belt and the ears neatly aligned. A vicious grin on her face; smeared red. Proud. It was far more fitting than the charcoal drawings. “But I do believe she might have cut off both ears.” He laughed.

“That is a brazen lie! I earned these eight ears!”, she said indignantly and Thorgest laughed louder.

“Do you want my pipe?”, Thorgest offered, when Giræsea continued her search without a story.

“You know I don’t smoke the pipe. And somewhere in this house there has to be an argilah. This can’t be– Oh, there we go!” She pulled a tall vessel of white metal from a cabinet. A long tube coiled at its side. “I knew he had one.”

#

Thorgest handed the mouthpiece back to Giræsea. She took it and inhaled. The water inside the vessel bubbled. The coals on top surging orange. She exhaled. White smoke hung in the air in front of her. It smelled sweetly of a fruit Iora couldn’t name, and of tobacco. Then she spoke. “I–” She sighed. Seemed to mull it over; reconsider her next words again and again. Was it because of Iora? Did she not want to say it in front of her? “I had another dream.”

Iora could feel the mood in the room change in the blink of an eye. The levity between them, the reunion of old friends, it turned into a heavy thing, substantial. Thorgest took a deep breath and it seemed like he had problems taking in the air. He stroked his beard. “One of those?” - “One of those.” - “How long since the last one? A year?”

Giræsea shook her head. Her braid twitched. “I don’t know. There was smoke, fire, screaming. A city. And a lifeless body. A sword in its chest. But I couldn’t tell who it was. But it was real. So fucking real.” She got louder. The orange of the setting sun reflected in her wide eyes - the flames from her dream.

“That’s good”, Thorgest tried to calm her. “Aye. You can’t see any details yet. That means the way is still long. The farther she gazes ahead, the muddier the future becomes. The fog of time holds true for all of us.”

The sweet smoke hung in the air and was painted in the colors of sundown.

“Who is she?”, Iora asked carefully.

Giræsea smiled - sheepishly? Yes. It was unexpected on her features - and still didn’t quite manage to hide her mind. “I thought Thorgest might have told you already.”

“That is something quite personal. If you want to tell Iora, you should do it yourself.”, he said and reached out his hand. Giræsea gave him the mouthpiece. “Now I have to, don’t I? The short of it is: She is the Nightmother. She leads me through my dreams. Shows me, what will happen. But unfortunately, she isn’t really clear in all that.”

Iora didn’t quite understand why she’d follow these vague dreams, but hesitated to ask.

“You didn’t ask me to travel halfway across the continent just because of a dream, I’d wager”, Thorgest said.

“No… no. That, too, but that can wait until tomorrow. Let me have this beautiful evening among friends. Then we can talk about it. I just wanted you to know about it beforehand.”

#

Thorgset and Giræsea told stories late into the night, about how they’d fared since last they met and Iora listened. Thorgest told about his travels to the south-east, far beyond the Riverlands into the realm of the Haphas and the Red Plains. He told of the things he had seen there, of the felines living there. Of tremendous structures of white stone, with columns wider than a dwarf, imposing statues of gods and legends of old. Of the celebration in the moons’ honour. Of the temple mage he had spoken to - a wise man, a teacher, a weaver of wonders. He kept out the details of how he earned this honour, whereupon Giræsea started accusing him of making it all up. “Not even the Haphas have any mages left at this point.” But Thorgest insisted.

Iora tried to picture the cities he described. How he crossed the raging Ephenos on a stone bridge, Therema on the other side with its guardian statues with their feather-helmets and spears reaching high into the sky. The harbors of the sister cities of Traico and Aveines, where countless ships anchored, bobbing gently in the rhythm of the water. Cities rich through trade with the avian up north since the sheer endless conflict seemed to have come to an end. Iora had never in her life seen an avian, but she tried to imagine them. Tall. Feathered. Their words song. She imagined the pillar of Kantarda, surrounded by ruins and covered in words in a language nobody could read anymore. The gardens of Zamora with a thousand blossoms. Thorgest had a talent for describing these places and Iora got lost in them. When the temple mage wove magics for the moon festival and the fire danced across the sky, she saw it. She saw the lanterns rise up into the dark night sky and she saw the felin crowd. And she wished, she could be there. Thorgest promised her path would lead there one day.

Giræsea told of successful hunts, with exuberant gestures and laughter and vivid descriptions of claws and teeth; of animals that were no animals but monsters of legend. Iora thought her boasting quite laughable.

The winds had carried the orc far north from the Sea of Sands. Guided by her dreams she had traveled to Maghanschar, Tel Kirra and Ar’Ise. Farther and farther northward, up to the Damethuures. High into the mountains where houses were covered in snow while down in the vale, summer refused to move on. Leaving the last village far behind, she had followed a narrow passage which she had thought the one she had seen in a dream. Icy rock to the left of her, the unrelenting abyss to her right. “And then ahead of me - black as night - the mouth of a cave. And that was when I knew I was on the right path. Oh, believe you me, I was overjoyed to be finally out of the snow; I’m not made for climbing mountains. But then–” She stopped abruptly. Stared, first at Thorgest, then Iora, with eyes wide. Waiting for a reaction. Took her time. Iora was about to motion her to go on, when–  With a loud SLAP she hit the table with both hands. “Out of the dark a pair of claws spring at me! Slam me to the ground! I got no fucking idea what’s going on. Sharp talons bore into my skin; I flail around wildly, try to somehow avoid the teeth snapping for my throat.” Her tone changed. “I’m gonna spare you the bloody details. In the end it was but motionless flesh and matted fur.”

Giræsea sat more relaxed again, leant back, supporting herself with an arm behind her back. She told them of the dark throat leading deeper into the cave and the trail of dried blood. Rusted drops on cold stone. “I followed a vague dream up to this point, so…” This all seemed pretty reckless to Iora. No. Reckless wasn’t the word. After all this Iora didn’t think of her that way. It was more– It was the fact that she was prepared to offer herself up to the unknown just to find out what was hidden beyond.

Deeper into the cave, where wind and snow were forgotten, Giræsea had found a small room. With a floor covered in shards from shattered urns; a few of them still standing in the remains of their siblings. And at the center of all the devastation, in a nest of bones picked clean, she found the reason for that trail of blood. “It was a child– or what remained of one. An orc; still years until their Mandara. I didn’t know what to do with that. I couldn’t take them. I didn’t want to just leave them there. With the storm raging outside the cave I had to wait, so I sat down beside them. It wasn’t a particularly long vigil, but… Somebody should do something. And that was better than nothing. It was something I could do. In between painted shards and blank bone.”

Thorgest shook his head slowly. “She wouldn’t have sent you for that. She is not that cruel.”

“No. She isn’t cruel. It isn’t her fault, the child is dead. And nobody would have found them otherwise. Just another orc, disappeared in the mountains. I was just glad I could tell the parents where their child was. But no, I don’t think I was there for that.” She pulled something from her bag and held it up. A necklace. With links of silver and a pendant of blackened wood; not carven or cut; set the way it was broken. And set in it a black stone. And as Thogest and Iora admired the necklace, Giræsea inhaled from the pipe again.

Despite the wood and stone being black, Iora could see a blue shimmer, like water on a lake, like the light refracted. She thought the light must run down from it and drip onto the table. “It is beautiful…”, she said, lost in the blue. Awestruck, she reached for it, tracing the stone with her finger. At the spot where her neck met her skull, something stirred and a shiver ran down her spine; her cuts didn’t precisely burn, but they felt like the warm midday sun was shining upon them. “I have never seen anything like this.”

“The necklace lay between the shards. I don’t know if all of them belonged together. There was one with part of a sword, held by a claw, another one with a mask. Or - again - part of it. On a larger piece there were some figures bowed down”, Giræsea told them.

Thorgest murmured, in a voice so low, Iora almost didn’t hear it: “Oh, what are you planning now?”

Chapter Text

Year 349 after the War of the Gods, Summer

Myrar, Grave of Titans

Giræsea stood at the stone balustrade and looked out over the market of Myrar, where under the pale light of the moons the nightlife began to slowly die down. The wind carried to her the last voices from empty streets towards her and it forced a smile upon her lips. The wine’s soft kiss and her friend had taken the weight off her shoulders for just a moment. Together with Thorgest she had emptied two bottles of wine and at least for this precious moment, with the stars twinkling above her, with the soft breeze on her face, the memory of laughter in her throat and a gentle warmth in her belly, the world was a friend to her. And when her eyes started to burn and tears began to gather, she didn’t fight it. She had been alone for too long. Alone with her dreams and her thoughts and strangers, always the stranger herself. She allowed herself to spill water over it.

When they had run out of wine, she had offered to head to the market to get some more, but Thorgest had waved it off. She didn’t want to be a bad host. Even more she wanted to forget - for just one evening - what lay ahead.

The night was too short. She would have liked to tell even more stories, would have liked to laugh even more, and drink even more. When the sun would be back up in the sky, she would have to confront the reality of her situation. She gazed down at the casket lying in front of her on the balustrade. Is all that really worth it? What for all this? Dark wood, decorated with bands of gold. And for this she had risked it all. Now even dragging her best friend and his new student into it all. Gods, why had she done it? Had he asked, she couldn’t have told Thorgest what that dream even meant. Not really. But it was too late now. What her mother might  have thought about it? And she didn’t want to know the answer.

Like so many times before she held the casket in her hands and stared at it, as if through that alone it would open. She traced the warm wood with her fingers and felt no unevenness, nothing indicating a lock or seal. It was of one piece of polished wood. Giræsea turned it and something fell from one side to the other. It had to be opened somehow. Once when the doubts about her chosen path had gotten too loud, she had tried force. She had thrown it to the ground, tried to crush the wood beneath her boot, split it with a blade. Nothin. No scratch. No crack. No splinters.

She sank forward and leant heavily on the balustrade. Despair is a thing that grows in the pit of your stomach. And as a ball of lead its weight dragged her down. She should have just gone to bed.

She pushed herself off the balustrade. She would find no answers tonight. She turned away from the empty market where in just a few hours life would flower again between the deserted stalls. With all its voices and all its noise.

“You just can’t leave me alone in my misery, can you?”, she asked Thorgest. He looked at her, worried. “Is this why I’m here?” He pointed at the casket. Why should she even try to hide it, she wanted to tell him tomorrow, anyway. She had had her evening without sorrow and with her old friend, now she owed him an answer. “Yes.”

He nodded. “Do I have to explain to you what it means that you’re now holding it?” It was a genuine question. But she knew. Oh she knew. “No.” Again he nodded. “Good. What’s your plan with it now?” He didn’t lecture her. Didn’t reproach her. He didn’t seem to like it - of course he didn’t - but the situation was what it was and now they had to handle it. For that she was thankful.

“Open it? I don’t know”, Giræsea said without any strength in her voice. “The last thing I was sure of was that I needed it.”

“Then we should find a way to open it, shouldn’t we?”

Chapter Text

Year 350 after the War of the Gods, Late Autumn

Riverlands

Caelan grinned at his own joke. Better gallows humour than depressed silence. Áed couldn’t remember what Niall had said back then; they had been on their way back from the northern outpost back to Cruidín, along the Rannon and through knee-deep snow. They had half-carried Laisrén, the shaft of the arrow still in his thigh. And Niall had said something. Áed couldn’t remember for the life of him. They had laughed so loud, they had scared the birds. They had almost lost Laisrén  in the snow somewhere.

Now they were both dead.

“Just imagine we would be missing out on this beautiful sunrise. It does have its positives”, Caelan added. Nobody really responded. Most were just too tired.

“Caelan, you’re old, maybe you don’t care about such things anymore, but I would prefer to lie in my bed right now”, Zofia said grumpily.

