Blood and Brimstone

By Nina Filipovi

For Em

The reverd Son o the Wind

Will call to his allies-in-arms
Herd them cross the seas, dales and stars
Sneak them to the Garden o Gods
Trespassers must pay a price
Regardless of how high or low
Rest assurd: who arrives at this cove
Will not be the one who embarkd from home.
- The Eleventh Scroll, Passage 254; May's Deterrent

Prologue: The Final Letter.................................................................................... 5

Chapter I: The Slaves Escape............................................................................. 6
Chapter II: The Outcasts.................................................................................... 16
Chapter III: Our Great Saviour...........................................................................26
Chapter IV: The Sevis Battler............................................................................. 59
Chapter V: Revolution........................................................................................ 84
Chapter VI: Dead Asshole Grandpa.................................................................105
Chapter VII: We Do Not Spare.........................................................................124
Chapter VIII: Congregate................................................................................. 141
Chapter IX: Hellfire.......................................................................................... 162
Chapter X: The Last Place You Look.................................................................180
Chapter XI: Fools Gold.................................................................................... 199
Chapter XII: The Coming of the Cavalry..........................................................229
Chapter XIII: By Any Other Name....................................................................272
Chapter XIV: Light Em Up............................................................................... 298
Chapter XV: Remember Me............................................................................. 319
Chapter XVI: Exile Vilify................................................................................... 346
Chapter XVII: The Pawn................................................................................... 373
Chapter XVIII: Freedom................................................................................... 384
Chapter XIX: Aleph.......................................................................................... 408
To Cheat Death................................................................................................ 421

Prologue: The Final Letter

To whomever it may concern, I am Xexarian.
The tenmonth that passed had been a tremulous one. Nothing was quite the same since the
rebel faction led by myself located and integrated the vagabond living on the outskirts of our
humble settlement. Recruiting a hot-blooded warrior to our side struck me as a good initiative.
It is always necessary to have somebody with such fervour and grit lying around in our
respected Outcast ranks. I imagined that we would become an impenetrable force within
months, and that we could finally overthrow Aurus and his reign of tyranny.
Sadly, many believe that we would not live long enough to see him fall. This became all too
clear during the events of the past lunar sweep. After I write this, I will make sure that this
letter is burned and scattered over the boardwalk, so that the townsmen passing through could
walk all over my failure. Let it be carried away on the soles of their feet, never to be seen
again. I will make no errors hereupon. Mark those words of mine, as they were said by the
leader of this insurgence against the King.
Its much too cold to write inside this inn. The chill slithers through the cracks in the walls
and creeps into every crevice of my spine like claws of golden ichor. It feels like I have been
cursed with an icy spell; like I am ready to snap and shatter if I were to move an inch. My
fingers are coiling around the spotted quill I hold in my shaky hand, and my handwriting is
becoming harder to read. I should think that my white frozen knuckles and the smears of ink
on the parchment are telling me to cease my narration.
I suppose I should draw it to a close. This letter to my achievements so far was meant to edify
my consciousness and tell me which path I should lead my squadron through. So far, it has
only infuriated me. The written recollections reminded me of my indolent behaviour in the
past, my carelessness, my idle and fickle ways. I painted an image of myself as a proud and
noble hero. My notions were repudiated by the results that came with the first death of a
valued brother-in-arms.
Now, minutes before we are set to embark on our journey, I solemnly swear that I will bring
us all to our heavens apex. In the honour of my grandfather, I hereby vow to bring my friends
into Zephyrs Field or die.
My death would break the prophecy that kept Brimstone collected for over a thousand years. I
just hope the aged fables were valid. As much as I hate dying, I would absolutely loathe dying
as evidence that our entire nation had been misled. This puts too much pressure on one man.
Because of this, I hope to prove that I can carry out my duties well.
I have drawn out this note for much too long, seeing that I have nobody to send it to. Here is
an attempt to shorten this pointless epistle:
I am Xexarian. These just might be my final written words.

Chapter I: The Slaves Escape

Seven years earlier

Dusk still had some time to settle over the Aura Kingdom. The stars faded from the sky
already, the crickets had stopped their vexing chirping, and the only sounds that came from
the palace were the soft crying of the servants and loud, echoing footsteps of a certain young
envoy, clutching his large jacket and draping it over his shoulders. It was cold in the
passageways, but he did not feel the chill in his bones. He ran, amain, ghost-like smoke
billowing out of his nostrils. The golden walls plated with inscriptions of the ancient Scrolls
flashed in the ever-illuminated hall, their sayings slashing into the boys eyes like razors.
for the King is a being to behold; no ordinary fastidious mortal could take the
crown and staff and command the legions of Brimstone
A King is grand and glorious all of those who fail to appease him deserve a
quick death
heavenly Kala, give us our villagers bread and soak it in wine for the King to
dine
The phrases taken out of any context were displayed for every guest, general, slave or
kingsman to see. There they stood, plonk, in between the oil portraits of Supreme Leader
Aurus and his forefathers who took the throne before him. The delivery boy bowed down his
head in humility, feeling those deep, black eyes touch his soul and command him to go faster
and fulfil his duty to the Kings commanding general.
The icy, corroded metal tugged against the palm of his hand, sending a couple of links away
from his grasp. In mild shock and possibly even panic, he took out a cloaked arm from the
warm fleece and grabbed tight hold of the clanking metal. His coat fell off his shoulders. He
tugged at the chain one, hard, and a small, gaunt girls frame plummeted to the sandstone
floor. The collar felt tight, choking her when the young blond pulled her over to him. Her
breathing was heavy and rapid; cold beads of sweat rolled down her auburn brow. She
swallowed, the node in her throat catching on the iron that surrounded her bruised neck. Her
nostrils flared.
She was pulled up by the downy hair on the back of her head and made to stare into the young
mans glare; cobalt eyes clashing with her honey-colored spheres whose irises were spotted
with small dark circles, as though her pupil had burst open, as its ink was overflowing and
spilling over the painted orb.
Keep close! He commanded, his voice cracking with puberty. He allowed her a second to
stand on her feet and iron out the creases in her golden, shimmering shroud. After running a
quick hand over her translucent frock, she stumbled again, dragged into Smees quarters by
her neck. Her fingers curled around the iron ring that broke her skin.
6

After this small incident, the young man stopped stock-still in front of a wide gate. The dark
oak loomed over the two like a giant; an ent that the young man often heard about in folklore
his mother told him before he went to bed. The gates were closed shut, looking as if they were
bulging, keeping in vicious spirits, howling and bringing unfathomable doom to anyone that
could have entered. Furrowing his brow, the boy gulped and looked at the wide-eyed slave
girl.
Stay here!
And just to make sure she obeyed him, he took his hand up and flung it at her, making her
flinch and screech. When she looked up again, there was a fire in her eyes; a burning angry
flame that the man foolishly ignored. Still holding the end of the long chain in his clammy
palm, he took the knob and folded it down until he heard the mechanism crack and whine.
The girl hid behind the wall, crunching her knuckles when her fists shook in rage, when the
young man pushed the great block of wood away, face becoming red in great strain. When he
finally broke through the heavy barrier, a gust of warm air flew over his flushed face, making
him inadvertently sigh in relief.
Smee was sitting criss-cross on a wolf-skin throw rug, drinking some sweetened jasmine tea
from a cracked cup. Once making eye contact with the blond boy, the old general set the cup
on the small table beside him. His arm fell behind his back and he helped himself get his
rotund form off the ground. He scratched behind his neck, sweating in front of the torrid
flames that roared in the fireplace.
General Smee was a barrel-chested, short and stout man who was always clad in his military
uniform; a heavy armour made out of turtle shells tied with frayed knots. In battle he would
use one made of tempered steel, but out of battle hed wear the traditional, ostentatious variety
and despite Brimstone being in constant war, the military commander wore this dark green,
jagged lamellar armor more often than not. The heavy plates received an orange shade from
the fire crackling behind him, as did his displayed swords and ivory dragon statuettes that
served as paperweights that held maps of the Kingdom and Encantadia alike. All the dragon
heads faced the blond courier, letting him know that he was in dangerous territory. This
general was a force to be reckoned with; the bringer of death and kind of man that could
topple the entire kingdom with one snap of the fingers. The blades of his weapons watched
the poor man, and the spear set up on a stand on the table stood straight, and at Smees casual
reach. He even curled his stumpy fingers around the hilt, sending a clot of web-like saliva into
the mans windpipe. The intruder curled his fingers around the cold chain, which compared to
the air the general gave out around him felt like a mothers warm embrace.
Smee watched the young mans stature from under his bushy eyebrows, then slowly sliding
his gaze to the chain in his hands.
He unclasped the spear, taking a small step forward when he stood up with a groan. He
planted his hands on his hips, looked into his feet and then shot up back at the boy.
Who did you bring me this time?
7

