The Red Veld

To Gabriel,

for all of the nonsense we’ve shared throughout the years;

amidst waves of darkness, you are a shaft of unfailing light.

CANTICLE OF THE LOST

––––––––

The world laments your departure,

Cries of parting for another farewell,

Amidst the wails of torment, darkness runs deep,

Shadows are cast by the fading light,

In your ears ring the echoes of silence,

And nothing remains,

The life you breathe is no more,

Weep not, for tears are wasted,

Grieve no longer, for cries are needless,

In shackles you were wrought,

But to chains you shall ne’er return,

For they await, for they await,

The First Zenith, timeless and enduring,

Their pine for you is eternal, their compassion overflowing,

Comfort and forgiveness, they offer freely,

Pain, you shall know no longer,

Your sorrows shall be erased,

In death, you are freed from the burdens of existence,

With open arms of elemental lore, they beckon,

With voices of exultation, they sing,

"Come, for our reach is boundless,

In our arms lie rest,"

On the eve of morrow’s gloom,

Their song shall pierce the stillness,

Where you shall once more find light.

1

He felt something crawl along his skin.

Hazy tendrils crept over his arms, sucking the flesh from his bones like vacuums of personal torture. Painful. That’s what it was. Absolutely painful.

Suffocating. Overpowering. Maddening.

The world was silent. His heart stopped for an endless age. It felt like a lifetime stretched into a handful of seconds. Time, however, waited for no one. Let alone a mortal. So, the moment passed, and he lost the chance to brace himself. His heart throbbed with newfound ferocity. Its frantic beat was the only sound that rang in his ears. It thrashed like a monster that banged on the doors of his subconscious, peeking through the floorboards, and telling him to get out of his cowardly crouch to grant it entrance. And here he was, actually considering the idea.

But this was reality. A different kind of hell. At times, a worse one. He didn’t have the luxury of focusing on the demons that haunted his mind. Because he was in the company of real monsters. Live ones that existed in the physical world. They had finely crafted masks and tuned personalities. Tweaked humans that showed only the most valued of faces.

Terror lingered in the air. The stench of fear was so potent that he crinkled his nose in distaste. Around him, the men and women in their fine suits and their pretty dresses screamed for their lives. Their voices sounded strangely muffled to his ears. Distant. Like they’d been submerged in water. And, he realized, with an almost stone cold sort of calm that, so was he.

Wait.

He inhaled sharply.

No.

No, he wasn’t. He could breathe. He could feel the rise and fall of his chest. He could hear the clink of his shackles. Even as shaky rasps of desperate prayers unintentionally dripped like honey from his lips.

A woman fell, involuntarily kneeling before him with her mouth open in a silent scream. Her hair was so wrecked it looked as if a bird had somehow found its way inside and built a home. Tears raced down her cheeks and her body was wracked with sobs of panic. Her peers were on the ground behind her; their robes stained black with blood. The ones left standing, however, bore expressions of anger. Or was it fear? He no longer knew. Those emotions were all birthed from the same passion.

What he did know was that they were clinging to life, as if they were irreplaceable existences in the elaborate web of fate. As if any of them were worth more than a sack of gold and a few sleepless nights.

Like their lives have meaning, he thought bitterly, then scoffed. It came out as a guttural rasp, but he didn’t care. They were nothing but fools that made all of the wrong choices in a futile attempt to find purpose; to maintain their standing; to rise in the social circles of the Institute. Always complaining. Never satisfied. Why do they even want to carry on?

He knew the significance of life. It was a precious thing... or so everyone claimed. But what he didn’t understand was why they bothered. Their lifespans were limited. Morality was humanity’s number one shared trait. He’d met many that justified their selfish actions by claiming that they were simply making the most out of their time. As if that made things better.

They wanted to leave behind their mark of existence. But that was such a laughable notion. Society was dynamic, and like all unstable things, it was every bit as doomed as they were. Sooner or later, their legacies would fade. They’d be replaced by better people with even grander tales, until the only mementoes left were embellished whispers rarely talked about in third-rate taverns. They were clinging to a moment of fame.