Áed led his horse next to the cart. He didn't want to strain it any further than he had to and so he walked. In spite of his body’s screams, he walked. But at least the convoy was on the move again and Caoránach was rolling through the sea of night once again. The council had been quick in their decision making. Riodrán and Bricín had pushed towards moving on. Apparently they managed to convince Émer. Rohan still had his doubts but he was outvoted.

Émer had sent two guards south with the body of the deceased. Áed had great respect for the two of them and their sacrifice in their duty. Even if they didn’t know what might be lurking for them out there. But they had horses and with them the chance of escape. Áed prayed that Sara was right and they’d just follow the dead. He knew nothing of magic and he did not like that his life might depend on it. He didn’t think those monsters particularly bright, but– The people of Dunvegen followed the road; the deceased didn’t anymore.

Íobhar and Muirinn sat at the back of Odhrán’s cart and Íobhar said to Peadar that at least he’d have some interesting stories to one day tell his grandchildren. Nothing much to tell ever happened in Dunvegen.

Áed looked over at Odhrán and with the rising sun behind him and framed by golden rays against the murky blue sky he looked the splitting image of a saint. Artair MacBhradain. Or Crìsdean Cananach. But he could imagine Odhrán as neither a shepard nor a preacher. Maybe it was time for a saint who swung a raven’s beak to spur stubborn councillors. It was a silly thought. But there is a good chance he might have saved these people’s lives. Maybe that already made him a saint.

“Once we reach Carraig an Iarainn– I’m gonna look for some fire and I’m gonna lie down and then I’m gonna sleep. And I will not care what’s gonna happen to the world outside”, Caelan fantasized out loud and tore Áed from his thoughts.

“Gods, yes. You have no idea”, Sara agreed.

Without looking over toward them Áed said: “I swear, if only I get the chance, I’m gonna sleep for a full week.” And he was certain he could have. In this moment there was nothing keeping him upright but his will. One foot in front of the other.

“Maybe they even got some spare beds for us”, Caelan joked.

“Have you ever slept in a casern?”, Sara asked but didn’t wait for his reply. “Whether bed or floor doesn’t really matter.” And Áed added: “I promise, even camp beds are more comfortable.”

Small clouds rose in front of his face and were painted golden in the light of the morning sun and he wished he had warmer clothes. One foot in front of the other. And once he’d reach the fort, there’d be a fire for him. For them all. And solid walls.

Water droplets clung to his clothes and to his lashes before he blinked them away. He shivered and there was nothing he could do about it. How long had it been since they ran from that farm? Four days? Five? How long since the last time he slept properly? Thoughts drifted as wisps of mist and it was impossible to grasp them, to force them into shapes.

“So, why did we take all these provisions with us, actually?”, Zofia asked. She sat once again at the back of the cart and her head emerged from between barrels, crates and sacks. “It would be perfect to sleep back here if it wasn’t so stuffed.”

“Because it would be a shame to leave all this back at the Golden Steed and let it spoil, don’t you think?”, Caelan replied.

“Look,  we got all this food and so many people around– They only got what they can carry”, said Odhrán. “Don’t you think we should help them, if we can?”

Sara rode next to Áed and murmured: “We are lucky if it stays at just one murder. Fucking lucky.” He looked up at her, unsure whether she was talking to him. The bandages at her thigh were soaked red, but Áed had expected it to look worse. She desperately needed rest.

“Huh? What makes you think that?”, he wanted to know.

“Simple: Would you just give up? Somebody wants them to follow us. Whether for our own sake or just for us to lead them to Ausaláin. Or to the next town. Or– I don’t know.” She spoke just loud enough for him to hear. The conversation back on the cart continued undisturbed.

“But that doesn’t make any sense. Why follow us exactly? Those things can find their own way. Why the beacon?”

“No survivors? No witnesses?” She tore her hair. No ribbon kept them neatly in place and Sara had a wild look about her. “I don’t know either, alright! What in all the damned souls of the underworld is happening?” She got louder and louder as she spoke. Caution gone from her voice. And Áed didn’t know how to answer her. That the westfront - which the they had defended in blood for so long, where they had lost comrade after comrade after comrade, where they had slaughtered and slaughtered and slaughtered - had been breached and it hadn’t been the enemy they had expected; that they had deemed the wrong one the enemy; dead innocence remains death; that hundreds lay where they had been felled, with gaping wounds, souls without a home; Sara and Áed deserted, souls without a home; a town on the run, souls without a home. All these were cruel non-answers– too grand to fully comprehend. Instead he said: “The end of the world.” It was supposed to be a question, but he didn’t quite get there.

“Lad” - Odhrán had turned to him and looked at him with a mix of exhaustion and distaste - “the First have given their lives for the world to be eternal. Whatever this is, it isn’t the end.”

“But what if it is the end of our world? The end of the Empire, of the free cities in the south, the dwarven cities. Of everything south of the Damethuures. A flood devouring the land.” He had picked up that phrase somewhere.

“Nonsense”, grumbled Odhrán and áed didn’t have the time to speak the reply already on his tongue. He heard them in the distance. Muffled by damp air and mud and wet grass. Hoofbeats. And with long shadows in the young light of the sun, they rode towards them.

#

Fort Carraig an Iarainn lay in the scenery like a fallen giant. Stone set on stone set on stone - each one big enough, ten men couldn't move it - lay weathered gray against the brown and red and gold and the last green of the surrounding meadows. Colossus of a bulwark. Its walls promised to be sheer insurmountable and to withstand even the rage of titans of old. Memory of times gone turned stone, first outpost and home to countless Lances and Swords, now to the displaced from Dunvegen. As they had passed the gate with its massive wings the helm of Naomh Diarmad had greeted them; as polished steel it shone in the weak sun.

The entire convoy had found a place in the inner courtyard of the fort. Behind safe walls at last. And Áed had finally slept. Undignified, in the dirt, but he hadn’t cared. Knowing being safe had let exhaustion run its course. Nothing else had mattered.

At normal occupancy - Áed guessed two squadrons - the courtyard must have seemed enormous. Space enough for riders and horses. Now he had difficulties getting from one side to the other. The fort was not designed for these masses. You could tell that the people didn’t know what would happen from here. The riders the Túath had sent out had returned and tales of what they had seen spread fast. Dead farms and hamlets. Abandoned inns. A destroyed hunting lodge. People talked a lot. Names kept coming up; friends, family. There was no way of knowing whether the sister who had set out on her journeyman years at First Blossom would ever return. Or whether the son who wanted to study with a herbalist in the south was still alive. The brother who had heeded the Emperor’s call to join the troops out west– and Áed wondered if that was the reason for the troops at Andras: Support for Cruidín. Would his comrades be alive still, if they had just arrived in time? He didn’t want to think about it and walked on. He overheard many such stories, as he made his way across the courtyard back to Odhrán’s cart. And he heard of monsters, conjured up by fear and which were so different and yet so much the same as those he had seen at Cruidín.

Over everything there hung that merciless question of what would happen next.

The councillors of the Túath were discussing with Captain Ausaláin and Áed could already imagine how things would turn out. They couldn’t stay here. The fort could not support them all. And out there death awaited. How far until the next city? There was no assurance to ever make it there.

And again it hit him: the feeling just beneath his heart, of jagged stones, scraping against each other, heavy and in a sticky mass like honey. How many had grappled with the same question before ultimately dying at his hands? He didn’t know. It felt cruel not to know. To have forgotten their faces long ago, to have never known their names, not even to know how many. How could he have done it? In their desperation and final hope they all had come to them and had been rejected. Or killed. Revenge for Cyndon. Retribution for the riots. The Emperor demanded order. It was too late for remorse. What about the others? William? Caolán? Aoibhínn or Niall? Nobody had said anything. Had nobody wanted to speak it out loud? For fear of being branded a traitor? Or had they just not cared? He hadn’t cared and his stomach turned at the memory. And what about Sara? Her troop had not been stationed in Cruidín for that long. Did she support the Empire’s cruelty? Sara–

He hadn’t been able to find a Medicus for her. He had learned from the soldiers stationed here that they had to make do without for months now. Her injury seemed to be causing Sara far fewer problems than he had expected, but he would still prefer a healer to take a look at it. If it became infected, it was quite possible that she would lose her leg. And so he had one more detour before returning to the cart, and the hope to finally find some help there.

Chapter Text

Year 349 after the War of the Gods, Summer

Myrar, Grave of Titans

She had her first doubts when she stood on a rooftop close to the market and surveyed the sleeping city. But now she was already here. Unbidden, memories of Ardport forced themselves upon her and she swallowed them down. This was different - she had chosen to stand here. She had waited until Thorgest and Giræsea had finally gone to sleep, had tried to fall asleep herself, had tried to get it out of her head. Instead, resolve had dug its roots deeper into her with every passing minute; there in the dark and quiet, with voices and laughter on the other side of the wall. It had grown when she had snuck from her bed. And blossomed when the door fell shut behind her.

Her first steps alone on the streets of Myrar were cautious; she peered around every corner before moving on. Every step, every movement, chosen carefully so as to not wake the gorgeous, sleeping beast. When she heard voices, she changed directions. If a street grew too wide, she turned back and picked an alleyway. And as the moons danced across the sky, her anxiety faded. While her hands had trebled as she had closed the door, now she felt like this city was hers alone. Empty streets and the silence of the night. She could go wherever she wanted. And despite her doubts, she was euphoric. It was a mixture that made her head spin. Myrar lay at her feet. The stars seemed to shine only for her and the wind was blowing for her alone. If she’d spread her wings, it would carry her to a far place where she wouldn’t have to hide. To a place where every decision was her own. And even if this one had be a foolish one, she had made it herself. She wanted to feel what it was like to be in control of herself. She spread her arms wide, felt the wind and laughed up into the night sky. The echo rang out far and she started. But she couldn’t help herself, she laughed again, with a chest filled with sun.

She was lost, she knew that, but it didn’t matter. From here she could see as far as the apricot trees where Giræsea had sat. She would find her way back. And despite her being tired and having walked these streets for hours, she felt restless. She was not yet done.

Her gaze drifted away from the apricot trees, across the market with its empty stalls, past the sheer endlessly tall tower, along a labyrinth of streets and stairways. It stuck to something. Unassuming, between walls of heavy stone, in a small alley, a blue door. There was nothing special to it and yet Iora was certain: that was her destination.

She took a running start. She jumped. Landed awkwardly on a rooftop on the other side of the chasm. She caught herself and kept running. Up a stairway. She left behind all her caution down on the streets of Myrar; it was a burden she didn’t want to carry this night. She flew across houses, crossed chasms with ease without paying mind to the streets below, ran up stairs and jumped off roofs. Her body remembered what it was like to be free. She hadn’t known how much she’d missed it; that short moment before a leap, muscles and sinews taut, that feeling of weightlessness just before coming down hard, softer with every time. The wind in her face. The heartbeat in her chest. The blood rushing through her ears.

It is said elves were predators and, oh, she was hunting. Ready to drive her claws into her prey with one final leap.

Then she stood in front of that blue door. With racing heart, out of breath and the sun in her chest. She didn't ask herself that question of what to do next. She put one hand against the door and pushed. It swung open. She stepped into the darkness and froze, as her shadow was drawn longer and more sharply. Warm yellow drove away the cold light of the moon.

“Min hunaka?”

Iora ducked into the shadows behind the door. She made herself as small as she could and tried to force her heart not to betray her with its beating. Every breath was unspeakably loud, so she held it as the light came closer.

“Laqad ra'aytuki!”

She wanted to become one with the shadows, fade away as soon as the light hit her. But she was flesh and blood.