Sir! The courier slapped his legs together, standing at attention, shoulders rolled back and
eyes to the ceiling. Lady Lacroix has orchestrated this meeting. She believes this Syth is fit
to your needs.
Smee said nothing for an instance. He crossed his arms and shook his full head of hair; the
raven locks falling in twisted, knotted streaks. His cobalt eyes narrowed as he tried to look
behind a wall, almost trying to look through it and identify the slave girl.
Origin?
L-Laranaika, sir! The boy responded. Taken alive and sent to Sabina for three years.
Transported to the kingdom for an inspection and held inside Nikta until four months ago,
when Lady Lacroix
As you have just said, the Laranaika attack was a while back, Smee mused aloud, tucking
his hands behind his back. He strolled across his room, over the dead wolfs gaping jaw,
looking at an imaginary dot in the corner. The girl is not too old, I hope.
Shes older than youre accustomed to, sir. But she is agile and
Older by how much? Smee asked flatly, spinning on the ball of his foot and looking at the
young blond dead in the eye. The messenger flinched at the sudden interest. He tightened his
grip on the chain, knuckles becoming white and raw. His nostrils flared in fright, the youthful
redness of his face seeping down and slowly becoming a sickly blue. Smee grew impatient
and pointed at the shivering form. The Syth who hail from Laranaika are flimsy and errant
enough. I dont need a slave whose nerves are thinned with age and whose teeth are close to
falling out. Answer my question, Caius!
Caius bobbed down his head, still standing straight with his fingers curled in front of his
chest. His body tensed up, and he barely got around to tumbling the age over his lips, dry and
chapped by now.
She is fourteen, sir.
Smees brow furrowed in distaste. Fourteen, he parroted in a way which reflected
contemplation. The young boy tugged at the chain, drawing it closer. His voice was nippier by
now, alarmed by the mans silence.
But she looks fairly well! For a Syth, commander. And from what Ive heard shes very
ugh, come on! talented. Shes new to the palace, if nothing else. You could examine her and
make your get in here you Syth wench!
The girl was pulled in quickly, and as soon as her brown, lithe form stood before the portly
general, he had trouble deciding whether to be unimpressed or not. He took one tentative step,
looking at the spots under her eye. Hesitating for a moment, letting her take in the fact that
she was examined and evaluated like a chunk of raw ham, he took her chin in his hand and
attempted to wipe off the smudges. The girl closed her eyes at the pressure of his thumb.
Smee moved his hand away, seeing that the spots were actually freckles. He shook his head at
8

her, fumbling his fingers in his holster. He never quite understood the Syth complexion the
olive-skinned people had mossy-green markings, like lashes and burns, all across their bodies.
If their bodies were light enough, those could have been confused for freckles or birthmarks,
and the Syths could have almost passed as human. Unfortunately, there was nothing even
vaguely human about this new slave girl. She was a savage, and Smee could see it from her
glaring eyes, full of fury and hate, down to her dark skin and bony fingers. Her hair had been
combed and pulled back, but it was far too long for his taste. The fourteen-year-old looked
like a savage wolf, ready to pounce on her prey if he let his guard down. There was something
deeply animalistic, ghastly inside her; inside all of them! With one furtive glance in Caius
direction, the man took the girl by the neck and craned her neck back. She grabbed his hand,
choked by the combined pressure of both the collar and his grip. Growling, she exposed
sharp, pointy teeth that he fingered, tapping the triangular fangs and running his finger over
the molars.
Feisty, he commented, his voice lighter. He removed his hand from her, and as her head fell,
he took out a small golden key from the leather case attached to his thigh. He threw the key at
Caius, giving an approving nod as he caught it, shuffling his fingers before he was finally able
to handle it. Ill take her.
Caius beamed, stepping behind the girl and unlocking the ring that split open, revealing a
plum-colored, battered neck that was streaked with years of choking, cutting and abuse.
Aware of the dark red marks on her person, the girl rubbed at her sore neck, covering her
chest with the other arm. The boy scooped up the chains in a bunch, cradling them in his
arms.
Enjoy! He said to Smee, only half-expecting a response. The general never gave any, only
looking at the young Sitka who glowered at the form whose metal armour shone in the fire
until he looked like the incarnation of the Devil. Her chest heaved, the rest of her trying to
keep still. She did not even notice when the young boy addressed the general, explaining that
he needed to meet the King the next morning, to discuss Encantadias takeover.
She turned her head sharply, however, when the door slammed behind her and engulfed the
two of them in the darkness. Though she couldnt see a thing in front of her, she almost
managed to see Smees perverted grin when his fingers started to undo the lustrous fabric that
the madam had adorned her with, to meet the good generals fancy. Rage and despair
bubbled in her, ready to burst out just as she heard her clothes rip, and her body fell on the
ground. He pinned her down with his massive weight.
He grabbed her shoulder, leaving deep blue marks on her skin. His breath felt warm and
emetic against her face. Ive never been with a Sitka your age before, he started, voice hard
and low. Show me what youre able to do.
She did just that.
/***/

A bloodcurdling scream flew out of Smees billet, and as soon as the noise stopped him in
place, Caius turned on his heel and ran, the chains still feeling heavy in his arms. Cursed
Smee! This wasnt the first time he made a Syth scream that way. But not this soon. Not
this high. The Lady would kill him if he failed to retrieve the Sitka safely into her chambers.
The ground might have been lava for how quickly he was running across it.
There was no faltering when he opened the entrance this time. He pushed it hard, the chains
spilling out of his hands. The first thing he saw was blood. The sound he picked up by now
was roaring. Pained, agonizing roaring.
Damn it, Smee, the girl wasnt for you alone! If she was youd have to pay thrice
the fee!
Caius dropped the chains, taking the man by the arm and using all of his strength to flip him
over.
He threw the general on his back, only to see that the man wasnt lying on anyone, and that
the blood was actually rushing through his palm that he clutched his eye with. Caius blinked
once at the sight, mouth agape. He swallowed some hot saliva, looking around the dimlylit
room, seeing that the fire had been put out and that the spear from the table was missing.
His face became drained once more, eyes concussed and blank with fright. His thoughts
rushed his mind at a million miles an hour.
The gates were sealed and nobody exited since he slammed it shut so where was the Sitka
now?
His breathing became fast and shallow, chest rising and falling at an alarming rate. Where is
she? He looked around when his eyes finally fell on the general. Where is she?! I dont care
what you were doing but if shes not in working order by tomorrow, Ill !
A painful tightness coiled around his neck, the cold metal squishing deep into his skin. The
Sitka stood behind him as he fell on his knees, eyes rolling back as he was choked by the
same chains he had used to bridle the Sitka with. Without so much as a sound, she tightened
the grip, pulling hard and kneeing the mans back and forcing his body down until she could
control his body like a marionette, just like she had been controlled by him, his Madame, the
military, every Macro and the King, for seven fucking years of her life!
She dropped down the body and jumped on Smees stomach, taking the spear that was tucked
in a silk belt around her back. Darting through the gates, her bare feet echoed around the
passageway. Without her shackles, she was running like a lone wolf to a defenseless hare.
The Sitka knew she was most likely sprinting into her doom, where she would be caught,
beaten and tortured for the remainder of her days. She would be stripped of her dignity, forced
into labor, or worse, forced to serve the Kings men in vile ways only because of her heritage.
This was all in store for her, but she kept running.
Nothing would really change either way.
10

Her legs had carried her into the common room, where she faced two very alert guards, who
did nothing to the heavilybreathing slave girl clutching a weapon until they heard Smees
loud cry of Kill her!. The girl turned and watched both men from under knitted eyebrows.
Her new weapon laid like second skin in her hands. She clenched it in her palm and raised it
up above her head. The guards unsheathed their swords.
That was the day Fate predicted that she should die.
And that was the moment when the former slave girl decided that she would no longer listen
to anyones predictions.
/***/
Silas moved his monochrome eyes away from the cards he clutched a losing hand, as
always, because there was never a good reason to anger the King when the stout general
opened the golden gate. He stumbled in, wheezing, his uniform stained by the blood that
seeped through the hole in his head. The reddish ichor dripped down his bulbous cheek,
sliding down his neck. A fetid stench of sweat and wine wisped across the golden room, and
not even the cinnamon incense that was tucked in the corner could overpower the rank odour
that was Smee.
Even the Supreme Ruler lifted his head from his deck. The tall, brawny dark-skinned man was
reclining on his throne, one foot standing on the armrest and supporting his torso on his
elbow. One of his feet dangled an inch away from the ground, and like that, he was a pristine
personification of comfort and light tedium. In instances like these, it took nothing less than a
dead man at his doorstep to make him raise his head. That night, the man at his threshold was
his kingdoms supreme commander, bleeding from his eye socket and seeping horror. He was
not dead yet, but Aurus took his dear time to look at him, regardless.
Though the man grabbed the Kings attention, he couldnt find it in his power to open his
mouth and speak, and the sounds leaving his mouth were comparable to childlike babbling.
Silas, the Kings advisor, took his hand off Kaaba, the great flaxen tiger that sat by the golden
throne. The tiger himself was not thrilled about Smees arrival either, and he responded to his
blathering by shaking his head. Silas moved slightly to allow the tiger to move away from the
scene. Once Kaaba was out of sight, Silas put his hands on his knees, leaning towards the
King and muttering.
Sire, he said, voice prim but soft, I believe this man beseeches you for your attention. He
appears to be unnerved. His eyes flickered to the stoic generals shivering frame. The man
was now breathless, leaning over and cupping his knees as he breathed out all his remaining
energy. A corner of the advisors lips curled upwards, somewhat sadistically. I indubitably
believe I would react as well, if one of my eyes had been gouged out in such a way.
Aurus barely opened his eyes, examining the scene in disinterest. After that note, however, he
lowered his foot from the armrest and sat properly on the gilded seat, straightening his spine
along the scarlet padding. His strong hands grasped the knobs on the supports, one on each
11