Fools, he decided long ago, the lot of them.

They were dying, and all he felt was numb, calm, and just a little too happy. How long had he waited for them to disappear and leave him be? Five years? Ten? Twenty? Long enough.

He sighed in relief, before his breath hitched.

All of the pain he’d felt abruptly ceased, and then turned inward. His insides burned. The agony spread like a candle set to rivers of oil. He doubled over, somehow managing to balance himself on all fours. Heat bubbled in his chest, before something wet, sticky, and unbearably hot needled its way up his esophagus. He felt it scorch everything it passed, and it wasn’t long before he was coughing, gasping for breath between each terrible fit, until it came out. When it did, he wasn’t at all surprised by what he saw.

Red.

It was everywhere.

A glob of blood stained not only the floor, but also his hands, his mouth, even his teeth. As if his situation wasn’t bad enough, now even his illness was catching up with him. Impeccable timing as always. Why in the world would whatever deity out there plant the seed of disease in him, further destroying his already doomed mechanism? He didn’t doubt that the Creator hated him. But what did he do to deserve it?

From the beginning, he’d been cast into a life of unfinished sentences and undisclosed potential. He was forced to drown in the realization that he’d never truly be able to accomplish anything with the hand he’d been dealt. Sure, he could’ve played his cards a bit better or he could’ve cheated every now and again. But even those on the brink of desperation couldn’t utilize skills that had never been in their arsenal to begin with.

Unlike him, the Creator was all powerful—or so he always heard from the well-dressed priests that were tasked to preach his greatness. Many claimed that the Creator was the giver and taker of life. Birth and death all wrapped into one encompassing package. The Creator lingered in the wind, the trees, the sea foam. Nature’s spirit given a name. A being that’s sole purpose was to make sure everyone had an equal chance at life.

Equal, he thought with no small amount of disdain. The word alone made him gnash his teeth in fury. The Creator had one job. Just one job.

Did he find humor in his suffering? Did his woes provide entertainment or some sick form of pleasure? A priest had once told him that the illness that wrecked his insides and forced him to cough pools of blood on a daily basis was the Creator’s will. That everything that had passed and everything that had yet to come was already predetermined for some higher cause and they were simply left to construe.

How stupid.

He found no solace in an incorporeal presence guiding his life. He’d been told on more than one occasion that he should be grateful for being born to begin with, and he’d say the same thing each time: So, I could know nothing but hardship?

There were an optimistic few that told him to look on the bright side of things. To reflect until he found that silver lining he didn’t believe existed. They were a positive, yet annoying bunch. While he wasn’t against their hopeful outlook, he did have a problem with their flawed sense of reasoning, and how they always seemed to shove those rosy ideals down his throat. They argued that because of adversity, he knew compassion. Because of hate, he could appreciate warmth. Because of poverty, he learned how to treasure the little he did own.

As if a slave owned anything. He didn’t even own the links between his wrists. Fools and their worthless drivel, he judged darkly. Fool wasn’t enough. Incorrigible human scum.

They were nice words, to be sure, and he knew they were only trying to comfort him, but it didn’t change the fact that to him, the Creator was nothing more than beautified hokum. An abstract spirit created by those that wanted to claim some false support from something larger than any single person could explain. But of course he couldn’t say that. Lest he receive another whipping. So, he was forced to brush away his thoughts and add his name to the ever-growing list of people that were dealt a less than stellar hand. He was forced to play the part of ardent advocate; forced to believe that a brighter future awaited him in a tidy, bow-topped bundle outside of death’s door.

He hated it.

So much so that he couldn’t even verbally express his own animosity. At this point, thinking about it hardly even enraged him. His hatred had cooled, and was now a solid piece of iron-cold coal left in the pit of his stomach. There was an indescribable heaviness to it that trailed after him like a shadow.

His mind was his only solace. It was a safe place, where he could speak without ever truly doing so. He was free to believe whatever he wished there. And, in the sanctity of his thoughts, he wasn’t having any of it. The only thing he’d ever sought in life was to change the world. No. His world was more accurate.