“Yakhruju!”

The light was now right at the door. Iora could see the flame’s dance. With its glow she could see deep into the room. Another door. Open. And beyond: a library. She could– If she ran there she’d be exposed by the light and trapped inside the house. In the other direction the torch was waiting for her as well as whoever was carrying it. Boots on the doorstep took away the luxury of a well thought out decision. The shadows had disappeared and left her behind.

“Elf! Ya wahash!”

She could not see his face; only flames and angry shouting. She sank deeper into herself. Wanted desperately to disappear. If she was just small enough–

“'ayuha alwahsh allaeaynu!”

A hand reached for her. Metal plating gleamed golden in the torch’s shine. Just like Ardport, just like Ardport, just like Ardport. Stone at her back, no escape, a hand of steel reaching for her, boots that would kick her. She ducked and the iron grip closed around her hair; her head jerked back. She hissed at him, bared her teeth. When she knocked the torch from his hand, she hadn’t thought about it. Sparks flew; for just a short moment the room was light. She took that moment, bore her claws into his hand. Through skin and flesh and sinew. He let go. Then she ran. It didn’t matter, where; she ran. Not across rooftops; no flying over chasms in between; she ran. Alone in the dark and with angry screams behind her. She took turns as often as she could, if she found an alleyway even smaller, she disappeared there. She had gotten lost before. Now it was worse. But she didn’t stop. The night should swallow her. Nobody should ever find her.

She sat close to the city walls under a staircase and listened into the darkness. For at least and hour she had heard nothing more but she dared not leave her hiding spot. Only when she felt the sky was growing brighter she went on her way back. She stayed with the shadows. She listened before every crossing. And when she finally stood underneath the apricot trees again, she was exhausted and frightened and wished she had just gone to sleep.

She snuck back into the room Giræsea had assigned to her and lay down in her bed. She didn’t have it in her to take off her mantle. Only her shoes she put next to the bed. And when sleep finally took her into his arms, her last thought was on the library and what she might have found there.

Chapter Text

Year 350 after the War of the Gods, Late Autumn

Fort Carraig an Iarainn, Empire

Hlūde wǣran hȳ lā hlūde ðā hȳ ofer þone hlǣw ridan
wǣran ānmōde ðā hȳ ofer land ridan
scyld ðū ðē nū þū ðysne nīð genesan mōte
ūt lȳtel spere gif hēr inne sīe

The noise, the disquiet outside his sanctuary was maddening. There were too many. Three hundred? Four hundred? Four hundred new voices that never ceased speaking. Interwoven. Tangled. It was impossible to concentrate.

stōd under linde under lēohtum scylde
þǣr ðā mihtigan wīf hyra mægen berǣddon
hȳ gyllende gāras sændan
ic him ōðerne eft wille sændan
flēogende flāne forane tōgēanes
ūt lȳtel spere gif hit hēr inne sȳ

The disquiet seeped from the walls, pouring from the seams between the stones and trickled to the ground as a dark, stringy mass. He could see it from the corner of his eye, how it dripped to the ground, gathering into puddles. And they grew and grew.

sæt smið slōh seax
lȳtel īserna wund swīðe
ūt lȳtel spere gif hēr inne sȳ

It was almost alive, that mass of hundreds of voices. Tendrils grew from it across the ground, like roots they seemed to dig into it to never again be gone from this place. And with these tendrils it crawled towards him, leaving a greasy trail.

syx smiðas sǣtan wælspera worhtan
ūt spere næs in spere
gif hēr inne sȳ īsenes dǣl
hægtessan geweorc hit sceal gemyltan

The tendrils wrapped around his ankle; they found their way underneath his clothes and grew up along his leg. He felt them on his skin; a shiver running down his spine.

gif ðū wǣre on fell scoten oððe wǣre on flǣsc scoten
oððe wǣre on blōd scoten
oððe wǣre on lið scoten nǣfre ne sȳ ðīn līf ātǣsed
gif hit wǣre ēsa gescot oððe hit wǣre ylfa gescot
oððe hit wǣre hægtessan gescot nū ic wille ðīn helpan

One tendril wove across his chest, searching, along underneath his arm, over his shoulder. Prodded his throat, wound around it. Followed his chin. Tapped his lips. Traced along his eyes. He didn’t dare to breathe.

þis ðē tō bōte ēsa gescotes ðis ðē tō bōte ylfa gescotes
ðis ðē tō bōte hægtessan gescotes ic ðīn wille helpan
flēo þǣr on fyrgenhǣfde
hāl westū helpe ðīn drihten
nim þonne þæt seax ādō on wǣtan

And the disquiet found its way. It bored into its mind. Thousands of tiny twigs growing between the coils of his thoughts. Mycelium. It robbed him of his sanity.

He closed the book in front of him and turned his gaze towards the ceiling, closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

Allium ursinum, ocimum basilicum, urtica, coriandrum sativum.

The room was filled with the scent of herbs, hanging from the ceiling as dried bundles; others freshly picked in a basked by the door; ground up remains in a mortar. He should have cleaned that one the day before already, but there had been no urgency.

His studies would be getting nowhere, so he stood up and checked on his foster children. For each one he had made a bed, tailored to their needs precisely.

Hericium erinaceus grew as white, fibrous mass from the log of a fir tree that had been cut down not long ago. Not far outside the walls of Carraig an Iarainn. The Hammers had needed the wood for repair work on the fort. The rest was declared fire wood. He had recognised his opportunity and seized it. He sprinkled the mushroom with a little water from a bowl on the table.

Between old bits of bark and moss which he had collected when autumn was still young: Armillaria ostoyae . Fruiting bodies packed tight. He also quenched their thirst. They did fare far better than he had anticipated. A shame he had been ripped off when buying the spores. Only later had he learned that this mushroom possessed no medicinal applications whatsoever. At most he could give someone a mild cold. He was not entirely sure when that would ever come in handy, but it didn’t cost him anything, so he raised them.

Auricularia auricula-judae on another log of dead wood. That one just didn’t seem to take it well. The mass of fleshy brown coils hadn’t grown in weeks. But since he wasn’t keen on searching for an elder tree every time, this was still his best option. But he had hoped for better results. Taken as a whole, however, he deemed his attempts at mushroom beds a success. Together with the herb beds in front of his hut, he might soon be able to concoct a remedy for almost any ailment.

He hadn’t really thought about the life he would lead one day. As things were at this moment, it wasn’t half bad. He had followed his master to this place and then stayed behind when he had moved on. Now this small hut they had once shared was his and he had enjoyed the quiet. The soldiers stationed here had also thanked him for giving the fort an apothecarius. But the quiet, for which he had retreated here, was now denied to him.

There was a knock on the door.

For just a moment he was tempted to give in to that urge and pretend the hut was abandoned. Nobody from Dunvegen knew he was here and the soldiers might just think he was out running errands. May it be so. But was he really so heartless as to hide away when someone was in need of help? He decided: no. “Come in!” The door opened with a creak. He really should talk to one of the Hammers to see if they could do anything about it.

“Please excuse the intrusion.” The man had stepped in and looked somewhat uncertain of himself. With his coat caked with dirt he looked not much different from the other people who had fled here, but he held himself upright, proud like the other soldier stationed here. Black shoulder length hair and a beard he apparently had no chance to shave over the last ten-day. A scar on his chin.

“Yes? How can I be of service?” He could at least be polite. Even if it was inconvenient for him and the whole situation irritated him.

“My companion has a stab wound. I have been told that you could help her. Please. We have been travelling for several days. She badly needs a medicus.”

Well, at least that was a good reason. With that he couldn’t even resent his host for disturbing him. However– “If you’re looking for a medicus, you’ve come to the wrong place. The best I can do, is help you with some herbs.”

“It will have to do. Please hurry.”

“Of course, of course.” He was already at it. He took the mortar, cleaned it with a cloth and then rinsed it with water. Artemisia abrotanum to close the wound. Probably not the most important aspect but it paid off to be thorough. Populus tremula and Thymus vulgaris to reduce any possible inflammation. Hopefully this wasn’t the case but highly likely after several days. He ground everything into a smooth paste. Then he mixed it with fat to make a salve; not ideal in this situation, but the best he could do.

Next– Bandages. Clean bandages. Without clean bandages this would all be for naught. And those took time. Inside the stove, a fire was already burning, but it would take a while for the water to be hot enough and for him to boil them. And at the moment he didn’t even have bandages. Improvise. He had to improvise.

“You– What’s your name? - Bring your companion here. Yes. That will make everything easier. I will prepare everything until then.”

The man had stood in uncomfortable silence by the door until then. “My name is–” - “No important”, he interrupted the stranger. “Off you go!” So much for being polite.

#

He put two pots filled with water on the stove top. For the brew– He considered. What would be appropriate? And more importantly: What did he have to hand? Armoracia rusticana and Petroselinum crispum . Not exactly what he needed right now, but better than nothing. It smelled horrible.

As soon as he had started cutting a clean cloth into strips, the stranger stood in the doorway again. Next to him stood a woman; shorter, but not by much, ginger hair, tied back; again in dirty clothes. Both of them looked like the road had taken its toll on them. But she didn’t look like she had an untreated stab wound. Maybe a little pale, yes, but not much more than that. Had the other - what was his name? - exaggerated?

He waved them in and was glad when the door fell shut again. He could still feel the disquiet outside but it was far better than also having to hear it. Only when the door fell shut did he notice that he had held his breath. “How are you feeling?”, he asked the woman.

“Thanks for taking the time”, she said. Tired. Exhausted. Maybe he should add something invigorating to the brew.

“Please, sit down. You seem to be in quite good condition for having an untreated stab wound.” - Had he even greeted them? Awkwardly the women dropped into a chair. “You’re mistaken. That leg is rather useless at the moment. I still can’t put any weight on it and besides–” She let her coat drop back onto the chair. This revealed the stump where her right arm had once been and the bandage on her left thigh. A splodge, red on dirty white, not yet dried. She was still bleeding. “This is many things, good not one of them.”

He added the strips of cloth to the boiling water. “You traveled multiple days like that? Of course the wound won’t properly close if you keep straining your leg”, he chided her. “Please uncover the leg, if you could?” He didn’t feel comfortable. Injuries of this sort lay far outside of what he thought himself capable of, but at the moment there was no one else around to help.

Without hesitation she opened her bandages and then pulled down her trousers far enough so he could examine the wound on her thigh. The cut through skins and flesh was clearly visible. It wasn’t fresh, old dried blood mixed its brown with fresh red pouring from the wound as a small rivulet with every heartbeat. And despite it being obvious that everything humanly possible had been done to prevent it from healing, the wound had begun to close.

“You said you had been on the road this entire time?” He started cleaning the old blood from around the wound with a wet cloth.

“Yes. On horseback, most of the time”, the man confirmed. He had started looking around the hut.

“We had a short rest when we bandaged the leg. About one morning. It has been a couple of arduous days”, the woman added and he could hear the truth in her voice.

He put the bloody cloth into a bucket with water. The old bandages as well. “For all that your leg is looking surprisingly good. It seems to be healing well. At least that answers the question of how you could even travel with such an injury. But it also begs the question of how something like that is even possible. I’m going to be honest with you: The way you treated this injury you should have lost the leg.”

He stood up, fished the fabric out of the boiling water with a fork and placed it in a bowl. Was that long enough? Not sure. Should be enough. He turned around. “I’m not expecting an answer from you. Have your secrets. I will bandage it and the herbs will prevent an inflammation. Even though it looks like that won’t happen anyway.”

He wrung the water from the bandages and hung them to dry by the stove. In the meantime he could deal with the salve. He added more of the herbs, unsure if they’d even do anything in this situation.