side. By this time, Smee had everybodys undivided attention. The King spoke, his voice a
deafening baritone that boomed in the receiving room. He let the cards slip out of his hands,
as if they were scared of a man with such power; a king that could throw the strongest army
general to his knees just by speaking.
What business do you have with me?
Aurus! I mean The man laid one leg flat, propping his weight on his right foot. He leaned
on his leg, supporting his mass like a pillar. His head was bowed down, exposing his thinning
hairline to the King. He absolutely refused to look him in his dark eyes that took in everything
that happened around him, even if he was not watching. Smee took another attempt at
speaking to him. My King, I have troubling news.
Concerning? The King asked, about ready to sit back and return to his indolent lounging.
Smee gulped down the last of his fear, and his voice became still and orotund once again. This
time, he looked up at the King, though he concealed his mass of flesh with his hand.
A slave escaped, sir. A Syth courtesan. She killed young Caius and jabbed me in the !
Escaped? The King inquired through his teeth at the man, fingers curling around the railings
of his throne. Silas watched the mans expression and listened to the enraged-yet-controlled
tone of his voice. The advisor seemed mildly amused by the unravelling of events. The King,
however, was not. His eyes were hooded, as though he expected the issue to switch into some
jest, as he was sure no good man of his would allow a Syth outside the walls. Who let her
escape?
To that piercing question, Smee was left unresponsive, and his reaction to the Kings livid
glower was the slight wobbling of his jaw. He grunted like a wounded animal, trying to find
the words to explain the disappearance of the Sitka. No words came out, and the general
flinched when Aurus slammed his palms over his throne. The noise had no effect on Silas or
Kaaba, who were seated comfortably and watching the fight.
ANSWER ME!
Smee dropped his palms in front of his head, bending down in reverence. Caius! He
countered, voice apologetic but strong. He unchained her and turned his back. She stormed
out at the first chance she got. The sentinels tried to stop her but she murdered them as well! It
was so... His stubby fingers clutched the yellow carpeting, pulling apart the threads as he
tried to find the proper term. ... quick, he managed. She was like a rabid beast. Ferocious,
bloodthirsty, desperate... beautiful! She could be classed among my best men!
AND YOU LET HER RUN OFF?! Aurus stood up, fists curling up as his breathing became
loud and forced. His eyes shot lightning bolts at the feeble general who cowered before him.
Pure fury seeped from his eyes, bright and incandescent as the golden robes he wore. It
slashed through Smees core like a blade. Do you have any idea what kind of evil lies in a
Sitka?! What kind of wretched chaos and malice one Syth abomination could bring?! Those
creatures are terror incarnate, and you turned your back on one! She should have been
12

bound! He shouted, stepping over Smees shivering form and lifting his arm, as though he
was about to remove the generals head with a powerful strike to the neck. She should have
been boarded to the ground! She should have been drawn and quartered and burned alive
when she was first caught! The Syth are evil fiends, and they bring nothing but despair!
This never happened to us before, I swear! Please, my King, please forgive me!
I will never forgive such imprudence! He grabbed the man by his collar, bringing him to his
feet. Their eyes connected, and Aurus was staring straight into the dark crescent that was once
Smees alert eye. He spoke through gritted teeth, almost hissing out the commands like a
serpent. Call the guards and set them at every exit! Place the sharpshooters at the crown on
the palace! Close the bridge and make sure the Syth doesnt come into Kix. He drew the
rotund man closer, until he could feel the fear and cider on his skin. He slightly turned his
head in disgust, narrowing is eyes. If this Syth devil makes her way into the populi, I will
personally make sure that your employment in our division is terminated, he stressed, finally
releasing Smee out of his hand. Is this understood?
The general nodded, gave a quick salute and rushed out of the gates, slamming them shut.
After he was gone, and quiet filled the area once again, Silas rose up his index finger to the
King, requesting permission to speak. The King was facing the door, eyes ablaze and
completely oblivious to his advisor. The pale-skinned man delivered his opinion,
notwithstanding.
Sire, if I may, he cleared his throat. Are the sniper units extremely necessary? After all, we
are talking about one Syth. How dangerous could she possibly be?
Dont forget. The Syth are... or were... an ancient tribe of mighty warriors who mastered the
art of combat long before the Macros were in settlements, he explained the dogma that he
and his people lived by as he stepped back and sat on his throne. Disgruntled, he picked up
the playing cards from the ground and studied them, seeing that he was about to lose to the
kneeling man. He cupped his throbbing head, the digits rubbing his forehead in small circles.
But this one in particular worries me. She is undoubtedly skilled, but possibly even
intelligent.
And what makes you so certain about the fact, Sire?
She has waited this long, he spoke, setting the cards flat on his thigh. Most likely gathering
energy for her next pillage. The Syth do not make good slaves, Silas, and I want the person
who appointed them as slaves to be put to death.
Silas watched him with focused eyes, waiting for a continuation that never came. After a brief
deduction, the man nodded to himself.
I understand. I will begin to make preparations for Lady Lacroixs execution
momentarily.

13

Make it so. And while were on the subject of Syths... Aurus placed his chin on the palm of
his hand in deep concentration, looking out into the gates; watching the palaces interior
beyond the goldcrusted room. ... how many more of them do we have in our service?
Not many, Sire. About half a dozen; nothing worth worrying about. Some were deported to
Callahan as well, but that is for King Alazar to worry about...
I need them all under great surveillance, he added, in his stern mien. Send a message to the
Callahan court and assemble more security units. If any one of those vile things so much as
breathe outside these walls, have them shot and hung on the towns square. Those creatures,
he stopped for a moment, watching his hand as it clenched with enough force to break
somebodys neck, are not fit to live in the Aura Kingdom. Keep the rest of them in the
district where they belong.
I will, Sire. You can trust me.
I do, Silas, Aurus assured, tenting his fingers when he moved his chin up. I trust you
completely.
The raven-haired man gave a small smile at the note, taking the playing cards into his hands.
He flew one glance over the glossy surface, over the hearts and spades of small worth and one
queen. Hiding the diamond in his long sleeve, he looked at the small collection of twos and
fours. Not even Aurus could miss his deep sigh.
I guarantee that I will do everything in my power to aid you in bringing an end to the Syth
infestation. Now, I believe that you will win this following hand as well...
/***/
The bullets flew around her head while she shielded herself with the body of the sentinel
guard that crossed her path. The wounds ricocheted off his blood-stained armour, his frame
bouncing up as she ran with him on her back. He was protecting her like a turtles shell. The
weight of the man slowed her down, however, even more so because she had to balance the
spear as well as the mans corpse. The weapon was clutched in her hand, the aquamarine
beads reflecting the moonlight that stood bright on the cerulean sky, reflecting her tattered
prisoners gown and jewels that the madam put around her wrists and on her ears. She shook
the golden bracelets off, but the earrings still clattered around her, ringing like bells to every
movement.
With gritted teeth, she stormed at the men guarding the bridge, all having their weapons
drawn and at the ready. The Sitka threw the cadaver off her back, lunging at one of the men
and slashing his neck with her spear. One managed to stab her in the thigh when the other
pulled her hair in a desperate attempt to break her apart from his now heavilybleeding
collaborator. She shrieked, elbowing the man in the gut and kicking wildly, feeling the taste of
blood on her lips and a fire in her heart. The euphoria that came with every blow, coming
from either her side or the enemys, made her remember everything about her warrior clan.

14

The spirits of her forebears guided her lance, and her spirit guided her over the surviving
guard that was still standing on his feet, and into the chasm filled with water.
The drop was high and the girl landed face first into the brook, her bloodied and bruised body
slamming on the surface that felt like concrete. Her body was still, the panting guard noted. It
was motionless and carried by the water into a timely grave.
The man clutched his knees, arching forward in gratitude that the girls rampage ended this
quickly, before he had to face the same gruesome death that his fellow watchers had to suffer
through. He lifted up his right hand in a signal. The pose was silhouetted across the plain and
this was enough for the marksmen at the top of the palace to lower their hot weapons by their
side.
In a matter of moments, general Smee would hear the news from his men and alert Aurus that
the Syth threat had been terminated. In a couple of minutes, however, an exhausted and
bruised Sitkan girl would emerge miles away from the gold-and-ivory cage and glare at it
from the river bank. She would dig the bottom of her spear into the dusty ground that
crumbled under her weight, her shoulders cocking up with every strong intake of precious
oxygen. With blood and dirt under her fingernails and a gaping wound in her thigh that only
added to the preexisting gashes across her brown body, she would look at the palace with
both deeplyseeded detestation and an intense pride of accomplishment; knowledge that she
was the first and only one to make the great escape.
She prayed to the Gods that she wouldnt be the last.