He wanted to change his world.

It was a simple idea to think about, but actually carrying out the necessary steps was more daunting than anything he’d ever known. He wasn’t ignorant enough to not realize that all of his actions altered his life in some way, but to change it so much that it yielded discernible results took more time. Decades more than what he had. It was a long and drawn-out process. Exhausting didn’t even begin to describe it. But it was still better than doing what everyone expected of him. It was better than sitting back, praying, and quietly accepting his fate.

He wouldn’t settle. He rejected that idea. He wasn’t buying it. The Creator needed better sales pitches because he held only loathing for Ferus Terria’s so-called god.

His fingers twitched, casting ripples in the puddle of blood before him. He didn’t want to see this. So, his brown eyes darted around the hall, searching for a distraction. They rolled in frantic circles all around his sockets. He wasn’t tired. Not really. He’d been on the brink of exhaustion many times before, and he knew for a fact that, right now, he wasn’t even close.

And yet, he felt sluggish somehow.

The world moved in slow motion. The rich shades that the pigs around him donned blended into one blur. Just out of focus enough to give him a sleepy kind of headache. He felt the onset of it wash over him in the form of half-numbed pangs of pain that stemmed from his temples, then rippled out across his forehead.

He closed his eyes. They felt useless now.

Don’t you dare close your eyes.

They immediately snapped open at the order, then further widened in shock when an echo of the words resounded inside of his mind. It bounced like a sharp cry of steel hitting stone. But, more importantly, it made his headache disappear. He bit his tongue to keep verses of gratitude from escaping his lips.

His body felt light. The fatigue that blanketed him abruptly retreated. Even his violent coughing stopped. He felt better than he had in years. Like the world—the entire future—was at his fingertips. All he had to do was grasp.

But, right now, his hands shook, and he trembled at the sight of all the blood. He would’ve grimaced had he been able to wipe the shock off of his face. That was impossible though.

His eyes widened when noise became disturbingly lucid. The cries he thought distant were suddenly so near, so vulgar, and oh, so important. It scared him more than he cared to admit, but it intrigued him, too. Had he been hearing muffled tones all of his life? It certainly seemed like it. The world had always been a buzz of orders. His only real companion was the ringing in his ears. Until now.

Thelarius Merve, a dreadfully sweet voice called.

It was the first time his name bobbed around inside of him. Drawn out in such a way that even he thought it belonged to someone important. That voice reminded him of the bedtime stories his dead brother used to tell. It had the power to both soothe and excite all of the nerves in his body. Tantalizing him in every possible way.

A pair of dainty feet bathed themselves in his blood. Black haze rose from underneath the stranger’s toes, enveloping all she stepped on. He watched faces form as the smoke floated upward. They spoke in a language that sounded like birds feasting, before they vanished into an aura of dark mist.

Are they cursing me? he pondered, knowing it was likely. He had the worst luck.

Don’t look away.

Thelarius startled again, failing to brush aside his anxieties.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he looked up, and for one insane instant, he wondered if this was the Creator. Here to personally punish him for his blasphemous thoughts.

The Creator was prettier than he expected—and a woman to boot—with a full head of luminous hair, alabaster skin, and glowing beauty, she made even the best he’d seen seem unsightly in comparison. Thelarius was captivated by the bright glow of her gray eyes. They were completely limpid. Otherworldly was the only word he could use to describe them.

Is she here to send me off?

If she was actually the Creator, then he had a lot to say to her. But he was too enraptured by her form to speak. Despite knowing that the beauty of a god was strictly a matter of course, her mere appearance was enough to still his tongue and take his breath away. His jaw slackened in wonder. Thoughts chased each other in his mind, but he couldn’t organize them enough to speak. So, he didn’t try. His voice was already gone from him anyway, waddling off like a boggled duck.

Is this how men die? Thelarius mused. Asphyxiated by beauty?

She casually pushed aside the dead woman on her knees—he’d forgotten that she was there—and placed a hand on his chin, smirking all the while. As if she could hear his thoughts. As if she knew all of his intimate secrets.

Thelarius didn’t doubt it.