“I know about as much as you do why it’s healing so well. But what I can tell you is that sure as hells doesn’t feel like it’s healing well.”

Was she lying? There had to be a reason for the healing. Maybe she genuinely didn’t know. “I will not ask any further.” But he wanted to.

“Do you at least have something against the pain?”, the man asked. The woman looked up at him and shook her head. “That won’t be necessary. Make sure I won’t lose my leg and your work is done. I’ll already owe you well enough.”

“Sara, if he can help you–”, the man tried again, but she raised her hand. “Áed, neither you nor I have any silver to pay for it. We are in the same situation as the people out there. Perhaps a worse one.”

“Maybe Odhrán could–”

“Oh, he hasn’t thought of bringing anything but the supplies to help the people”, she said in an attempt to finally close that subject.

“So, when we’re using names, I’m Casidhe. And I’m certain we can come to an agreement. If you have supplies you can spare, that should settle it. Don’t worry too much”, Casidhe said.

When the bandages had dried, he applied the salve and started bandaging the wound. “I know I didn’t want to ask any further questions, but–”

Chapter Text

Year 349 after the War of the Gods, Summer

Myrar, Grave of Titans

When in the morning she woke, she could still taste that dream of the hidden library behind that nondescript blue door, deep within the labyrinthian alleys of Myrar. The cool air, as right before the storm inside her. That heavy darkness behind the sapphire door, which now offered a canvas for her fantasies to project onto; for all the things she hadn’t seen there, but which had to be there. She just knew.

And with the memory of her encounter with the guardsman, everything dissolved into ashes between her fingers. And despite her being awake, she did not want to leave her bed. And though the night had been oh so short, it was not exhaustion that had her clinging to her pillow. The weight of the blanked promised sanctuary from the world, which, in the glaring light of the sun, made her mistake all too apparent.

They would come looking for her. They would find her. Iron chains closed around her and took away the freedom she had just found, no matter how hard she strained against them. She felt them around her wrists, the cold ring around her neck. Her fingers dug deeper into her pillow. She felt nauseous.

When Thorgest knocked at her door, she made a tiny, miserable sound and struggled out of bed, despite her feelings to the contrary. She stood atop the soft carpet, in a richly decorated room and wasn’t in the slightest mood to admire any of it in the golden light falling through the grates at the windows in varied shapes. Her clothes clung to her unpleasantly and stuck to her skin from the sweat. “Right there”, she called to the dwarf, trying to - at best - sound a bit sleepy and not like she had spent her entire night running through the streets of Myrar. She brushed the hair from her face. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and her skin felt disgusting and greasy. All in all, she felt wretched.

At breakfast she kept mostly quiet while Thorgest and Giræsea seemed to continue their conversation where they had left off the night before. “Alright, we head to Rúnknǫttr. What then?”, Giræsea asked.

“If there is anywhere we're gonna find answers, it's gonna be at the Great Library”, Thorgest said. Iora had only been listening with half an ear, but now they had her full attention. Giræsea suddenly started laughing which greatly confused Iora. Thorgest, too, seemed to try and hide a smile in his cup and she felt as if she missed some kind of joke. “Do that again”, Giræsea said and leaned over to Iora, which only confused her more. She seemed to be watching Iora's ears closely. “Come on. Thorgest, say library again. Maybe she’ll do it again.”

Iora glanced back and forth between the two and didn't quite understand what was going on. And she felt very uncomfortable. She covered her ear with her hand; to no avail, the pointed tip was still poking out between her fingers. She didn't like how the orc was staring at her.

“Come now, Giræsea, leave her be”, Thorgest said and put down his cup on the table.

Giræsea huffed but leant back. “Alright. But that was really cute. I didn't know elves could do that.” Iora did not take away the hand from over her ear.

“I really do believe that we will find answers in Rúnknǫttr”, Thorgest said. “Or do you have any more suggestions?” He seemed to look specifically at Iora. He had no idea what he was talking about. She had a sense that she should know but she hadn’t been paying attention. But she wanted to see the great library of Rúnknǫttr. And so she told herself that she could still find her own way afterward. Until then it was better to keep traveling with Thorgest. She shook her head and he seemed to understand.

“Right, that’s settled then. After breakfast  we’re headed off northward”, Giræsea said decisively.

#

Iora couldn't wait to finally leave Myrar, and every step she took on those finely paved streets felt like it was bringing her closer to that iron around her neck. She had no more eyes for the wonders the city had to offer. In the end they were gone as quickly as they had come. Yet despite it all, Iora missed the smell of flowers and sweet pastry as soon as she stood back on the dusty road. But at least with it she also left behind that fear of, at any moment, being seized and dragged off. She had known it to be a risk, even setting foot into a dwarven or human city; everybody knew the story of Cyndon and what had happened after; too many dead. She had seen in Ardport what it had done to the people. Nobody had wanted to talk to her after the news had spread. The had looked at her like a rabid dog. And finally they had driven her out of Ardport. Had yelled at her. Had thrown rocks at her. And Myrar… Myrar was no different. She was glad to cross the endless abyss over the steel bridge. Nothing would happen to her here. She did not look back.

Suddenly, there was a knot in her stomach and she longed for the simpler life she had once had and from which she had been torn so violently. For the hut that had been her home mere days ago. This place that was as familiar to her as only a home could be. The creaking of the door when you opened it too far. The sooty ceiling of the kitchen, where she had often sat reading books while she ate, even though her master had not approved. The old oak that had offered her shade on hot summer days and the brook besides that had murmured its old stories to her. Her mood that morning was wistful, and she surrendered to it, silently following the old friends.

She missed how it had once been. The time when she had ran errands in Ardport without having to hide her ancestry. Finding her way through the crowds. A brief chat with the fishmonger or the blacksmith or the potter. She—

She stopped and looked towards the direction she guessed the Ironwoods to be. They had never been her home, but now she had none in any other place either. She imagined it. Standing between giants of wood and iron. The light a thousand dancing dots on the forest floor. The smell of moss and Laub and bark. The rustling of the leaves. She wanted to sit between the branches of those trees, an entire world at her feet. She had no family, but maybe she’d find one there. What was it like having a family?

She hurried to catch up to Thorgest and Giræsea.

Her master, the only father she had ever known. The closest thing she had to family. Her master, who had raised her. Taught her so many things; explained the world to her. Her master, who had taught her what others didn’t know. Didn’t dare know. Her master, who had wanted to teach her power. Who had betrayed her. She didn’t want to go back. Never back. But she yearned for that feeling. Geborgenheit. The ease. Her life had made sense and been structured. But she didn’t want to go back.

And finally she understood she was standing at that door within her inner labyrinth again, had followed the whisper, and opened it; that door, behind which she had wanted to ban all memories which now streamed like blood from an open wound. Hurriedly she closed it again and put her weight against it.

“So, how do you know each other?” The question tumbled out before she could give it a second thought, interrupting Giræsea. She had just said something to Thorgest and now gave Iora a puzzled look shifting towards embarrassed. “That was in Diræth'Asin–”

“I found her lying before an inn. All covered in wine and maybe some blood.” The dwarf chuckled into his beard.

“It wasn’t my blood!”, Giræsea protested. “And there is a good story for why I was lying in the dirt!”

#

With sun-blood and long shadows on a dusty road, the day found its end. With warm wind and ‘neath the open sky with a thousand twinkling eyes. Ever watching over her. Ever watching her. In the last light of the dying day they set up camp. Between the bones of a derelict house and the spectres of aged trees, white and gnarled, leave-less. Crackling wood and hissing flames the backdrop to their conversations. Conversations Iora was mostly listening to from the outside; still the stranger. But she had joined them. She could have gone anywhere, find her own way. But as much as that notion of freedom excited her, it also frightened her. And so she kept listening to the conversations. Her gaze on the flames she’d one day be able to light herself. Her fingers wrapped around the sticks, which refused to bend to her will even on the fourth attempt. Her mood melancholy and utterly unfit for further exercises. She cast the sticks into the fire. She didn’t want to be the stranger but in that moment it seemed an insurmountable obstacle.

Hot oil hissed in the small pot over the fire as Thorgest fed it onion and garlic. “We don’t have to eat poorly just because we’re travelling”, he said. Giræsea kept rummaging around in one of the travel bags for something that seemed to be hiding especially well. Iora asked her whether she bought some dried fruit on the market. Far more to just be saying anything than because she genuinely wanted some. Apparently that came as a surprise to Giræsea who had probably expected her to spend the rest of the night sitting in silence. After a short search she tossed Iora a pouch - “Here.” - and then dedicated herself to her task again. “You’re in luck. Thorgest would have never thought about this.” Iora opened the pouch and found it full of dried apricots. She took one out and began chewing on it listlessly.

“Number one.” Giræsea tossed the next pouch she found over the pot to Thorgest who just barely caught it. Iora saw in her mind's eye how it hit the floor, the strings came loose, and its contents fed the flames.

“I would have stuck to the essential and important things. We might even have had enough rice.” Thorgest added a decent amount from the pouch to the pot and again the oil hissed as the rice poured in a torrent of grains in with the onion and garlic.

“And the trek would have become a real sad one. Also, I’m sure the rice will last us long enough. It can’t be that far to Rúnknǫttr. And there have to be some way stations where we can resupply along the way.” She pulled something from the bag. “Number two.” She handed him a smaller pouch and then sat down beside Iora. “My time of hardship is over. Don’t need to impose any more on myself, do I?” She grinned and held out her open hand to Iora, who placed an apricot in it. Giræsea thanked her with a nod.

“Are you from the Sea of Sands? From the tribes?”, Iora asked and took another apricot. This second one seemed far better than the first.

“Of course. A child of the sand through and through. Grew up among dunes, tents and rocks.” She sounded proud.

“Do you still have family there?” Iora still chewed the apricot, which seemed bent on resisting.

“Probably? It’s been a while since I last visited my tribe. No idea what became of my brothers and sisters. But they’ve always been good to the Mother and the Mother to them. They’ll manage. I just wanted to see more of the world.” She leaned back, folded her arms behind her head, and looked up at the moons and stars. “There is so much out there…” And Iora thought she’d understood. In silence Iora sat and Giræsea lay and Iora tried to imagine what it might be like out there, where there was nothing but sand and sun and wind and frightening freedom. “...so much… world”, Giræsea murmured deep in thought.

Thorgest poured water into the pot, and with a snarl, a cloud rose into the night sky; golden in the flame’s glow. He then added a handful from the smaller bag into it and closed the lid. Soon after the smell started to spread. Iora could only name some of the spices but it smelled wonderful. The garlic was joined by cinnamon, cumin and allspice. Visions of Myrar chased away her imaginings of the Sea of Sands. The colours, the voices, the gardens. And she missed it never again wanted to return.

“What about you?” Giræsea had propped herself up on her elbows and glanced over at Iora. “Why are you travelling with the old dwarf? This isn't exactly the clime for an elf.”

It damn well wasn’t, she was right on that account. “I don’t think there really is any good clime for elves right now.” The next few sentences took more effort than she was willing to admit. “Thorgest took me in. I don’t know where I’d go otherwise. And I can't go back to where I came from.” It was just her imagination but she was sure she felt the cuts across her back.

“I understand.” Giræsea was gazing at the night sky again. Iora was thankful she didn’t ask any more questions. But she doubted Giræsea really understood. Not what it was like when the entire world collapsed. Iora handed her another apricot.