Chapter II: The Outcasts

Five years later

15

It was a quart of an hour after dawn. That was roughly the time when blue lari birds swept
over the landfill in their idle, endless loops. This was the part of the morning when the dirt
under ones feet felt moist with dew and pleasant to walk on. And lastly, this was the perfect
time for a certain lively inventor to walk about the Barren Lands at the time with her
appointed assistant, in hopes of finding some new material to work with.
A redheaded figure emerged from the heap of rusted metal that was cooling in the soft dawns
sun, the metal skeleton of the junkyard becoming a lovely shade of golden red. The soft rays
moved over her face; the maroon blending in with the soft amber tone of her skin. Her green
spiral-patterned orbs widened at the new find that she tucked in the palm of her calloused
hand an ordinary thirty-centimetre spring that was sharpened at the ends and relatively clean
(apart from the rust, that is). She blew the dust off the matted surface and proceeded to purloin
the wares she came across, putting each shiny plaque and scrap of metal on her patched tote
bag that hung around her pointed shoulder. It was already swelling from the stuffing inside;
some larger components creeping out of it like earthworms during rain.
The girls gloved hands moved over her forearms, fingers crossing the small grainy
horripilations on her skin. It was much too cold to be outside for long and, as she could tell by
the fact that the great sun was becoming yellow and bright, she would soon have to return to
the station for an earlymorning briefing. Her wide emeralds moved across the pieces of gray
and red. She marched over the small mound, stood at its peak and craned her neck.
He wasnt there.
Pion?
Oddly enough, the noise she made did not summon him. Huffing, the scavenger slowly came
down from her spot.
Seeing that it was much too dangerous to tread the sharp metal all the way to the ground, she
secured the bag on her shoulder, reached out her arms like an eagle spread its wings, then slid
down to the bottom. The trash clattered under the heavy soles of her kneehigh boots.
Satisfied with the smooth descend, the girl steadied her body and took a step backwards.
Pion? She pivoted, hands on hips. Pion, where ?
With a backwards stumble that made her put her fingers to her pursed lips, she noticed the
man before her. It was a tall, umbraging creature that spread darkness wherever he went. His
elliptical face with sunken cheeks was a sickly shade of clotted cream; jagged scars and
motley bruises unexplainably scattered over his chin and nose. Dark circles orbited his gaping
eyes that resembled black holes with just a small glinting marble staring from the centre. His
nose was flattened against his visage like the head of an arrow and pierced on both sides of
the bridge; a needle that was once fired at him and became lodged in his ashen skin. Brown
freckles ornamented its wide base. All of these facial features would have passed as simply
unnerving if it werent for his black lips, sewn shut by a series of frayed knots that zigzagged
16

in and out of his skin. The rope turned dirty and black with age, even loosening enough to
keep his mouth in a permanent circle that no sound came out of. The line of his lips was
disfigured and out of proportion; the holes that no longer contained the string became red and
blistered due to infection; an excrescence of the flesh that would never pass no matter what
alcohol he rubbed on it or what ointment he greased his lips with. His body and state, all of
whichs ghastly elements served as a reminder of a kings cruel deeds, would make any
unknowing being cower and run in terror, shielding from the abomination, as though his
monstrosity was airborne and easily transmitted.
Contentedly, she sighed as she pressed a hand on her chest.
There you are! The shadow he cast felt warm when she stepped in it. I looked all over for
ya! You get me really worried sometimes, hon. Cmon. She turned on her heel and adjusted
the strap of her bag over her shoulder, inviting him in front of her with a jolt of her head. We
need to get back before daytime.
The mans eyes narrowed at her form, walking away from him with a casual pace. His hands
tightened around the bundle of long metal pipes that he was holding. He estimated their
combined weight at a miserly five kilograms meaning that their hunt for scrap was an
unsuccessful one. The two of them were walking neck and neck now. His companion
Maggie scanned his finds.
Lets see whatcha got there... Maggie spoke up, standing on the tips of her toes to watch the
bounty in Pions arms. He did not stop to allow her a better look, instead keeping up his stride
until the redhead tripped over her feet so as to catch up with him. She quickly recovered her
composure, tightening the engorged bag that hung close to her armpit. Her laugh was a
throaty, candid one that still failed to catch the lanky gingers attention.
She hopped once, flexing her chilly fingers that were unprotected by her cutoff gloves. The
knuckles cracked; an indicator that she had a brilliant idea concerning whatever object she has
just seen in his clutch.
Amazing! You found the little spinny thing! The tinkerer exclaimed ecstatically, pointing at
a rusted synchronization gear with dull edges. Pions dark colorless eyes barely went over the
acclaimed find. His ears became numb to the strident voice that whirred and fired words like
steaming bullets. I was wondering if I should put one of those on the Phoenix! I mean, on
one hand, it would be great if my super weapon could propel through the air. But on the other
hand, Riker says that its weight would make it impossible for the construction to leave the
ground. I think I should try anyway. After all, my baby is just a blueprint right now. Theres
room for improvement, and theres room for the spinny thing, and the little spiral thing if you
oh! You found that too! Man, if we keep doing this every day Im gonna make my cannon in
notime! Just imagine it! And they said I was nuts! Mag-Mag thats what Aaron said to me
Mag-Mag, you cant possibly harvest the power of dark Mana and capture it in a cartridge
that big! Well, he didnt say it like that, but he told me what I was doing was nuts, but I
know what he meant. And I told him that he should mind his own business and let me do my
work. I mean, I love Aaron, I really do, but he has no room for creativity in that brain of his.
17

Look, Im not here to judge, but if he wants to spend his days fooling around, wearing that
stupid cloak and pillaging the market, thats fine by me. But dont tell me how to do my job!
Ugh, if only the man had more faith in me than he had in his stupid dead asshole grandpa I
wouldnt even be trying to explain myself to him. She waggled her finger into the air in front
of her, imagining that the leader was standing in front of them with his cockamamie grin.
Once she turned to her right, she noticed that the only things left of her companion were
shallow footprints in the soot.
Hey! She shouted madly, fists clenching as she saw Pion running at the speed of light
towards the single sequoia silhouetting across the milky-gray sky. Maggies lips pursed in
annoyance. Dont just run away from people like that! Thats not very nice, you know...
She folded her arms over her chest. Quite rude. This was not the first time the man had used
his Godgiven speed to get out of a lengthy conversation. Disgruntled at first, Maggie tapped
her foot against the soil before grabbing the strap of her bag and fruitlessly attempting to
catch up with him, constantly telling him to stop and wait for her.
The ashen-faced ginger jumped the chainlink fence and was bordering the scrap metal, and
was half way across the barren wasteland before Maggie could even climb the barbed wire.
Sharp spikes scraped her knees and the heavy bag on her shoulder showed her down
significantly though it did speed her up during her climb down. It pulled her to a fall that
she greeted with her face in the dry soil.
The runner turned on his heel to check for the source of the noise. His muscles tightened until
he saw her wave and cough.
Im okay! She assured. What she said was true, though a lot of the dry, crumbling soil came
into her mouth during the fall. It took a while to spit it all out. Im... pffpffpew... Im fine!
She hacked loudly, spitting to her side.
Pion rolled his eyes, continuing on with his gallop.
Shed catch up soon enough. This was without question. But there was a fine line between
being a good comrade that cared for the wellbeing of his teammates, and being foolish
enough to voluntarily listen to her prattling for minutes on end. Not to mention that,
understandably, it would be much better for him to reach the base and wait for her.
He couldnt be bothered to explain the reasoning, however.
With that nearly infallible logic, he returned to his gait. In seconds, Maggies form was
nothing but a dot on the horizon.
Barefoot, the runner sped through the dust and grime, which reached miles into the scorched
field that the Outcasts settled their troupe in. Deep within the burning dust that settled over the
once fruitful grassland, there remained a handful of veteran, skeletal sequoias that reached
high up into the sky; their husks and branches like spikes reflecting the rays of sun. Pions
destination was the second largest tree in the bunch, picked personally by the teams leader, as
18

choosing the most prominent one would have been a dead giveaway. Inside the bark of that
thick, ancient, mushroom-colored redwood, stood a stair case that lead deep into the
underground, where the rebel faction plotted their schemes and basked in their up-and-coming
infamy.
At this time, having not taken part in many endeavours lately, its wary team members focused
on some other pastimes. These included engineering, stockpiling, and keeping an overall
score on the Kings Guards that attempted to find their hiding place. And of course, in
Archers case, keeping watch of the happenings in the Barren Lands. Particularly those
happenings that took place in the immediate proximity of their headquarters.
This is why he greeted Pion with a gunshot near his leg.
The tall albino shot down his eyes, watching the small hole in the ground that whizzed right
past his nose and landed an inch away from the instep of his left foot. His position did not
change, save for the fact that he waved up his hand to the bare crown, where the marksman
awaited his return.
The shooter was curled up and hidden away completely; all but his hood that he had pulled
over his head, leaving only his mouth and nose exposed. He clicked his gun, dispensing the
empty shell and quickly reloading the weapon. What he had done just then was a warning
shot. If it had been real, the lanky racer wouldnt have stood quite so straight. It was after
some contemplation that the man realized that nobody except for Pion would have stayed so
calm while a barrel of a smoking rifle pointed at them.
Once realizing that the man was not an intruder, he lowered his gun and continued to glare at
the rising sun. His head ticked to the side, which the visitor took as permission to advance.
Inadvertently, a smile buzzed over the marksmans expression, the kind no ordinary man
would have seen. Of course by now, it should have been fairly obvious that Pion was
everything other than an ordinary man. The sentrys lingering gaze followed him briefly, up
until the man was out of the charred field. Then he returned to his position.
Meanwhile, Pion sauntered to the hidden entrance, casting one short look to the side, in hopes
of seeing Maggies tiny dot in the distance.
She was still catching up, breathing heavily and dragging her feet, still a good mile away by
the time Pion unhinged the wooden flap and made his descend into the laboratory below.