Is it power you seek? she whispered.

He shuddered. The feel of her breath gliding across his face assured him that she was, indeed, real. Not just a hopeful figment of his overactive imagination. Not just a hallucination from the lack of blood. It would’ve been better if she was. The Mentalists always sent those with one too many cracks in their heads away.

Answer me, she urged.

Thelarius gave her a grim smile, flashing bloody teeth. He sought something far worse.

I seek life.

She smiled, and he trembled.

Her beauty was astounding and terrifying and just so utterly beyond belief that all he could do was wonder how she could be real. Her eyes were more striking than anything he’d ever known. Granted, he saw very few beautiful things in his life. But even he could discern divinity from the mundane attractions of every day. Yet, why was it that all he could think about as he gaped up at her was blood and screaming?

You shall have it.

Her words broke him in ways she could never comprehend.

A searing pain erupted from his fingertips and spread like burning poison across his body. His skin boiled. He felt like his entire body was being branded. His throat, although hoarse, was still somehow able to produce sound, and he screamed at the sensation. His mouth frothed over with saliva. Thelarius’ shouts were loud enough to even surprise the goddess before him, but he abruptly paused when the spit exiting his gullet turned into fresh blood. It caught in his throat and made him gurgle.

The pain didn’t numb as time passed. Each instant felt hotter than the last, until the few shreds of his sanity slipped away from him. Everything was replaced by pain.

Yet, he didn’t die.

For all intents, this kind of burning torture should’ve killed him, or at the very least, knocked him into oblivion. Thelarius endured it, however, in consciousness. Perhaps he was forced to.

Don’t entertain any false notions of escape.

Without warning, the pain stopped. Thelarius’ voice died with it. He collapsed at its absence. So abrupt as to be missed. His breaths came out short and harsh. Every exhale made his shoulders quake, and they showed no signs of easing anytime soon. He needed to calm down, but every pant was wetter than the last. Thelarius could taste the iron tang of gore on his tongue. He knew that he wasn’t about to get over this just because he willed it. Nothing was ever that easy. Especially not for him.

Thelarius shook his head, trying to clear it enough to wrap his mind around what just happened. Around what was still happening.

You’re not getting away.

He keeled over to vomit a mouthful of bile. There was no food in his stomach to release. It left a rancid taste in his mouth that easily overpowered the copper. Thelarius remained there for a long time, uncaring for the way his hands and knees quivered in protest. He stared at his reflection against the puddle of spittle and blood. His blood. Thelarius squinted at the face that looked back at him, unsure if what he saw was real.

Then, despite the rawness of his throat, he screamed once more at the sight of his eyes.

They were stained crimson.

You’re mine.

A flood of power coursed through his veins, followed by another wave of incessant pain. But this time, he didn’t cry out. Because, despite the perpetual ache that rocked his very bones, he felt good. Better than he had in a long time. The contrast was a strange one, and he didn’t know how to reconcile the gap in his mind, so he didn’t try. All he focused on now was how clearly he could breathe and how his fatigue slowly, but surely ebbed away like steam lost to the sky.

Thelarius couldn’t help the grin that stretched his lips then. A cerise smile. Manic, hurting, and more pleased than he had any right to be. It was the most satisfying feeling in the world.

This is it, Thelarius thought. He knew, without a sliver of doubt, that this was what he’d been seeking.

The beginning of his new world.

***

Jack opened his eyes.

They burned with the sun.

Flinching, he waited a good minute, before risking another peek. Jack blinked in incomprehension when he found himself settled against a rock along an unending stretch of emptiness. Grass filled his vision, followed by the pale flash of the open sky. For a moment, Jack was muddled by his surroundings, but then his half-awake brain caught up with him, and he... sighed.

The Yovakine Plains, he thought without affection. Right.

Weeks of travel, and they had yet to reach the Red Veld. His feet were sore and his head pounded with a vengeance as the last vestiges of his dream—a memory of the past, he suspected—faded into the faraway edges of his mind. He’d been having a lot of those lately, and each was stranger than the last. Jack tried to recall the already blurry details, but a sudden noise disrupted his thoughts, making it slip away completely.