“A good life those for whom the gods have no plans”, Iora murmured and looked up at the sky as well. Those were still the same stars as just a few days ago when the world was a completely different one. Reflections of the earthen fires up there in the night’s ocean. Lost between the waves. She pulled her legs close and wrapped her arms around them. “I hope they have no more for me.” That sentence slipped out before she could close her lips. She didn’t dare lower her gaze from the sky; hoped nobody would ask about it. She could give no honest reply. Could–

“Niseithes?” Thorgest looked up from his pot.

Iora nodded and wanted to leave it at that but then went on: “I’ve spent more time with dead words and living souls.”

Thorgest, unperturbed by her low mood, went on happily: “Seems I picked a good student.”

“So did the last one but now I’m sitting here.”

“Which would bring me to my next question”, Giræsea interjected. “How did you find each other? Or far more likely: Where did the old dwarf pick you up?”

Iora hesitated, but then decided that she wanted to be as opened with her companions as she could. So she gave at least parts of an answer: “The road from Ardport to Myrar.”

Giræsea nodded knowingly. “And now you’re learning from him? So what’s he going to teach you? Hopefully not his cooking.” She laughed. Thorgest - without looking over at them - replied: “You’re welcome to take over.” - “No, no. You’re doing a wonderful job.”

But when Giræsea’s question remained unanswered she looked back and forth between them. “I see. So you finally found a proper student. How is she doing? Can you already split the Southern Sea and walk the floor until the Veiled Isles? Travel from here to Dayaph with just a single step?”

“No. But I’m just at the beginning.”

#

That night she found herself again in the all-encompassing darkness. No sky above her, no clouds, no stars, no moons. She knelt on hard stone stretching out into infinity. Nothing and stone and darkness and infinity and nothing. She wanted to get up, wanted to leave this place as soon as possible. Every instinct screamed for it. With every passing second she felt like moving her hand closer and closer to a flame. But she was nothing more than an observer. She had no power here. Not even over herself. And whatever stalked these shadows wanted her to know.

And so she knelt there. And the world threatened to smother her with its emptiness and silence. Only the pain in her bones she felt, and the poison lurking in the dark. No, that wasn't the right word, she had to admit. It didn't lurk. This darkness had become its realm and its home and part of its self. It wouldn't hunt. It didn't want to. It was and it's being was enough for it. But its being was too much for Iora. It circled her in the shadows. It pulled at her, at her body und her spirit. And her soul-- that part of it, which it didn't possess already.

Again she was aware of the glyph on her back. This life was no longer hers. She had been reckless. Foolish.

Had she? Was it not inside her? Was it not what she had wanted? What she had been preparing for? Had she not - on that day - been excited to sacrifice her blood?

Yes... No!

She shivered at the thought. It was as wrong as it was true. She had not wanted power. But that she had said.

Knowledge…

She had chosen knowledge. Traded for it. Did she really want it? Had she wanted it? It had seemed right. She wanted to learn. Understand. Wanted to know.

But she had also wanted to make her master proud. He had taken her in, had raised her, had taught her for years and explained the secrets of the physical world to her. And of the arcane.

Years of theory. Almost close enough to reach and yet unfathomable. It had taunted her. How she had longed to understand the world beside the world. Learn the world inside the world. That's what it was. That was her wish. Not knowledge. Experiencing. Discovering. And her master had shown her the way. Had invited her to step through the gate and taste what sense could not grasp.

Of course she had agreed. She had been thrilled. She had made this decision. Of her own free will.

And yet…

The darkness around her remained unchanged, unchanging, impenetrable, unfathomable, all-encompassing within her. Enveloped her. Kept her prisoner within herself und in this moment it made her feel it. She might not be alone anymore. But here she was small. Insignificant. Foreign.

#

“Wake up, sleepyhead.”

Iora was freezing. Despite the morning sun shining warmly on her face, she was freezing. She had dug both claws into her sleeping bag and wrapped it tightly around herself. Every muscle in her body was pulled tight. Step by step she found her way back into this reality but it felt as if she hadn’t been here in a long time.

She blinked away the sleep, crawled out of her tent - Thorgest had bought it for her in Myrar - and surveyed the camp wearily. The scene radiated a calmness that she herself would have liked to feel, but there was a distance, a barrier like perfect Denḵa glass, as if she could touch it if she only reached out her hand.

Giræsea sat on the ground in front of the burnt-down fire pit, a bowl with yesterday’s rice beside her and a number of white beads wrapped around her left hand. With closed eyes she sat there, murmuring to herself, moving along one bead in regular intervals. She looked so serene in this moment, as if it was everything she could ask of this day. The warm sun on her back, her morning ritual and breakfast waiting for her.

Thorgest was packing up whatever wasn’t of need anymore. “Good morning”, he said with a smile like the morning sun. “There’s a bowl for you over there.” He nodded towards the fire pit.

Iora rolled onto her back and stared up at the cloudlessly blue sky. One deep breath. Another. Then another. Then she sat up. Metal strands fell into her face. She let them hang there before her eyes and just looked straight ahead. She was still struggling to find her way back.

A bowl appeared in her field of vision. Rice, almonds and raisins. Breakfast. Giræsea handed it to her. “Here. I thought you’d never wake. We would have have to leave you behind without any breakfast. Would have been a real shame.”

Iora took the bowl and thanked her, despite not feeling like eating anything. That however lasted only until her first spoon-full and she was surprised by how hungry she was. The ork sat beside her, staring straight ahead into the void of the Grave of Titans, past the camp and Thorgest and Nasr. “I trust Thorgest…” She spoke quietly so he couldn’t hear her. “And I know nothing about you. Not where you’re from or whatever happened to you. Nor why you’re not traveling with him– with us. I don’t know your story. But please be careful. Whatever you’re hoping to achieve through magic, this isn’t the world for that anymore.” She took a deep breath and sighed. “Don’t burn yourself out.” Then she stood up and, with the bowl in her hand, went off to help Thorgest.

And there sat Iora, unsure what to make of it all. She could not give an answer; didn’t want to. It would not have been a polite one. After the picture Thorgest had painted of Giræsea she had slowly begun to get used to her company. Now she wasn’t so sure anymore.

It was still burning inside her; to learn how to control the world outside this world. And even though she felt some disgust, she was now convinced even more than she had been a few weeks ago: she would understand, comprehend and master it. And today, she had decided, she would work on that. After breakfast.

#

And so they marched throughout that morning, wresting as much distance from the road as they could before around midday it became too hot. Giræsea talked to Thorgest far less than the day before but he didn’t seem to notice much and just kept talking when he felt like it. Iora wondered if it had anything to do with that strange encounter from that morning but didn’t pay it much mind. She had more important things to do. Ever she was looking for branches, sticks and twigs only to then - much to her disappointment - break them in a quite unremarkable manner. It was still incredibly difficult for her to see the connection between things. And using it - pluck the delicate threads - seemed an impossibility. In the beginning she had set herself the goal of succeeding at Thorgest’s task before they had reached Myrar. It had all sounded so easy in its defiance of reality. That is where her disappointments began.

On a purely intellectual level she understood what Thorgest had told her. In principle two sticks were the same. Wood, grown from a stem; a limb separated from the body; sun-bleached. One could convince them they were the same. One. Whatever happened to one happened to the other. It did make sense somehow. But how in all the gods and spirits she could utilize that, she just couldn’t grasp. Not yet. Every child had to learn to run, to walk, to crawl. One step after another. And each one required practice. Why should this be any different? She told herself that through gritted teeth.

When they finally took their rest around midday, Iora, too, paused her practicing and tried to clear her head again. For hours now had she tried to break a stick without touching it. A few times she thought she had seen at least some cracks. But reality stuck firm to its story and wouldn’t be convinced otherwise. And if she was honest with herself, she had never felt any connection between the two sticks. And so when she dropped to the dusty ground, her mood was accordingly.

“What am I doing all of this for? What am I gaining from breaking a stick?”, she asked without really being interested in the answer.

The sun hung high in the sky and without shade it got unbearably hot. Marching under these conditions was close to having a death wish. They had found a grove of dark green brush and now sat in the shade of Thorgest’s ever faithful tarp.

“It’s a puzzle. A thought exercise, just as real magic is one. For one thing, you have to be convinced of it being possible. It’s an absurd idea, isn’t it? Breaking a stick without touching it. And that is the point where you have to disagree decisively. That’s one thing. And the other is that you have to learn the pattern of the magical fabric. You have to learn to find and connect threads, to tie knots. This is the preparation you need to work magic”, Thorgest replied patiently and even though it all seemed very sensible to Iora it didn’t help with her mood. She groaned.

Thorgest held out a waterskin for her. “It'll all come together. The first step is always the hardest.”

Iora drank. Warm. But at least it didn’t taste stale yet. She wiped her mouth and nodded. “It'll all come together”, she agreed. Maybe to convince herself.

“You don't need to be sparing with the water.” Thorgest held out another waterskin for Giræsea. “We should reach a well some time tomorrow.” Giræsea took it, thanked him, and drank.

“How far is it ‘till  Rúnknǫttr?”, Iora asked, because she couldn’t think of anything better. She didn’t want to be back among people, didn’t want to hide again, but out here– Beyond the brush there was only dusty void. A monument to destruction of former days. Only the occasional gnarled tree grew out there, stubborn grass no animal could presumably eat, and a few weathered shrubs, aged fast by sun and wind. These small islands of something strewn across the nothing only deepened Iora’s impression. It was just so boring.

“We've only been travelling for half a day. You will have to be patient”, replied Giræsea.

“We’re making good way…” Thorgest paused to consider. “I think. It’s hard to tell. And I haven’t been here in a while. But I’m confident.”

#

They ate, were generous with the water they had with them, and Thorgest gave them a lecture on the road they would follow northward. Iora had not expected there to be this much to tell about a road. And it seemed Giræsea was hoping after every sentence that it would finally be the last. According to Thorgest the road once ran from the northern most dwarven city - Al Nadiq - deep in the Damethuures - the current border of the known world - down to the southern most - Maaradani - far beyond the steppe of the Grave of Titans, past the Sarnian Sea and through the Riverlands all the way to the cliffs of the icy Southern Sea where today lay the free cities. All that remained of both cities was ruins. Al Nadiq high up in the mountains with its snow-covered battlements and tall towers; shrouded in eternal winter except for a few weeks of the year. Gate to the Pass of Kullaa, lost to the river of time. The island city of Maardani, connected to the mainland by only a bridge. Eight cantons, eight pyramids in the ocean, eight wonders of architecture. Seat of the great Suusaandar who united the south and of the Per Ânkh which produced the greatest minds of its time. Home if Ittetha, daughter of Iyenna, who would found the tribe of the Nemena’etha, far off to the west. Both built, inhabited and fallen before the first city in heaven was conceived.

It was this ancient route that had taken them to Myrar and is leading them from there to Rúnknǫttr. And it was this ancient route along which the wells had been dug to support trade and supply lines for the realm.

Much of the road lay destroyed now, but some stretches remained. Ancient stones, laid tightly, wider, flatter and smoother than any roads that wound their way through the world since the War of the Gods. Even the best Guilds Craftsmen could not achieve with all their means what the ancients had been able to accomplish. “The cities in the sky might truly reach the clouds.”

Maybe Giræsea had rolled her eyes once or twice when Thorgest had waxed lyrical about the magical abilities of days gone by, but she had said nothing. Iora, on the other hand, listened intently. She wanted to learn how they had done it. It was a small glimpse into a world that was only open to so few, and she wanted more.

#

Maybe she had approached it all wrong.