/***/
Somewhere deep within the wooden borough under the lush undergrowth of Encantadia, there
was a large gap in an old towering oak. And within that gap, covering the fissures on the walls
and the soft moss gathering at its corners, stood long, descending vines and purple Wisteria
flowers, stretching over the woodwork that was sluiced with the suns golden rays. The light
was swimming past the small round window above The Ladys writing desk. No sunlight
19

could come from underground; this meant that the brightness was her creation, an illusion, her
play of shadows and color.
She rested, serenely, sipping some tart herbal tea whilst rocking on her chair. Her checkered
gray eyes scanned her bookshelves idly, despite already having one large hardback opened in
her hands. They were stacked like matchboxes; crumpling under the weight of historic novels
and encyclopaedias. Several bubbling potions swished in glass beakers, all remedies and pain
killers, with only a couple of sugared poisons she kept around in case her vegetable garden
became ambushed by pesky rodents.
The chamber, no matter how cluttered and humid it seemed, was also pleasant to be in. There
was indeed a reason why this was her personal relaxation spot, where she mused about issues
both pressing and not, and where shed drink her brews with no fear of being interrupted. The
matron of Encantadian youth was very particular about keeping her dwelling clean and
orderly. There was never a speck of dust on the antique furniture; no cobwebs around the table
legs or even a smidgeon of dirt on the ground. This hole was often chilly, but this was purely
her decision. A mind could never function optimally in harsh heat, at least no mind of hers.
The space never had that oozy, wet stench that most of the other dwellings had underground.
Instead, it smelled of lavender and the slightest hint of petrichor, mixed with the soft scent of
ink and old books. It had the air of a library, and this was why she named her abode like she
did.
The Librarium, no matter how cosy and warm, was rarely visited by anybody besides its
creator and current occupant.
This is why a young, male Sheebas appearance took Stella by surprise, and she was forced to
snap her book shut and lower her reading glasses to the tip of her nose.
Her thin eyebrows knitted as she scanned her young freckled apprentice.
E-excuse me... he stuttered, wringing his palms and shuffling his foot over the cold stone
blocks. M-m-... mlady Forrester?
Stella blinked once, slowly setting her book away on the writing desk beside her and
clenching both of her armrests. Her gray eyes never broke contact with his large, lilac ones.
That would be my name, I suppose. Tilting her head idly to the side, she folded her long,
delicate hands over her lap. What seems to be the problem, Green?
Of course, Pickering Green began assuring that there were no problems at all (Problems?
What gave you that impression, my lady?) , and how he merely came into her abode because,
well, as it turned out, she had been sitting in her musing chair staring blankly at her books or
so some Dryads thought for the past fourteen hours without stop, and was needed to help
with the preparations for tonights light festival.
Surprised by the quantity of time she had spent inside her Librarium (the lack of natural
sunlight made it difficult to tell the difference between night and day), she ticked up her
eyebrow and set the hardback on her writing desk, her round spectacles with it. She blinked
20

once and stood up with upmost grace and elegance, and was soon towering over Pickering,
looking at the top of his full head of grass-colored hair. His eyes simply refused to look into
her hooded ones, and his bright, nervous orbs set on the tips of his pointed boots.
Green? She called his name and snapped him back at attention no matter how shaky and
infatuated his optimal attention was around her.
He lifted up his chin, knitting his fingers behind his back. Y-yes your Highness I mean,
err... your Grace?
Are you completely sure you have just come in here to check on my well-being? One
pencilthin eyebrow moved upwards and a mischievous twinkle appeared in the corner of her
left eye. Nothing new concerning the festival? Or my fellow Dryads? Or... At the beginning
of her next suggestion, her eyes went wide and her silvery tone turned flat. ... you-knowwho?
N-no, my beloved b-beauty of the forest. Everything is complete working order my , erm,
heh-heh, my Mistress, my Master, mmy Queen, my Guardian Matron, my
Green?
The violet-skinned Dryad looked up at Stella, who has approached him during his babble and
was now standing dangerously close to him. The young Sheeba swallowed a node in his
throat.
Y-yes, my lady Forrester?
Remember that discussion we had about ending your speeches several titles earlier?
Yes my la I-I mean, yes. His cheeks flared bright purple when he bowed down his head.
When he looked up, Stella has already approached the side of her hollow, running a hand over
the cold, hardened ground that enclosed her lair. Streaks of brilliant blue shone over the dull
brown tones, and soon the entire wall was glowing with her transportation spell, shining so
intensely that Pickering needed to shut his eyes while he scurried behind the older Sheeba.
Stella phased through the wall and into the bright sunlight that flashed over Encantadia and
left her in temporary blindness.
By the Gods, she disliked stepping out in the open. Too many mortal souls would have lost
their eyesight after such a transfer, but the Dryads were no ordinary mortals. In seconds, her
eyelids cracked open and the Lady of Light started to enjoy the sunshine she could never
recreate herself. There was a certain relaxing quality about the sun in those parts. A minute
spent in it would wash away all trouble and turmoil one carried in their soul. In the lush
enchanted woods all other places in the world seemed dreary (the Librarium felt like a tomb
in comparison), and the ancient Dryad soon found herself waltzing through the trees and
squeezing between the Sheebas that greeted her with enthusiasm.

21

The harried Pickering ran behind her, rubbing out the whiteness from his eyes until he could
see shapes and colors again. During his recovery, he bumped into several pastel-colored
Sheebas who carried wooden torches and multi-colored ribbons to decorate the forest. Every
other bump made him disoriented, and he constantly lost Stella out of his sight. He ran willynilly, ironing out one of his long, goat-like ears with his index finger and thumb. It was hard
for the other Dryads not to lampoon his frantic behaviour.
My lady Forrester! He called out, running blindly and slapping away the horde of pyreflies
that swept across his path. My lady Forre OOMPH!
Stellas eyes might have been made of ice, going by the look she gave him as he stumbled
away from her back. Green, she reprimanded after signing a document given to her by a
lively mandarin-skinned Dryad, how many decades have you been in my training? Two?
Three?
Three and a half, he rectified and gulped hard. Something about the way Stella was
watching him made him aware that he probably shouldnt have said a word.
And how long until you start looking where youre running?
Uhh...
Never mind. The ancient Dryad pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling loudly. That
remark was out of place. But right now, we have just hours before the grand festival and
nobody, she turned on her heel and pointed at one of the two presented food samples before
sending the cooks on their way, nobody is to stray from the agenda I have set up.
Of course, my la
Are all the guests accounted for? She inquired as she pulled him by the hand. The two were
soon moving through the crowd again, Stella smiling and waving to the by-passers as
Pickering reached into his trouser pocket and found a leather-bound planner. He shuffled a
few used pages back and took a graphite pencil from behind his ear.
All but the Callahanians. Though this comes as no surprise, milady. They are in the middle
of a crisis right now. The whole land, I mean. When a Queen falls ill, this is usually met with
panic and discontent in most sovereignties. When King Pasha died in Brimstone, we, erm...
He stopped himself from ending that thought, practically biting down on his tongue midsentence. His matron didnt seem to hear it, or at least pretended not to.
I supposed. Stella bent down to receive a small muffin from a young faerie child and
stroked her silky hair in thanks. Biting in the pink lopsided pastry revealed that it was made
with shredded apples and cinnamon. This reminded her of another topic to cover. And what
about the refreshments?
The younger Dryad bit his lip to keep from laughing at her speaking with a mouth full of
cake. He cleared his throat. We have approximately seventeen barrels of wine and eleven
gallons of ale, Pickering announced with pride. Its the good stuff the brew of saints and
22

minstrels! I sampled some myself and was very pleased. I expect youll only want a cup of
hot tea so I took care of that as well. I checked the supply personally. Oh! And as for the food,
there will be many dishes and sweetmeats... hold on, Ill read you the list...
She cut him off with a swift wave of the hand. No need, she peeled some paper off the
small cake, I have the cuisine memorised. As long as there is enough for everybody, I need
not hear about it a second time. Now. Entertainment?
Offered by the faerie choir of Gildestern, the travelling circus of Tosh, the flautists of
Karaktau he saw Stellas quizzical stare, w-whats left of them, I mean. Oh! And, of
course, you, my lady.
Decorations?
Coming along swimmingly. By nightfall this forest will be truly a sight to behold!
Furrowing his brow, he squinted at the underlined section of his notepad, proceeds, that had
no check or a numerical value next to it. A corner of his mouth contorted to the side and his
violet eyes were now burning a hole in the back of Stellas head. Uh, my lady, about the
profits...
What of the profits? She swallowed another juicy morsel and wiped a corner of her mouth
with her index finger. Her ravenous eating could have easily been attributed to the fact that
she hadnt eaten in over half a day (by no fault of hers, those books were far too interesting to
leave unattended). Pickering, however, had more important matters on his mind that the
doyennes eating habits further.
Uh, well, what has the lady agreed on concerning the price of admission?
Stella looked blankly ahead for a second before shrugging off the initial confusion. Oh,
that, she recalled, picking the crumps left on the wrap. Not a brass coin.
B-but, my lady Forrester, surely a feast of these proportions has a... a... he scratched behind
his ear, a reasonable price on it. This is the event of the season, my lady! The food alone has
indeed cost our fellow Dryads a considerable lump sum...
It cost them nothing and you know it, Pickering Green. Dusting off the tips of her fingers,
she shot him a disappointed look. Those who live here create ex nihilo. I create light out of
darkness, you create fire out of rage presuming you have any rage in your body, but if you
did, you would , the cooks and the bakers make their goods out of thin air. This is a blessing
of theirs that they can expose for a profit any other day of the year except today.
Yes, but why? Pickering lowered his hands, the small wheels in his head spinning until he
could find a grain of logic in not charging anything. I mean, we have a very limited number
of guests from the human realm. I dont think charging a small admission fee would break
their bank.