He turned toward the foreign sound. Surprise chased naked relief across his face at the warm glow of orange eyes. Though the familiar robes had been concealed by a common cloak, he easily recognized the distinctly pale features. Not even the sun stood a chance against flesh whitened under the Zexin Sea.

Syl, Jack called hoarsely.

His tongue flicked out, wetting sandpaper, as he caught the waterskin she threw him. It was running dry. With no civilization as far as the eye could see, he could only hope for rain. But after a particularly long night that ended in ruin and both of them essentially homeless, he had a special revulsion for the rain. Jack supposed he could freeze something and suck on the icy frost left by his magic instead, but he wasn’t that desperate. Not yet.

Where’d you go? he asked once he drank his fill.

Sylvie eyed him then. Half of his face darkened by receding shadows and the other half lit brilliantly by the sun. Yet his eyes were brighter than even the rays of fire above them somehow.

Jack stretched, ignoring her stare, as lines of smooth and less than pleased Íarre slipped from his tongue like a spell that warmed her from head to toe. Sylvie failed to translate the words fast enough. Although Jack spent most of his time teaching her, Íarre was a difficult language to learn. There were too many slight nuances that she couldn’t fully grasp. But it didn’t stop her from trying, nor him from teaching.

Twenty three days, she thought, since the Drowned Tower fell.

Your mind is late as usual, Jack said in the trade tongue, startling her from her stupor. His voice held all of the aggravation she associated with his usual mood. Plus a hint of amusement for flavor. Don’t tell me you wandered off like this.

I was trying to find the Red Veld, she finally answered.

And?

I found it. A speck in the distance, but it’s there. Its walls were clear.

An Institute locked in yearlong winter. A city filled with gold. Flourishing towns. Lava-filled landscapes. Even old ruins! Jack ticked each one off on his fingers, while internally hoping that they ran into an Amorph. He briefly recalled the horrid affair with his mother back in the Eirinne Mountains, before groaning in frustration. So many options, and my mother chooses to leave us in the middle of the Yova Plains with little more than a shrug and a wave in the right direction.

It made him want to burn something.

Instead, he was painfully reminded that fire was no longer in his skill set. An Elementalist with only one element. Jack scoffed in self-deprecation. He might’ve given them up willingly, but even he thought the resulting situation was idiotic. Perhaps it would’ve been better if his eyes shifted, too, but he doubted it. Such a drastic change would’ve shocked him straight into denial.

Jack’s gaze trailed away from the rising sun and to the west. The supposedly poor lands of the south were more beautiful than he thought they’d be. There were no seedy urchins or emaciated drifters wandering about. There weren’t even any half-dead men splayed across the grass. Just emptiness. Vast and encompassing. Jack closed his eyes and took a deep, satisfying breath.

He felt free.

Well, almost. The shackles branded onto his legs were sore reminders otherwise. He shook each one out self-consciously, then brushed his fingers against the Orive crystal entrenched along the side of his head out of habit.

Bad dream? Sylvie asked, then drew an imaginary line along the side of her head. You always rub here when you’re agitated. Do you want to talk about it?

He’d rather set himself on fire.

Jack forced his hand down. Thelarius help me if even you’re able to read me now.

"Maybe she’s giving me the power of insight."

I’m glad I’m not the only one that thought you needed it.

Jack laughed when she glared.

That voice within the Heartstone had become something of a running joke between them. Though they felt her presence, and even saw the darkness within, she hadn’t spoken to them since they left Cheryll’s cottage in the Eirinne Mountains. Jack knew that she was waiting—for what exactly, he wasn’t certain—but he wasn’t going to force her to speak. That thing would talk when it wanted to. She seemed smart enough to do so. Right now, he was reveling in the lack of power offers and unreasonable orders.

Besides, they had their own problems to deal with. Like their fellow practitioners from the Drowned Tower slowly turning into refugees. Some were even hunted down by the Vanguard Circle for attacking Nebbin. Whenever they found a band of travelers headed their way, all they seemed to talk about were the happenings in the east. Not one word concerning the Alps left their mouths, which was a feat in itself.