With the first cool breeze of the evening, they had continued on their way. The sky changed from harsh, bright blue to a pleasant orange and soon to red. The wind drove wisps of dust along, as if the land tried to bury even the last traces of times past. Giræsea led Nasr while Iora talked excitedly to Thorgest. Two conclusions had become apparent to her after more hours of walking. Both seemed blatantly obvious in retrospect. She had to admit to herself that she did not possess the skills to solve the task posited to her and that stubbornness would not solve that problem. This she had realized first. So she had thought it over; if sticks were too hard, what else could she try? So she picked two blades of grass. Tough, stubborn things that demanded she struggle before she held them in her hands. But this should make it easier. Even a strong wind could bend a blade of grass, she should be able to do so as well. When she failed to do so, she came to her second realization. This one found her far easier, as if walking through a door that had been opened already: She had absolutely no idea what she needed to do. But she could ask.

When she had finally discarded her pride - She bore the name of the Windweave, for gods’ sake, she should be able to do this! - Thorgest was more than willing to explain to her in great detail what she needed to pay attention to. He turned theoretical magic into practice. She saw it in his face; that he had been proud when she had finally asked; then she understood. Under his guidance, it seemed so trivial to find the loose threads and tie them together. And even though her knots didn't hold at first, it still felt like she had taken a huge step forward. She had touched the net and it had obeyed. She would show Thorgest that she was a good student; that she understood what he taught her. And with double the zeal she devoted herself to the new exercise.

#

When Thorgest was just pointing out that they had almost reached the well, she did it. Finally. And it seemed to her such a simple trick. How could she have ever done it wrong? And then she understood: Had she been put on the spot then and there to explain what she just did, she could not have done it - she would not have had the words. She had seen it. Two blades of grass, the same matter, woven into the same net. Separated by their history and yet the same in their being. She could grasp those delicate threads and she found two of them she could knot. And when the blade offered more resistance than expected, she knew she had done it. When both of them broke under her pressure, she could hardly believe it. Was that–? Did it–? “It worked…” She held them in her open hands and stared at them. “It worked.”

She stopped.

She laughed.

“It worked.”

All the frustration of the last few days was gone, and all that remained was the feeling of having achieved the impossible.

Chapter Text

Year 350 after the War of the Gods, Late Autumn

Fort Carraig an Iarainn, Empire of Man

Considering that he had said he wouldn’t ask them any more questions, the Apothecarius did ask them a surprising number of questions. How she had come by that injury. The reason for the condition of her uniform– both of them had barely half of it on their bodies at this point, the rest was miscellaneous pieces the dead miller and Odhrán had given them. What had led to half a village being housed right at his doorstep. Sara answered them all, even if she left out some crucial details in certain places. Áed did not correct her. In silence he drank his warm ale. He would have felt at home in the Apothecarius’ hut. Cozily crowded with furniture, the small hearth, the herbs; it all reminded him of his parents’ house up north in Bernin.

“I am well of the quite personal nature of this question and you have already answered more than I could have ever expected, but–” Casidhe paused to think. Áed pricked up his ears; he didn’t like where this conversation was going. “I know the answer might be dangerous and thus you might want to keep it to yourself. You don’t have to answer.” The Apothecarius looked down at the table, then directly at Sara again. “I have to know: Are you sensitive to the webs of magic?”

Áed did not like that he had said it out loud. This question was dangerous indeed. Too dangerous. Without taking his gaze of Casidhe he reached for the dagger at his belt only to find it wasn’t there. He cursed inwardly. Not that he particularly liked Sara, and during their time together at Cruidín her by-the-book attitude had really gotten on his nerves, but the Inquisition would not get her.

Sara did not answer Casidhe.

“I promise you can speak freely in this house”, he kept trying.

Sara had put down her cup on the table and stared at him. She considered. Áed could see it in her face. That same look before any difficult decision. The third platoon had waited patiently until she had made that decision and then followed her without objection. Now he was waiting, ready to do what was necessary.

As at home as he might have felt in that tiny hut, it now as enemy territory. An ambush of stone and wood and false words. The air filled with this almost tangible thing made of premonition and dread which only faith in the saints could keep at bay. It had the shape of his life or ours and better on the run than chains and death.

Sara laughed bitterly. “What if I deny it?” Her voice like the crackling of ice before it broke and the dark beneath swallowed you whole. A warning. These last days had taken their toll and if the cracks would finally give, it would all be over.

Casidhe raised his hands defensively. “I’m not working for Ausaláin. And I want nothing to do with the Inquisition, if that is what you’re insinuating. I have seen your leg; that injury healed far too well. As I said, I didn’t mean to ask– Probably shouldn’t ask. But this seems too important. Do you favor water?”

An absolutely absurd question. Áed as just waiting for a sign from Sara to end all of this.

With the tip of her finger, Sara traced the rim of her cup and watched the tea. “A friend of mine was…” What was she doing? No! She couldn’t tell him. She looked up at Áed. “Was.” She meant Éanna. “My talents lie differently.” The tea started boiling. There was a scorched smell. Thin wisps of smoke rose where the cup met the table.

Casidhe seemed unperturbed. It was as if he hadn’t even noticed. “Are you sure? I know, treatment of injuries isn’t my specialty, but after a mere three days it should not have healed that well. Not after what you’ve been through. An affinity for water would be an explanation, though. At least Loxton claims even grave wounds could heal within just a short couple of days. I think it was in Þa Steorran and þa Ælementa.” He just wouldn’t stop talking. “I’m not entirely sure anymore, but… Swa rynð þæt wæter, swilce ænig ea, þurh mearh, ban and flæsc ælces cynnes, geworht þurh Godes gife. And swa hit flowð in æt acennednysse and ut æt deaðe. And–”

Áed had to stop him before he kept talking for all eternity. “How come you know so much about that sort of thing?”

“In my profession, the old knowledge has not yet been lost completely. While the rest of the Empire burns whatever it can get hold of, we try to preserve. Loxton, Unwin, Picton, Ljotsson, Kishar. There are still plenty of scripts. Be that as it may–” He again turned to Sara. “The river or flow of life that Loxton and Picton are describing– Life seems to be flowing strongly through you still. You’re not just feeding off what you already have, you’re drawing in more.”

Sara did her best to sort through what just happened and Áed still wasn’t sure whether he should trust him. In an Imperial fort– It was just too dangerous. If just one soldier learned of this, they would not leave this place alive.

Áed had hoped she wouldn’t, but without looking at Casidhe, Sara said: “It is impossible. I have never manipulated any other webs but fire. Since I can remember it always felt easiest with that one.”

“I don’t want to dispute that. I do not have the talent and I was not taught so I cannot judge. But try to remember. How did other injuries heal? What was it like in your childhood?”

Sara didn’t answer. Instead she watched the steam hanging over her cup like a ghost.

#

“So, what’s next? We did for these people what we can. You still want to go to Merun?” Áed still didn’t know where the winds would carry him, but he didn’t want to remain here. Maybe he could tag along northward for a bit. Where to then? East? Somewhere they wouldn’t be searching for him for being a deserter. He hardly believed that anyone in the Militia would be interested in him having saved the people of Dunvegen; if it wasn’t too soon to think of it like that. He again saw that second sergeant before him. She would sentence him to death again without a second thought, of that he was certain.

“Yes. Merun.” Sara walked, supporting herself on him, even if it was just for balance. “It’s a risk, but I have to. I have responsibilities outside the Militia and they weigh more gravely than my own wishes.” And from her tone Áed knew that there was no talking her down from it.

“Would it kill you to be any less cryptic about these things?”, he asked. It was all fine and well for her to want to go to Merun - where they were meant to die in the arena - and have some important business there, but was it so hard to just give him the slightest shred of information.

“Hmpf.”

So that was a yes. He decided it’d probably get him nowhere to keep prodding. And that question probably hadn’t made it any better but at least it had felt good to say it.

Water collected on his brow and dripped down before his eye. Another drop from his nose. Sky and sun hid behind a veil of grey clouds and drizzle. The people huddled a bit closer around the fires and the flames hissed when a large drop hit them. It was one of those days of all-encompassing grey and Áed would prefer to be sitting in the mess, a warm cup between his hands, hiding from it all. But even if Ausaláin had let them into his fort he only offered them the barest minimum of hospitality. The soldiers handed out rations and blankets, had put up additional fire baskets, but nobody from Dunvegen entered any of the buildings if they hadn’t been explicitly invited. These were Imperial grounds.

“Do you think somebody will light another beacon?” Not that he carried that anxiety with him this entire time, but ever since the thought had occurred to Áed he could not get rid of it anymore. Dug in between the coils of exhaustion, relief and hope. There were so many souls stranded here, it would have been so easy. The memory of Cruidín, of Moore, crept unbidden from deep crags in jagged rock, wound in his innermost landscape. Claws of splintered bone on stone, in bloody innards, forever captured inside him. An echo of screams cut off; repeated, repeated, repeated, in his sleep, repeated, behind closed eyes, repeated, a plea to the saints, repeated, a plea to the gods, repeated, Mama!, Please, no–, suffocated, cut off, in the gurgling red foam.

Sara stopped and dragged him back. Into a world of rain-muffled murmuring and hissing fires and water upon his brow, the smell of wet dirt and her arm about his shoulder, her weight upon him.

“I don’t know. I hope not.” She spoke quietly and looked nervous. One strand of hair lay wet across her face.

“Could you stop it?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I wouldn’t know what to do. We’ll have to hope that the walls will hold if it comes to that.”

“They still haven’t found who’s responsible for the poor woman’s death, have they? They had some suspicion, didn’t they? Cormag or something like that. Does that ring a bell?”

“The son of old Cormick. Eoin. His father was a carpenter in Dunvegen– Maybe he still is. He was a decent man, I guess. My parents didn’t have much business with him. No idea whether the son took after his father.”

“Do you think he really did it?”

“Eoin? I don’t think so. I haven’t seen him for years, but I couldn’t imagine it. The people say that he left dunvegen with the train and suddenly disappeared that night, but… Why? Do you want to go looking for him?” She raised an eyebrow.

“Saints, no. I want as little to do with this entire thing as possible. I’m already worrying way too much about Ausaláin and the Inquisition. If he puts it into his head to search the entire village–”

“I won’t be here by then”, Sara interrupted him. “Maybe they even find what really happened, but they’ll also find me. And that’s a risk I’m not willing to take.” She glanced across the courtyard, groups of now homeless. “Come on. We should be heading back.”

Coats and blankets wrapped tightly around their bodies, people huddled around the fires, trying to escape the wet and cold. The rain only made a bad situation worse and Áed wished for Ausaláin to have to suffer the same. Áed saw all the children who didn’t understand why they were here. And the old ones who knew and tried to endure it in silence as well they could. Íobhar and Muirinn had said nothing but their hands trembled when they put them to the fire.

“Of course the cold doesn’t bother you, old giant”, Caelan joked and Íobhar slapped  Odhrán’s upper arm. “Just look at him. Even if he is no giant, he doesn’t feel anything.” Both of them laughed.

Odhrán huffed. “I’m starting to regret taking the two of you along. Maybe you want to join another band? Word is Ríona is bound to move on soon.”

“Oh, thank you, deary”, Muirinn said as she took the bread Zofia had offered. “Ríona is a lovely girl. But I don’t like her husband. Nor their son. Takes too much after his father.” - Zofia agreed. - “And we had no opportunity to repay your kindness, yet.”

The giant ignored it. “Come now, Sara, tell us: How has your life been going these last couple of years? Would have been nice of you to visit once in a while.”

Sara drank her warm ale. “What is there to tell?”

“You have been stationed all over the place. You have to have some stories”, Odhrán pushed. “Maybe tell us about Torc.”

“Yes! Please! Please! Please!”, Peadar and Zofia cried as one.

“Does it have to be Torc?”, Sara asked as if having been cornered.

“My dear child, if you have to ask like that…” Odhrán motioned at Peadar and Zofia. “And just look at those two. You’re stuck with this now.”