23

Green, do you know how wise I am? She asked, pressing a hand on her chest. Poor man,
she thought as she looked his baffled expression and smiled. Just as expected, that question
had him completely baffled.
Is that... is that some sort of riddle?
Go on, take a guess.
Erm... I dont really know... five hundred?
Five hundred and eighty-three years, she corrected, wagging her finger at him. I am as
wise as a Sheeba can be after living on this world for that long a time. And let me tell you,
during all this time, I have seen the horrors of the world unbeknownst to the likes of
greenhorns like yourself, Green. And Im not talking about The Last War alone. I have seen
poverty, famine, dictatorship, segregation, she counted off the points on her fingers, quickly
switching to her other hand, deportation, inflation, taxes...
She could have spoken about any atrocity of the world with a cool expression, but by the time
she made it to taxes, her face contorted and her body shook in disgust. After this, she
composed herself and continued to clarify her decision;
There are so many people on this world who do not deserve the privilege they are given.
There are even more of those who only live and breathe for one day, just one single day of
feeling like a person. They want respect, joy, laughter, any right that comes to them as some
luxury that only those of higher standing can afford. For ten years now I have been putting up
this festival, one day every year during Zsetva month, to bring together the weary and the
poor, the huddled masses, the most disfavoured folk in all of Northern Realm. I wanted to
give them one night of nothing short of ecstasy. Im sure that we, of all nations, can afford it.
Green looked down at his feet, looking at his side as Stella took some time to wave at a small
group of her students. B-but surely, we can put in a symbolic fee. We are talking about days
of hard work. Your view of this is idealistic but there are people here who refuse to work on
the promise of good karma alone...
Admission stays free until I say it oughtnt be, she briskly finished the discussion and
examined her long fingernails. Pickering sighed into his tunic with an air of defeat. But what
could he do? This benevolent doyenne might have been virtuously daft when it came to
economy but she was authority, nonetheless.
He forced himself to smile as genuinely as he could, and then admired her graceful,
determined mien. Yes, my lady.
This only leaves Aaron.
The young Dryad lifted up his head, eyes narrowing and head lulling to the side. Beg your
pardon, my lady?

24

Aaron Kronos, she explained and crumpled up the paper before tossing it over to him. It
completely missed his hand and fell by his sandals. My protg and your imminent Saviour.
Where is he now?
Uhh... Pickering leaned down to pick up after his Mistress, shuffling on the balls of his feet.
The fact that somebody as Aaron Kronos could be called his future Saviour made his skin
crawl, but this did not change the fact that it was true, nor did it change the fact that he was
the last Xexarian who needed to be protected and looked after, at all costs (though sometimes,
his special treatment came as close to coddling as Stella allowed it, and the lady was very
permissive when it came to her dependant).
Neither of the two Dryads knew where the Xexarian was, and this sudden realization made
Pickerings stomach flip into his lungs. I... I thought he was with you, my lady.
Forresters shoulders rolled back. Her voice was dark and flat when she spoke again.
I see...
Stellas eyebrows knotted, and she outstretched her hand in front of her, making small loops
above the grass in front of her. The other Sheebas, seeing that she was in the middle of her
teleportation, gave her some room and started walking the other way. Even her star pupil,
Green, took a step back and let his pedagogue cast her spell, an almost motherly irritation
flashing in her eyes as gravity thinned before her.
My lady Forrester, Im sure hes alright. Im certain hell turn up, you dont need to !
As he said this, a human-sized, aquamarine vortex started spinning like a hurricane before
them, shrouding Encantadia and its citizens into thick, blue haze.
I know I dont need to look for him, Green, she responded, taking one calm step forward,
touching the vortex with her big toe. I have to.
The vortex compressed around her, swallowing her whole, then shooting far up into the
treetops that hooded the land and digging far into the roots of the earth. In a second, the
hurricane became a flash of lightning, and then, it was gone again.
Pickering looked into the empty space in front of him, then at the small pink wrapper Stella
tossed over. There were still some crumbs left on it. Would licking them off be too strange?
Probably. He sighed.
Gods damn you, Aaron. Murmuring, he threw the greasy paper behind his back and
proceeded to the festival arena.

Chapter III: Our Great Saviour

25

Zsetva month was the most difficult yet prolific time for the residents of the Kingdom. The
cultivators slaved day and night to gather their crops, never resting, never even looking away
from their goods. The cattle had been worked into starved, strained skeletons that begged their
masters for water and precious food that they never received. It was an imperative to deliver
every last crumb into market, where theyd haggle and compete with merchants of lesser
agricultural talent but better negotiation skills. Farmers knew no break and the consumers
knew no parsimony. Upon the sight of parsley, rye or corn, even the stingiest housekeepers
broke out their leather wallets and dug deep to spend their tacks. Zsetva month was a burning,
desiccated time that valued hard labor and had no patience for procrastinators, even less for
riffraff.
And on the morn when hooded riffraff dared to disturb the sacred balance of a Brimstone
marketplace, all the guards, sellers and buyers set into a chase.
GET HIM!
The stolen wares were next to nothing, but if sold properly, they could easily bring the
merchant twenty tacks, enough to give his family of five a proper meal. With that in mind, the
short, rotund, ruddy-faced Macro pointed his sausage-like finger at the hooded swindler who
cradled his wares and flew into the bumbling crowd. Three Guards followed him, their armor
clattering and flaming in the hot desert towns sun.
The thief was well on his way. Bare feet crushed the sand beneath him but left no print.
Blended in the mass of hagglers, he moved swiftly, like a rattlesnake through grass. Every so
often a Guard would lose him out of sight, and his eyes would scan for a black hood and robe,
finally pointing a spear at him and shouting out a There he is! to his company. They moved
swiftly, from vendor to vendor, avoiding butchers who held up dead storks by their necks and
tailors displaying their linen raiments. Their speed and agility was impressive, but no match
for the shoplifter, who they cornered into a dead end near the end of their chase, but arriving
to it, saw that he vanished into nothingness.
The only thing left of him was a whistle.
The trio of Guards moved their heads up to the source and saw him; gripping a rope that held
a large canopy, feet pressed on the wooden beam that supported it. He grinned at them,
putting the hand in which he held the goods on his hip, taunting them like a sailor that clung
to his mast.
Looking for these? He stretched out his arm and waved the small, bulging paper wrap at
them. Youll have to catch me first!
With a cackle, he swung the rope and landed at the top of the beige covering. He sprinted over
the fabric like one sprinted on a smooth rocky road; his feet were made of air and his body
was as light as a butterflys. The Guards allowed themselves a second of incredulity before
running to the other side.

26

Scoundrel! One yelled, dropping his spear and taking out a rifle from the holster on his
back. He took a stance as his two teammates ran ahead, pointing the weapon at the offender
and firing three shots.
The consumers heard the loud shots, splitting the air and burning the humid sky. They held
their ears and ducked down, simultaneously screaming. The hoodlum leaped from the canopy
and onto a pile of barrels stacked tenfeet high. He stood victoriously on it with his arms
akimbo, conceitedly stepping to the side when two bullets missed him and hit the wood
behind him. Wine spilled out of it in a drizzle over his shoulder.
Waste of good liquor if you ask me, he stated, wiping the drink from his skin and then
tasted it from his thumb. He smacked his tongue. Hm. Not bad.
The man jumped to the top of the leaking barrel and saw the third bullet graze the sole of his
foot. He hissed, then flipped back and kicked the drum of alcohol onto the two Guards below.
They ran from it, each on separate sides, and once it crashed it burst and left a redolent mess
that the town drunks rushed to kneel over and lap up.
Youre welcome! The thief waved to them. Two thick braids fell out of his hood before he
pushed them back in haste. Drinks are on the Guards so gobble up as much as you can OI!
His chocolate eyes twitched to the side. He saw several dozen bullet holes hit the stone wall
of the house he was standing against. Sheesh, he commented through gritted teeth. He then
swept up, grabbed the wall and flipped his body up like a seal. Twisting and soaring through
the air, he finally landed on a balcony and tumbled in through the opened door, into a small
powder room.
Hello, ladies, he bowed down to the screaming women who started to gather pans, brooms
and other items capable of giving concussions. Therell be no need for that. Can I borrow
your clothes line? And that oh, thats good! The olive-skinned man took a bra from a
nearby sofa, stretched it out to test its durability and then threw it over the clothes line. He
grabbed the straps with one hand and jumped. He slid down across it with the speed of
lightning, and hit the adjacent wall with equal intensity.
His face met the brick and mortar with a blunt DOOMPH.
I wannae, he muttered to himself as he slowly peeled his face off the building, I wanner
tha recrd ta show that I meant ta do that.
The thief shuddered away the pain and jumped down, hopefully onto something soft. (Unlike
last time, when he fell feet-first on a bed of nails. He was fine, though he wouldnt know
about the guy lying on it.) This time, he landed on a thick bag of flour. Coughing profusely, he
barely had time to sneeze out the white powder out of his nose and thank the market worker,
who had become so used to his shenanigans that she volunteered to help out with his petty
thefts, as long as he didnt steal from her shop.
Thanks, Alana! He waved to the short-haired Macro girl and zoomed into the crowd again.
27