"Well, I had a strange dream," Sylvie said, dragging him from his thoughts, as they began the mundane task of walking.

And? Jack prompted, disinterestedly placing one foot in front of the other. It was a chore just to move. He could handle rough conditions, but that didn’t stop him from wishing for a roof over his head. Maybe even a soft bed.

I saw Thelarius Merve.

Jack lurched to a stop.

Sylvie looked back at him, one eyebrow raised in question at his wide eyes.

You’re joking, he said.

Why would I joke about something like that?

That’s what I’m trying to figure out.

Jack stepped back when she put her hands on her hips in offense. He gripped his sleeves when she even went so far as to describe her dream in vivid detail. How she could remember such things were beyond him. But the picture she painted was familiar enough to stir his own memory.

"Wonderful. So, she’s invading both of our dreams, Jack said. The least she could do is spare one of us. She hasn’t spoken in, what, three weeks? If this continues, then I’d rather she talk to us directly. I can’t be sleep-deprived on top of everything else."

"She was with Thelarius," Sylvie murmured in concern.

"Does it really matter who she was with? We still don’t know what she wants. It’s best to focus on what mother wan—no, what we want to do."

Sylvie hesitated, before conceding. You’re right.

He grinned at that. Roguish, even for him. Sylvie didn’t trust that look. It spelled nothing but trouble. Jack didn’t seem to notice her dismay because he surged forward with renewed enthusiasm. Not even something as disturbing as sharing a dream could put him down. Though she knew him well enough by now to know that he tucked the thought away for more in-depth scrutiny later tonight when he could brood over it without her reading his every expression. Sylvie commended him for that. But only because it was also a reminder that they had more pressing things to do than consider questions they didn’t have the answers to.

Jack had wanted to leave the Drowned Tower for so long. So, even if his feet ached with every step, he was damn well going to enjoy it. The Institute crumbling had been the loss of a lifetime. Still, a better gain. He wasn’t going to let anything temper his drive. Especially not some vague dream.

Come on. Jack turned, momentarily recoiling from the sun’s glare. He arched his eyebrows at her in expectance, then flashed her the most vibrant grin he could muster. Pick up the pace. We’ve got a long walk ahead of us.

The disgruntled look she threw him only made him laugh.

Reed,

It’s been almost a month since you passed, and I still find myself writing to you. It’s... therapeutic. I never understood why you’d jot things down in your tome, turning it into a journal—I remember Master Cephas yelling at you for that on multiple occasions—but I see now how calming it is. Still, I hope I’ll get over this soon. (I doubt it.) The company I’m keeping at the moment isn’t exactly the most comforting. Jack’s a man of extremes. His personality can be tiring or rejuvenating depending on his mood.

I’ve gotten to know him fairly well these past few weeks. There isn’t much to do but talk out here. We get along about as much as you’d expect. Though sometimes he looks at me as if he’s contemplating ramming his head against a wall in annoyance... oh, and did I mention his conceit? It’s physically draining. But there are some days when I see him looking down at his hands, and I remember that he’s just as lost as me. It makes me wish you were still here. We could use someone to balance us when we’re being too stubborn to admit our wrongs.

Every day it seems as if we’re getting into more and more scrapes—with Nebbin, with mercenaries, with each other. I should’ve listened more when you taught me how to properly care for my wounds. The bandages I tie aren’t exactly pristine. My sterilization skills could use some work, too. I actually miss that scented soap that Master Cephas used to give away. The pink one with the burgundy spots.

We’ve been roaming the Yovakine Plains for a while. It’s large and filled with miles of nothing. The cities are but promising specks in the distance. Villages are far enough from each other that passing out from walking is an actual problem. I don’t know if you would love or hate it. The sky looks so big. The Drowned Tower seems so far away. It’s been twenty-three days since we left you alone under the Zexin Sea, and we’ve yet to really do anything with our lives or our so-called freedom.

I miss home.

I have to go now. Jack calls. I don’t trust the energy in his grin.