“So, what happened in Torc?”, Áed now wanted to know, too. He knew of the fort farther up north but had never been stationed there himself.

“Allright, allright. So Torc. I was stationed there three years ago. Actually quite quiet. At the border with the Twelve Tribes there is not really that much going on and the next orcish city is Bay’Asin and it’s a couple days' journey to get there. The third platoon had been ordered there to hold the fort while the seventh and eighth were headed to Cyndon– That was just after the riots. So we get there and take over from the skeleton crew they had left behind. So far so good. But what got lost in all the commotion regarding Cyndon? Bay’Asin sending a delegation. Why? Know the gods! I thought I was just looking out for a fort for a couple of ten-days.”

“Is that how you lost your arm? In a fight against an orc? As you defended the Emperor’s honor?”, Peadar asked wide-eyed. “Peadar!”, Zofia hissed.

“You? A diplomat?” Áed laughed.

“It wasn’t my choice, okay?”

“Yes? So? What happened?”

“I had no idea what I was supposed to do. What do I know of orcs and their customs? It’s not even part of my duties to organise a reception for our own. I did my best, hosted them as if they were generals of the Swords oder Lances. That did actually work far better than I had anticipated. We managed to communicate in a mix of Kádin and Common, they were disappointed but were sympathetic to our situation. Everything went swimmingly. Until SOMEBODY decided to start an argument. Have you ever seen an angry orc?” Sara crouched down beside the fire and leaned forward to Peadar and Zofia. “They are huge– taller than Odhrán here. Enormous tusks. And muscles… And when an orc is angry…” She got quieter and quieter with every word. She let them wait. “... really really angry…” Sara glanced up at Odhrán furtively. “Have you ever seen one?” She looked from one to the other. “...then…”

Zofia and Peadar screeched as Odhrán suddenly put his hands on both their shoulders.

“Saaaraaaaaaa!!!”, Peadar screamed.  Zofia pouted and glared at Sara, who in turn seemed quite satisfied with herself.

Áed rolled his eyes. “Come on. Finish the story.”

“No!” Peadar yelled. “I want to hear nothing more from her.”

Sara stood back up and shrugged. “Nothing more happening after that, anyway. Their leader - Meddán or some such - and my men separated them and that was that. My men aren’t meant for diplomacy. That’s a job for someone else. I really thought we had a problem with Bay’Asin there for a second. So, that’s my story. Now it’s one of yours turn. What about you?” She looked at Áed. He really wasn’t in the mood. “You’re from up north, right? Tell us something from up there”, she added and actually gave him an idea what story he could tell.

“Is Granhal up north enough for you?”, he asked, purely out of courtesy. He had already decided what memory he would share with them.

“You have been to Granhal?”, Caelan asked and Áed nodded. “Yes. Saints, it’s been a while… Thirtyfive. That was before I was with the Bows. In Áth Sionnach I had joined a troupe that went on to Esaene. All of them musicians and performers. Those were a couple of good ten-days. I doubt I ever laughed as much before or since.”

Thinking back, he missed those times. It was no sharp pain in his chest, just the dull feeling that his life might have taken a fundamentally different path had he chosen left at the fork in the road instead of right. But one was always left with that realization way after the fact. There were no signs telling the way.

“On one of those nights, with a campfire and a starry sky and maybe one or two cups too many one of the lads had put it in his head to teach me to play the gue.”

“You? A musician?” Sara laughed, echoing his previous incredulity.

“I’m not even that bad. Well, back then I was. Have you ever held a gue? Aleyn put it in my hands and told me: ‘Play!’ And since I had drunk enough I thought: ‘How hard can it be?’ May Naomh Ióna forgive what sins I committed that night. It sounded awful. Saints, we were having fun! And Aleyn just kept shouting ‘Go on! Keep playing!’ and trying to clap some kind of rhythm for me. And the others laughed and I laughed and none of it really mattered. The siblings joined in; Lear tried to accompany it on his rotta and Lora sang. Until everyone joined in.”

It had all been so silly. I had had no clue what he was doing and it hadn’t mattered. They all just played along. The Rich Rooster was the first group he traveled with for an extended period after leaving Bernin. There were days he still missed them– still missed Aleyn.

“Until we eventually reached Granhal, Aleyn taught me how to actually play. Not well, but good enough. On the final evening before we parted ways I then played Springs first Dance with Lear, Lora and Isabella.”

“Never! That never happened!” He could tell Sara didn’t believe a single word.

“Yes! I swear it’s true. I played at the feast of the First Blossom. In front of an excited audience.”

“Ha! So you could have turned out right after all.” Odhrán laughed and Áed wasn’t  sure whether he should take offence. He decided no.

“Next chance we get you a gue. I want to hear how you’re doing”, Sara called out. “It’s one me.”

“And you - as well as me - aren’t getting paid anymore”, Áed reminded her.

“And how did you end up with the Militia?”, Caelan asked. That’s the question, isn’t it, thought Áed. “The pay”, he said instead. “Which I’m not getting anymore.” Íobhar nodded knowingly.

“If you’re really that good, that shouldn’t be a problem then. And I thought I already thought I knew everything there is to know about you”, Sara said. Thanking him, she took a slice of bread from Odhrán. “And what about you, old man? Tell me, what happened to you in all these years I wasn’t in Dunvegen? You have to have some good stories to tell.”

“Interesting stories from an inn? Whatever is supposed to happen there? The biggest stir I caused when I had to switch cooks. Twice”, the giant replied. “You remember Ádren?”

“Indeera! Of course! It’s his fault alone that I cannot live without cinnamon cake anymore. Did you two ever have Ádrens cinnamon cake?”, Sara asked Zofia and Peadar. “He even made one without raisins for me.”

“That was before these two were with me”, Odhran said in their stead. “I, too, miss that cake, tho– I guess it got too boring for Ádren. He left Dunvegen hoping for a more interesting life down south. Moved to one of the free cities. Really not that easy, finding a new cook. And also convincing the patrons that the food - or cake - is still good. After that I had a dwarf- Aminah. Nice lass. Patrons liked her, too, but she made it clear from the beginning she wouldn’t stay forever. In the end she wasn’t there for much longer than a year. That’s when Caelan here took over.” He patted the lad’s back.

“Well, I guess that’s over now. The Golden Steed is probably history now”, said Caelan.

“I was really hoping to live and work there in peace until I would eventually pass it down to Zofia and Caelan. You would have done right by the inn, I’m certain. But all of that’s not really an interesting story, is it. I got something better for you. Nothing that happened to my personally, but a story from my people.”

“Oh, so you are a giant after all”, Caelan asked, teasing him.

“For the sake of this story, I am. And this story is true. As much as I am standing here before you. It starts during the first age, before the fall of the gods, before Gríans death and resurrection and long before Anáilnaofa formed humans from simple clay at the banks of the river Tonntadhearga and gifted them life from its waters; at the dawn of time, when the first warm rays fell upon the still young earth. The world had not yet found its order and the First were delighting in their grand works. During these times the giant-father Kaldir led his people from the icy waves of the Southern Sea and founded his kingdom at the white cliffs and it grew and prospered. And soon it stretched from Tavin - which was called Háirklettar back then - in the east to Aubin in the west and northward until the Kaldirvatn which you might know as Lough Táldir. It was a time when no cloud darkened the spirits, when abundance gave envy and discord no grounds to take root, of golden fields and golden mead. A time when rivers were aplenty with fish, when the baking fires never rested, when the laughter never ceased and cups were never empty. When stories had only happy endings.

One man stood at Kaldir’s side during those golden years, as his spear and his shield and his council; passionate and warm-hearted where Kaldir was cold as the sea. Eldheitur. Never did one leave the other’s side. Brothers, if not by blood. They filled each other’s cup, broke  their bread, shared their home, were one in peace and in fighting.

One day Kaldir was drawn back to the icy shores. There Eldheitur, born deep within the continent, for the first time saw the dark sea, to which his race owed its life. Heimsvatn. World-encompassing. Spray-mountains of broken wave-cliffs. And he fell in love.

With a daughter of the First. Who of you knows her? There in the Southern Sea.” He looked at those gathered; his gaze rested first on Peadar, then on Zofia.

“The Wavemaiden?” Zofia sounded unsure about her answer.

“Correct. Dhadia. He found her dancing on gentle waves, surrounded by mist spirits; her dress sparkling green and blue, droplets of precious stones. Eldheitur could not tear his eyes from her and as Kaldir lay himself to sleep that night, he snuck off– left his brother’s side. ‘Sapphire maiden’, he called over the sea, ‘don’t hide yourself from me, don’t shy away. I want to see your joy in the dancing waves, gleaming emerald.’ At that she rose from the waves, unfathomable in the moon’s light, deep-dark as the sea and he fell to his knees before her. Eldheitur, son of Elding who drives the stormcloud. Brother to Kaldir, high king of the giants, who led them from the sea and founded their realm. Powerful spear and wise council. How could he do otherwise?”

Zofia snickered, but Odhrán just continued.

“She spoke to him: ‘And who are you, who flatters me with sparkling stones?’

‘Just a stranger in a strange land, far from home. But permit me the same question: Who are you, dancing star of topaz?’

‘Ask the question, you may’, she replied. ‘But answer it, I will not. Return to these shores once you’ve found my name. Here I will wait and will dance for you once you fulfill what I ask of you.’”

Sara huffed. “Right, she is. A goddess shouldn't dance for just anyone who comes along.”

“Oh, her father and her brothers are of a very similar opinion, as you will see. But we’re not there yet. So, Eldheitur then hurried back to his brother and for one full night he didn’t sleep and one full day he didn’t eat. Then a second night and a second day. Kaldir, whom he had told nothing of his encounter, started to worry, but he came up with excuses. But no matter how much he racked his mind during their journey, he found not what her name might be. He did not even know what kin she descended from. So little had he - landborn - seen of the world, so little outside of the borders of the giants.

So when they came across Vitur and Þekking as they sat bickering in the branches of an ash tree–”

“Wat”, Áed interrupted him. “Who are Vitur and Þekking?”

“You don’t know the story… Vitur, the all knowing Raven and Þekking, the all-wise owl. With them Eldheitur bartered for a single question. One question for ten years of his life. And never had he thought about it, but know a thought had started to glow inside him, ein wish, set alight by a single spark and he knew, he would leave his brother and would travel south again. Restless heart drove him on as he explained - in a few short words - to his brother that he would leave him. ‘The pain in my chest leads me from you, it demands that I travel once again to the waves from whence we once rose.’

Kaldir, who had long felt that something was not right, responded: ‘Go ,my brother, before your heart breaks. Better mine than yours. But be ever careful. The sea is no longer our home and it now belongs to the children of the first. Avoid them and their anger.’

And before the waters of the Heimsvaten he knelt and called out her name so she might hear. And this time she revealed herself to him as clear blue and soft light, reflected on her skin. ‘I know who you are, Fire, swift word and passion. Son of lightning and brother of ice. Why are you longing so desperately for me? You gave of your own life just to talk to me.’

Because you have to understand: Dhadia is a daughter of the First, she is a goddess. She can see into hearts of common mortals. So, too, the hearts of giants.

‘Queen’ - he did not know how else to address her, for it was the highest title he knew. ‘Queen, forgive me. You are burnt into my heart ever since I saw you dance. And if you would grant me just one wish, then be it to bare witness to your joy once mor.’

Dhadia was a young goddess, she didn’t feel bound by the pride and lineage of her fathers and mothers and she took his hand. ‘So dance with me!’, she called out and laughed and never was Eldheitur happier in his life. But he did not dare move just a single step into the waves. ‘Why do you hesitate, son of the storm?’