Any time, speedy! She winked and returned the sack where it belonged; slack over her right
shoulder.
A voice came, seemingly out of nowhere. Stop! In the name of the King!
Aaron stumbled, his arms slack. Crap, not this again.
More guards came swarming towards him, no longer wielding spears, truncheons or rifles, but
now sporting swords as sharp as a trolls nail. At first they came up one at a time, confident
that a sleaze such as himself would not handle a single armed man when in direct contact with
them. Instead of backing away, surrendering or even flinching, the man simply stuffed the
stolen goods into his tunic and grinned widely at the attackers.
So. You wanna dance, huh? The thief cracked his knuckles and summoned them with his
hand. Perfect. Lets tango!
The Guards approached, each striking the man with their swords with exact precision. The
thief dodged their movements, casually stepping away, jumping over them, sometimes
crouching and then sweeping their legs away. No amount of violence, discipline or cold
hearted allegiance to the King could instil fear into the young rapscallions bones. A battle
such as this, to some, might have been spine-chilling. To him, it was a game, and the
spectators could clearly recognize the way he played. (Too slow! You almost had me there
whoa, careful with that thing! Youll poke your eye out. Aaand one, two, three one, two,
three, there ya go, you almost got the hang of it!) Dancing around, he smiled as a wheezing
Guard struck once, twice, three times. When his weapon dropped from his exhausted hand,
the ruffian spun and punched his lights out.
Hey kids! He shouted to a small group of schoolchildren, blowing on his bloodied knuckle.
Make sure to stay in school and eat well! Otherwise youll end up like this guy Im kicking
around. His sentence was punctuated by a swift kick in a poor mans gut.
Cockily rising up his head, the thief truly believed that he would, once again, come out out of
this battle victorious, with his head raised high and with his goods intact. However, and this
he kept forgetting, the Guards outnumbered him fairly, and quite soon he had about twenty
edges of twenty sharpened swords pressing against the tenderness of his neck. His Adams
apple grazed at least two of them when he gulped hard. His almondshaped eyes searched for
a smidgeon of mercy in the furious orbs that surrounded him. There was none, and they all
radiated detest, fury and bloodlust.
Eh... h-hey, guys, cant we settle this another way? I mean, erm... His hands pressed hard
against his chest, over the concealed commodities he lifted. I mean, I need to get by, every
night, I hope I dont starve to death and I hope you fine, brave soldiers will permit me to take
one teeny, tiny, little A-ALRIGHT! He flinched as the twenty swords pressed even harder
against him. Even swallowing something might have drawn blood right now. Sweat poured
down his forehead, through the hood that cast a dusky shadow over his features. Alright...
well, I... I guess you finally caught up with me. Cant say much except, well... well done. He
grinned and took some time to clap, slowly, mockingly, to the guards that bared their teeth.
28

It took an army to track me down and capture me. And all that for a fistful of... well, Im not
even sure what I stole. All hail the King and his fearsome army, right? Chin up, you guys! You
made a difference! You showed how easy it is to swindle you guys on basically every twist
and turn. And before you take me into custody, from which Ill undoubtedly be released by
suppertime, Id just like to say...
Before he could finish that thought, a flash of bright, cyan lightning captured him, grabbed
him with such force that he shrieked in pain. The Guards all moved back, shielding their eyes
from the brightness. The column rose up into the sun, down into the underworld, splitting the
marketplace right down the middle.
When it disappeared a second later, the murmur returned to the marketplace, but it was no
longer idle repartee on the price of fish, but an ominous banter concerning a Gods appearance
and the foretold flashes of color and light.
The Kings men lowered their weapons, looking at the scorched ground they circled. None
dared to utter a word.
/***/
Out of the scorching hot desert sun and into the freezing cold snow of Frost Peak.
The two figures emerged from the spiralling tower, standing at a considerable distance. One
of those figures, dressed in a flowing white dress, silken gloves and light, tan ghillies, with
her platinum hair flowing like a dream and entangling the few snowflakes that fell on her
body, was Stella Concordiae Forrester. She watched the man she had rescued with nothing
short of contempt in her deep gray eyes, like she was cursing his soul and his unborn children.
The man freezing and folding his toned arms over his torso, shivering in the brisk weather and
hunching his shoulders under the weight of the cold, and the burden of his matron guardians
piercing eyes, was a young Xexarian wind manipulator, an athletic man of noble heritage who
was destined by the Eleventh Scroll to lead the peoples of Brimstone into salvation. The name
given to him was Aaron Kronos.
Stella, however, called him Raemskal the mischievous one when she had first found
him. This is why she referred to him as such even after he discarded that nickname.
Raem, she began with a voice as heavy and cold as a stone. Both of them knew that hed
rather take a dozen swords to the neck than hear one of her lectures.
Hey, Stel, he chuckled weakly, Thanks for coming in there when you did. I think you
mightve saved my life out there so... He chewed on his bottom lip, shuffling the snow
beneath him with his bare feet. They were turning blue in the cold, though he had not the
bravery to say anything to Stella.
At that time, she closed her eyes and sighed deeply. Raem...

29

Look, Stel, it wasnt my fault, honestly! I mean... have you seen how much they charge for
everything?! Zsetva month, more like rip-off month! Aaron scoffed and put his cold hands
under his armpits for warmth. I did that guy a favour for robbin him! At least now he can get
something if he had the stall insured. If I hadnt picked that stuff, nobody woulda touched it! I
mean it! I just wanted to get you something, you know, as a good luck token for the festival
tonight... hhold on!
With his nimble fingers that were only slightly frozen in the cold, he reached into his tunic
and pulled out the swaddled mass of trinkets. He dug his thumb and index finger, shuffling the
contents as his tongue stuck out, and he gave short, passing commentary on how close he was
to finding it. And then, with an air of triumph, he pulled out a small golden ring with a thick,
engraved band that felt heavy between his fingers. Outstretching his arm, he offered it to
Stella, who refused to look at the jewellery and instead watched him straight in the eyes.
See, Stel? He licked his lips while awaiting a response that never came. She would never
take it and grab it enthusiastically, he knew her far too well to expect that. He did, however,
expect a small smile, a twinkle in her eye, a crack in her otherwise aloof and impenetrable
facade. All he could see was a blank stare, and this was more terrifying than a fight with any
Guard faction. See? Its... its gold! You like gold, and it, uh, it matches the stitches on your
dress for tonight! Its real gold, Stel, I checked. A-a-and Ive got loads more stuff, too! For,
erm, everyone! Ive got some for Rikes and Mag-Mag and Archie and Freya and...
Have you looked at the engraving on that ring?
Aarons wide mouth fell to the side and his eyes were suddenly stuck on the small print.
Squinting at it failed to sharpen the odd dwarven tongue, and the Xexarian could not decipher
it as well as Stella could. She soon translated, still looking at him into the eye.
To my darling and adored Votralsia, may my love keep you warmer than any home did, and
may joy spring from our much awaited betrothal as the dragon lilies on Zephyrs Field.
Finally, after the recitation, her checkered eyes narrowed at her protg. You have stolen the
merchants engagement ring.
Aaron shut his mouth, quickly pocketing the ring in hopes that Stella would forget something
as soon as it was out of sight. Judging by the manner in which she approached him made him
aware that, no, Stella was not akin to a goldfish in the memory department, and, yes, she
would most likely be furious with him.
I left you out of my sight for no more than fourteen hours, her fists tightened as she walked
but her volume of voice stayed even, and you have managed to get yourself into an all-out
war with half of the garrison.
Im sorry, Stel, really
Your apologies are not going to bring back the mans wares. I expect you to do as I taught
you and return all of what youve taken back to him.