I’ll write again soon.

Sylvie Sirx 11.27.CA

2

Merchants, and those modest enough to ignore their worn shoes and hooded faces, were invaluable sources of information. Oddly enough, those that travelled in small groups were the most welcoming. Jack would think they’d be more cautious because of their numbers—or lack of—but those they passed had always been kind, happy, and terribly gullible. How they managed to survive was anybody’s guess. Jack knew many that would happily mug them. Even he played with the idea on more than one occasion.

Maybe there was something about them that he was missing. A sign of sorts. He did recall seeing a certain symbol adorning their wares—a manacle stitched over cloaks of fine red. It was a vicious-looking emblem, but he knew better than to ask its meaning. It didn’t take much to put two-and-two together anyway. Once he saw the word: ‘Fetters’ branded upon their caravans, he had an inkling about the type of wares they dealt with. Nevertheless, Jack kept his mouth shut and maintained his persona of naïve country boy because they had better things to do than worry about empty wagons and smiling salesman.

Today, however, he wasn’t feeling so tolerable. Maybe it was the lingering thought of his and Sylvie’s shared dream or maybe it was how one of the men, with his crooked nose and his rotten teeth, grinned slimily at them. It could’ve even been the way the man placed a hand upon the hilt of his sword. An action filled with such malice that Jack couldn’t help the sudden narrowing of his eyes.

Jack couldn’t say for certain which of these threw him over the edge—perhaps all of them—but his good mood had evaporated in an instant and what was left of his already thin patience had disappeared along with his smirk.

Before Jack could second-guess himself, he was already sprinting, his hands were glowing, and magic was leaping from his fingertips. Jack was just as shocked as the merchants when a spray of frost spread out and enveloped their feet. He’d wanted to frighten them by pushing them back with a spray of sharp gravel, not still their movements. But he supposed this worked just as well.

The more mindful of the two drew his sword once Jack drew near. But his magic was faster. It crept upward in the span of a breath, encasing the slaver in a layer of ice four inches thick. His companion screamed in horror, no doubt traumatized by the sight. But it wasn’t long before he, too, was silenced.

While Jack froze the nameless man’s body numb, Sylvie picked out what they could use from the dead men’s meager supply. It wasn’t much. Drapery, linens, a few bruised potatoes. The clothes looked—and likely felt—expensive. They’d fetch a high price in the right market, but they were also numerous and heavy. It was far too much for them to carry.

Jack watched her stuff what she could into her sack. He doubted she’d be able to close it, deluged as it was, but he didn’t bother telling her. Jack merely dusted himself off. Ice fell from his clothes, tinkling, before evaporating into nothing above the soil.

We can sell these, Sylvie said once he caught up with her.

She shoved a pile of badly folded silk linens in his hands. If Sylvie was concerned about his sudden bout of violence, then she didn’t show it. The realization that they needed to find proper shelter before night came and brought the winds with it took precedence over his ever-changing mood.

During their first days of travel, they both quickly learned just how volatile the weather of the Yovakine Plains was. Biting nights and sudden storms were common. There was never any adequate shelter either. Although several settlements were scattered across the Plains, it took an age to get anywhere near them. It didn’t help that Jack insisted that they remain on foot to avoid any unwanted attention. Sylvie hadn’t disagreed with him at the time. But at the end of the day, when her aching legs could no longer carry her weight, she thought that perhaps the extra attention might be worth it. She was tired of going to sleep with stinging calves.

Finally, Jack muttered, then pointed at a shack in the distance. It was as shabby as the dozen beyond it.

Jack drew an old map from his pack. Notes were scribbled along the edge of each city’s name in a mixture of Íarre and the trade tongue. Between them were rough sketches of family symbols piled on top of each other in an untidy system that only he could make out.

Sylvie looked away from her futile hunt for supplies to where he was pointing. She was immensely pleased to find a village that even her sore feet could walk to. It was a blessedly short distance away from the Red Veld, too.

What village is that? Sylvie asked.

A new one.

What makes you say that?

It isn’t on the map. I can see why, too. It’s not exactly worth noting. But it’s our only option right now. You ready?