‘One step just and my life is forfeit. I can not follow you. Fate’s cruel joke that binds me to land. But should it suffice my heart to see you.’

And so she let go of his hand and danced out on the tips of waves, jumping from rock to rock and the giant’s son clapped her rhythm and sang from the heart moved in his chest. Four days and four nights they met thus and they spoke and laughed and Dhadia told him of the wonders out there on the sea and deep beneath and Eldheitur in turn of the splendor of golden fields and deep-green forests. For Dhadia was a young goddess and the arrogant pride of her kin had not yet taken root in her heart. And when on that fourth day he knelt before her, she asked him to stand up and look her eye to eye– laughable she found his submission.

However, fortune did not smile upon them.” Odhrán paused once again and seemed to wait for someone to interject.

Eventually Íobhar took pity on him: “And then came Esontas.”

Odhrán nodded. “And then came Esontas. The ever-jealous fox saw their joy and in his heart there was naught but darkness. His devious mind devised a plan. The proud father would be furious if he found out. And thus he slipped away and quickly found his way to the Skyfather. He whispered to him of the happenings down on earth. Coróinithe raged and rode down to earth to see after his daughter. And there he found her, where the ocean meets the land, with the giant of which the fox had told him. He saw the honor of his kin thus gravely injured; for a daughter of the First to be seduced by such a lowly creature” - Odhrán rose to proud stature - “and he called out: ‘Leave my child and go back to your own. Never again shall you return and see her face!’

Eldheitur, fiery one, replied: ‘Not a single step will I yield. Your daughter has chosen me and no high king will tear this bond.’

‘Yield, or my wrath shall strike more than just you! Broke the peace between our peoples!’

But with the recklessness of youth, Eldheitur, now feeling wounded in his pride, stood before the god and proclaimed: ‘So be it then. If blood is what you crave, blood is what you shall get!’

‘Proud fools you are both!’, Dhadia cried–”

“And again: she is right”, Sara interrupted and Áed agreed with her.

“And I see you have still not become any better of a listener in all these years with the Militia, have you, hmm?”, said Odhrán but Sara merely shrugged.

“So Coróinithe and Eldheitur parted ways and Coróinithe, whom many say is also An Chéad, gathered his kin and he took their oath and gave them the spear.

The giant on the other hand made his way north and he found his king and confessed to him what had happened. The king did not get angry - it was not in his nature - but he replied coolly: ‘A fool you are. After all these years of good council I thought you wise. And an even greater fool you made of me. War you brought over us for the sake of your heart and your pride. Broken is the peace we have built so long.’

And Kaldir, too, gathered his proud host. Hundreds of giants, thousands, oceanborn and children of the earth, marched thus south to confront the gods.

For days they fought– reshaping landscapes. Primal force met primal force, burning, melting, tearing stone and leaving naught but raw substance. And on the sixth day Kaldir had to recognize his forces were outclassed. A messenger he sent to the Skyfather, but he never returned. On the morning of the seventh day Kaldir was wounded grievously and had to stay away from battle. At this the giants began to doubt and some refused to throw themselves into battle.

Eldheitur went to him and begged: ‘Brother, this battle is lost. We are lost. And if we don’t act, so is our people. Doomed by the mistake I made. My brother, take my armour and your army and retreat; save all who have not fallen in battle, all who are still with home and hearth; save them from the anger of the children of the First. I will stay and pay for my foolishness. Give me your armour and nine good fighters, and we will hold them off to buy you time to escape.’

And so, on the eighth day, the last remaining ten - Eldheitur among them - stood their ground, fiercely resisting the gods. With their blood they bought time for those retreating. But a daughter of Coróinithes spied the desperate train and thought to see her sister’s seducer at his lead. She threw the bright spear and the weakened Kaldir fell.

At this Dhadia rose from the Southern Sea, had she thought her beloved had fallen, after all. Heartbroken, shipwrecking, allencompassing-world-devouring. Primal tidal force surging over its banks, sweeping away everything. She drove the armies to retreat, so noone might be crushed by the masses in their arrogance.

The remaining brother, beaten and in fear, flees; flees northward with what remains of the giant-kin, to the mountains and hides there from the gods’ anger.

The flood rises higher and higher.

The flood rises higher and higher. Extinguishes fire and tears.

The flood rises higher and higher.

The flood rises higher and higher. Washes away the world. Washes away the blood.

And when in the end Dhadia’s anger made way for grief, she returned to her cold realm; so cold without the one to sing to her. And Eldheitur had to watch from his hiding place deep in the rock as she mourned him and yet he knew the gods would strike him down if he dared to show himself ever again. The pride of the gods, the spear of the gods.”

Peadar looked at him. “That’s it? That’s no good story.”

“Not all stories end well”, Odhrán replied. “But that is the story how the giants disappeared from the world.”

But Sara clapped. “It’s still half a miracle to me that you can remember all of that”, she said. “How do you know all these stories?”

“If you travel a lot and listen to the people, you pick up quite a lot of things.”

“Peadar is right, though”, said Caelan. “Maybe someone has a story a little more wholesome?”

“Well, perhaps I can help with that”, said Muirinn. “I presume you are all familiar with this story, but maybe it’s the kind of story we need right now. A decent, simple story we’ve all heard a hundred times. The story of the Goldmaiden.”

“Do you also still tell that one on New Year, Odhrán?”, Sara asked.

“Of course! It’s tradition”, the giant confirmed.

Sara wiped away water from her brow. “Mmm, how I would prefer to celebrate the new year with a Bhríddacrown on my head…”

“That’s almost half a year from now. First we have to think about Midwinter”, Caelan interjected.

“Which I would also rather not spend here”, Áed added and Caelan nodded.

“Hush now! Good old Odhrán is quite right: you just cannot listen. So, the story of the goldmaiden. Those were dark days, the world had to live through during that great war. The gods openly sought the power of their neighbours and in their name, brothers and sisters threw themselves at each other in legions. Hunger haunted the towns and villages and took one of three. Before him rode the godsworn troops and took for themselves what they could. Behind him rode his brother death; ever patient.

In the eighth of these dark years she was born; far off in the west in a land that no longer exists. Twins– her and her sister. They grew up sheltered, far away from the war, just as children are supposed to: With loving parents and play and stories and dreams. One filled with vigor, almost born with a sword in hand, dreamed of becoming a great warrior like she knew from stories. The other one timid, ever in her shadow, yet bound to her sister’s dream; nothing could have forced her from her side.

And yet their childhood was cut short when Caráiche fell to the assault of Mhéaren’s hordes. An Chéad, foremost son of the First and brother to Mhéaren had retreated there after his desperate attempts to appease his siblings had failed. And so with An Chéads death at the hand of his own brother the last hope that someone might put and end to the gods’ striving for power also died.

And yet not all was lost, as you know. In his last moment An Chéad turned to the young Goldmaiden, the child he had seen in his dreams and which he had hoped to spare from this cruel fate. Just one spark from him and like kindling her chest was set ablaze and she recognized her destiny. And so she left her parent’s home and left behind all she had ever known. Alone her sister did not stray from her side, no matter how dangerous the task would be.

On winding paths she wandered this world and where she met people, she spoke to them and gave them hope and woke in them the fire that was also burning inside her, so they might carry it to every house and every farm and share it with those they met in turn.”

Áed remembered standing - freezing - on the square in Bernin, his parents somewhere in the crowd behind– They had sent him to the front so he could see better. Thick snowflakes floating down as the Goldmaiden’s story was acted out in front of the gathered town. When one year the girl in the leading role forgot her text and someone from the crowd called out the next lines with a sympathetic laugh. When - another year - a troupe of actors supported their amateurs with fireworks and music. And always he stood there with cold hands and cold feet. Later on only with cold feet then, as his father handed him a cup of warm cider.

“On these travels they crossed the dunes of the Sea of Sands, the far steppe of the south, the Ironwoods, these our Riverlands all the way to the Eastern Sea and the Haphas. And among those she talked to, she inspired some to join her. Those were the first saints. Artair of Fellrath was the first. A simple shepard, but he recognized An Chéad in her and so he would follow her. Ealasaid of Salia, who would later forge her sword, would be the next. After her followed Mànas of Áth Damh, son of a man who had grown rich through trade with the Haphas in the east. He left behind his life to lead a simple life on the road under her guidance.

So they traveled the world and tried to heal the wounds torn by years of war. But with every village that was naught but charred ruins, with every life cut short, with every face in which hunger had dug deep, with every body writhing in agony, their hopes sank.

On the long road from Esaene to Merun, which was the most important city of the Riverlands even then, they met an army train traveling the same direction. At the shores of Abhainn na Bhrídda they made camp together and on that evening the Goldmaiden approached the army commander. She was young and viewed words and understanding to be the highest power and as such she wanted to understand what moved these women and men to march against their own people. The commander was a virtuous man of noble descent; He explained to her that he found no joy in marching into battle but that it was his holy duty to unite the realm in the name of his god. A unification that would bring peace. And in his words she found the memory of the great heroes of her childhood.

The next morning when breaking her fast she made a decision. She knew the commander to be right. The long months she had spent trying to alleviate the pain in the world were meaningless if the source of all this suffering continued to exist. Bitterly she fought with her sister about this, who, in her fear, could not see what the Goldmaiden of strong heart had recognized: That it was her calling, too, to unify the realm– Beneath one banner and one cause. In An Chéads last words she had seen the peace and prosperity that feels so natural to us now. She cast out her sister, who was so blind, and from then on travelled with the host. Until they reached Merun, the Goldmaiden often spoke to the commander and in time he, too, came to see An Chéad in her. He and his troop forsake their god and in Merun they finally went into battle in the name of the Goldmaiden. She appointed Para Catan as the fourth saint.

With their triumph at Merun the city then became the center of the new, unified realm. This battle should be the last the people would ever have to endure. Under her protection, no godsworn army dared attack Merun, and no one went hungry, so full were the granaries in her first year. And from Merun she unified the rest of the Riverlands; state by state joined the new realm.

The end of the hated war seemed within reach, and she saw her work as soon complete. Only far to the south, near the icy sea, did the traitor gods hold fast to their power.”

Odhrán snorted with disdain, but said nothing. Sara looked over at him and raised an eyebrow. He shook his head.

“It would take one last decisive action”, Muirinn continued. “But on the last night before the battle, the outcast sister crept into the tent of the Goldmaid. Ready to forgive her, she welcomed her with open arms and offered her the place at her side once again. But she rejected the hand offered and she cursed her. She would die in this battle.

The next morning the Goldmaiden received her victorious sword from Ealasaid and named it Síocháin. And with blazing heart she led her troops into the final battle. She rode in the very first row, a bright example for every fighter. And victory seemed near, when the sisters met on the battlefield again. Wounded, the weak one lay in the mud, the arrow that had felled her still in her side. That snake pleaded for help and, so pure war her soul, the Goldmaiden got off her horse, struck by the fate of her only remaining family. She fell to her knees next to her sister. She cast Síocháin into the mud. She took off her helmet. She wept hot tears over her waning sister. But her sister’s curse should become true. And Rúnias cruel spear sharply and pierced her flesh. In each other’s arms life left them and left behind only mortal substance.

No victory did the find that day, only death. The four saints commanded a retreat and so did the godsworn troops. But where there was no victory, there should at least be peace. No more fighting, no more suffering.”

In Áth Sionnach Áed had seen a heartrending reenactment of these last moments in the life of the Goldmaiden. What he had never fully understand, though, was how peace was brought along after this. But maybe one shouldn’t question this kind of stories too much. Good stories were good stories.

“And if days may be dark as night, they will eventually come to an end.”