As I’ll ever be. I just hope they let us pass.

Why wouldn’t they?

Sylvie gestured meaningfully to his hood, and his mouth opened in belated understanding. Jack quickly tried to adjust it in a way that still covered his eyes. But it was a wasted attempt that ended with his hair in his face.

Does this look less suspicious? he asked.

No, Sylvie answered, then swiftly walked past him in a poor attempt to hide her growing smile.

At least I tried! Jack called out.

Their petty concerns, however, were for naught. Entering the village was easier than either of them expected. Too easy. There were no guards at the gate. Just one lone lookout. Asleep, drunk, and far too plump to be of any real use.

The village was full of poor, backwater folk that openly stared as they passed, though none made a move to stop them. Most slept between dirty hovels. Perhaps they found it preferable to actually being in one. Bony urchins strolled aimlessly about, already tired of begging. Even the stalls were empty, save for one or two ears of overpriced corn.

It came as no surprise that seeds were in short supply. Few used the Yovakine Plains’ soil for farming; an effect of the sudden rekindling of slavery, no doubt. The people were afraid, and it showed. The practitioners that hid themselves away in the Veld didn’t seem keen on helping them either.

A ratty woman quietly approached the pair. She flashed them a smile filled with holes. Her features spoke of childhood beauty, but that had long been smothered by poverty.

With desperate eyes, she scrutinized them in a mixture of plea and envy. Though the woman spoke fluent Yövín, the words came out too thick for anyone to understand. Sylvie thought her tongue numb. Still, the woman persisted. Her tone was rough and desperate like she was expelling an ancient curse.

Sylvie could guess well enough her words. The look in her eyes said more than her failing tongue ever could—she sought alms. But just as Sylvie grabbed one of the lavish linens they’d gathered to sell, bruising fingers yanked her back.

A dirty urchin skidded his way between them and the woman. Sylvie swallowed a yelp, as Jack kept his hands firmly locked on her shoulders. The urchin paused to glare briefly at the cloth in Sylvie’s hands, debating whether or not to run back and try again. But Jack’s glare was dark enough to make the boy endure his hunger for another day.

The woman, however, wasn’t so quick to flee. With strength neither of them expected, she swiped the silk from Sylvie’s fingers, dirtying it beyond reprieve, before she scurried off into a small shack flanked by a group of red-faced drunks.

Then, silence.

Broken only by Jack’s sudden, annoyed exhale.

Lovely. Sylvie brushed him away and walked ahead, her stride brisker than before. I was going to give it to her anyway.

Which was stupid of you, Jack said. He shrugged when Sylvie wrinkled her nose at him. The Veld may be the largest of the four Institutes, but it’s not the wealthiest. I doubt they help the people here like what the Tower did for those on Eriam.

Clearly.

Just be sure to watch yourself, Jack advised. Desperation breeds fools.

Sylvie nodded. It seemed fate still had a few surprises for her. She’d thought the fall of the east enough to sate it for a while. She was wrong of course. Sylvie just hoped that the next thing she lost wouldn’t be too close to her heart.

Without thinking, she gripped the Heartstone, as if it could grant her wish. Perhaps it could. She didn’t dare underestimate the silent presence hidden beneath its surface. Sylvie snuck a peek at its glow. It shone like it always did. But today, it seemed a tad brighter against their rotten surroundings. Soon, the presence within would speak. She knew it would. All she had to do was wait.

Sylvie shivered at the thought. Feelings of anticipation and foreboding flittered across her heart, before it was replaced by immense relief as she looked across the town to find the lofty walls of the Red Veld, which stood proud, despite the consequences of age. It was an impressive sight to behold, and though it looked as if it needed a thorough cleaning, it didn’t make the sight any less remarkable. But neither did it do wonders for the smell. As soon as the scent of grime reached their noses, they scrunched their faces and turned away in distaste.

The stench alone was formidable. Even more so than the circular wall that surrounded it. The wall was made from broad, connected panels. Each one was so high that Sylvie suspected they would be little more than specks should she ever reach