30

But I
Every last item! She grabbed the package out of the mans hands, ignoring his protest. She
trailed her delicate fingers over the goggles, gloves, oils and some pieces of cloth. Her brow
furrowed but she refrained from saying a word.
Stel, do I really have to return everything? I mean, its appropriate to bring gifts to friends at
the festival, so... cant I just pay for it?
By all means. The monochrome Dryad flung out her arm in pretendapathy. I only hope
you will not steal the money as well. Im certainly not going to hand it to you. And I should
know that you have next to nothing in your savings. You belatedly buying all that seems like
an improbable scenario.
Aw, cmon...
No, Aaron. Your whining will get you nowhere this time. You are a grown man. Ive had less
trouble keeping my eye on you when you were an infant. At least back then you had reason to
act like one.
The Xexarian bowed his head down to avoid eye contact, unaware that she had stopped
scolding him and started to look at the cuts and scrapes over his arms and legs. He tapped his
foot over the snow that turned to ice under his bleeding foot. Look, Stel, I know youre
worried, but this is kinda what I do now. I resist against the King. Thats the point of my
whole movement. Stealing is underhanded, but sometimes its the only thing I can do at the
time. Ya know, act locally, think globally? And its not like they can arrest me because of the
whole prophecy thing, so... He rolled on the balls of his feet nonchalantly but was brought to
attention by Stellas inquiry.
What happened to you?
Eh? For a second he couldnt understand her question, seeing as it could have been applied
to any trait of his. After he had seen what she was actually looking at, he slowly lifted up his
leg to examine his foot. The bullet grazed it only slightly, but the bleeding was much more
visible in the snow, and the biting ice under him made the whole area bluish and swollen, like
it would burst if somebody pricked it with a pin. He saw the concern in the Dryads eyes, the
kind only mothers would have, and only if their children were dying of some illfated disease.
Aaron attempted to comfort her, wiping his foot in the snow. This left uneven scarlet trails
that smelled of copper. Its... its nothing. It doesnt even hurt.
Im not taking your word for anything anymore, Raem. Not until I have a look at it myself.
Come. She stuffed the wares into his arm and seemed relieved for not holding them in her
grasp. We will discuss your retribution at the base.
Taking his hand, she slowly started to move her foot across the surface of the snow, looping
and slicing over it while chanting a spell under her breath. As she worked, Aaron watched

31

with a look of guilt, a knot in his stomach twisting into a bow until he couldnt stay quiet
anymore.
As the grand, orbiting sphere appeared and then outstretched into a pillar, Stella took a step
forward and pulled Aaron along by his wrist.
Stel, youre not... mad at me, are ya? He scooted closer to her, feet shuffling the loose, icy
snow. Are ya? I didnt mean to make you mad, I swear to the Gods... His narrow eyes
glinted, as manipulative as they were. It wasnt enough to draw her attention for a second
time, and her eyes were glued in front.
Raem, I am not mad at you, she explained, avoiding his pleading eyes and instead looking
at her portal. Im simply disappointed.
He groaned into the sky just as the electricity swallowed them both.
/***/
Riker Voynik, the leading mechanic of the only rebel faction in the outskirts of the Aura
Kingdom and self-proclaimed master of machinery, rose up his protective glasses above his
brow and pinched the bridge of his nose in impatience. Beads of sweat rolled down his dark
forehead and he wiped them off with a sweatband on his human wrist. His compact
mechanical arm gripped hard on the laser canon in front of him. He kneeled down and
watched the wiring that has been shot and ruined after a slight incident involving a bottle of
rum, a happy-go-lucky Xexarian and an hour-long power outage.
There would be no time for a break unless he picked up his pace. With that doleful thought, he
returned his prescription goggles to their rightful place, making sure the strap clung snugly
against the back of his head. His nostrils flared wide and he reached out his empty palm to the
man standing behind him.
Wire stripper, he demanded flatly.
Pion reached one of his white, dusty limbs into a stack of tools, immediately finding what the
Macro wanted. He laid it in Rikers palm, and the mechanic dug in deep into the gaping hole.
He held up a red wire, clipping it at the base, and then pulled out his arm and set the tool
aside.
His hand rose up again. Brace.
A U-shaped shaft soon came into his grip, and he pressed hard into the metal wall inside the
gap. He held it by the base with his human hand as his mechanical one spun the handle,
making a metal, whirring noise that would make even the most stoic of men clench their teeth
and cover their ears. This ordeal lasted for twenty seconds, during which Pion hadnt even
blinked, and instead watched the mess next to the Macro, knowing hell soon need another
tool. As usually, the dark Zeer was right.
Grease gun.
32

He took the small canister base in his hands. Without even glancing at it, his expression fell.
The man threw the tool into his wider titanium palm, lifting up his goggles to the base of his
raven hair. His thick eyebrows met and he stared at the albino with unmatched frustration.
I said a grease gun, not a rivet gun. Setting it aside, he shovelled the heap until finding what
he needed. What are you trying to do? Sabotage the entire construction?
Give him a break, Archers disembodied voice ran from the back corner of the room. The
mechanic and the runner looked to the marksman, whose icy gray eyes skimmed the horizon
between the book pages of his nondescript pulp novel and the rest of the room. Not everyone
in Brimstones been born with a tool shed as their identical twin, yknow? The mans never
even handled a screwdriver before.
I can see that, the raven muttered in a monotone and pushed the corners of his round, plastic
specs over his temples. Archer was not amused with the mans treatment of his teammates.
Choosing not to say anything directly to him, he leaned deeper into his pondering chair and
set his boots on the round table in front of him.
Wheres the tomatohead, anyway? I thought you were her personal assistant. Shouldnt she
be shooing you off to go fetch her tools while she deals with the actual engineering? He
didnt need to move the book to see Rikers expression; his oblong face red and his temple
twitching in annoyance.
Shes on her way back right now, he said through gritted teeth, pulling out a fistful of
chords with both of his hands. The strings of red, blue and yellow hissed as he took them out,
sparking and buzzing until they acquainted themselves with being out of the malfunctioning
system. Riker threw them behind his back. Though Im completely certain I can repair this
without her.
Archer scoffed. Repair that? You cant take a bloody piss without her. Thats some new-age
alien Cyclops bullshit youre tackling there.
Arent you supposed to be spending your miserable existence up on a tree shooting buzzards
or something?
Oy, you joke all you want, But Ill tell you that dead buzzards are much smarter than present
company. Least they know not to piss off a man with a gun and the aim of a hawk.
Riker turned his frame to the side, still kneeling but bringing up his appendage into light. He
cracked a small grin in Archers direction. You keep using that argument... about you having
a gun. Its like you keep forgetting something.
Before their eyes, Rikers left arm shifted clockwise; the tubing and the small knobs falling
into the gaps like perfect puzzle pieces, his heavy flat palm and wide, maladroit fingers
collapsing into the barrel of his forearm. The mechanism clicked and rearranged itself until
Rikers arm, stretching from the elbow to the tips of his fingers, was replaced with a glossy

33

metal cylinder with a thick blast-augmentative glass lid at the very tip. The bottom half of his
limb doubled in size in a little over a second, and he hadnt even powered the thing on yet.
I am the gun, Riker said conceitedly. He felt so glad about his impressive retort that he
didnt even know which part of it to emphasize.
Archer watched for a moment, growled, and returned to his light reading, murmuring
something about the Macro not being able to aim it properly. The tall mechanic shook his
head at the archers immaturity, quickly returning his weaponized limb into its default and
relatively harmless state. Once again, his attention was grabbed by the work before him, and
Pion turned into a mechanics aide. The Zeer would have frowned in boredom if his stitched
mouth allowed him to. His dry, bony fingers went into the scrap metal again.
Bolt cutter, Riker requested, none too politely. Impact driver. Screwdriver. Scissors. Meat
hook... dont look at me like that, if I ask for a meat hook, you give me the damned meat
hook!
Just then, a gust of sunlight crashed into the cold, dusty laboratory. The three men inside all
looked to the portmanteau mechanical doors that swept open, revealing a panting, slouching
and fairly exhausted half-Sheeba. Her hands were flat against her bent knees, her breathing
rushed and shallow while she tried to speak.
Tha... that... thats a lotta miles... she commented, the red in her face slowly shifting into a
sickly shade of brown. The strap of her heavy tote bag slipped off her shoulders but she had
neither the strength or will to adjust it. Archer was the first one to acknowledge her state. He
ticked up an unkempt eyebrow and gave a crooked half-grin.
You doing okay back there? Cause look like you just sucked every cock in Brimstone and
then got punched by a... a friggin... Minotaur.
The line was poorly improvised and fell short of offensive. The marksman was not at all
pleased with that, and neither was Riker. The mechanic pierced the side of his good hand with
the meat hook but the shock and overall disgust for the man sitting behind him prevented him
from feeling pain. Maggies reaction was more offhand. She even nodded in agreement.
Thanks, Archie, thats how I feel. She straightened up and pushed her hands on her back
until they cracked up straight. The sound they produced was akin to chewing on ice. You
dont have to be so blunt, though, she said as she rolled back her shoulders.
The redhead took a step into the tiled metal lair, soon yelping at how quickly the mechanical
sliding door closed. It was fast enough to chop somebodys head clean off, and the image
made Maggie wince. The hypothetical result of being decapitated by a door reminded her of
the large, stygian guillotine in the middle of towns square. It was right outside the Kings
palace, next to the gallows where convicts hung as scarecrows, and it represented a wonderful
fear campaign. She was never a fan of beheadings. Pulling the lever and standing beside the
victims seemed too up close and personal. Frankly, if she had any business killing people for a

34

living, shed keep her distance, using a gun. Or a rifle. Or a semiautomatic. Or a bazooka. Or
a cannon. Or a...
Wait, what was that last thing again? A cannon? Of course, a cannon! Suddenly, her scurrying
trail of thought had lead her into her area of expertise.
The exhausted engineer squealed and bit down hard on her fist to keep herself from
screeching in anticipation. Her beloved Phoenix cannon, a project she had been working on
since she first arrived in the group roughly two years ago, was right in the middle of the neon,
echoing workshop. The barrel was attached to the hull already well, most of it, since an
underground laboratory only allowed so much space. It was halfway finished, and already so
massive and menacing. If she were a by-passer, one look at it would send her running the
other way. And soon, she thought, after she had had it painted and transformed from a gray,
commonplace battle weapon into a mechanized God of war, the King and his men will scream
in horror as their homes become crushed under the Phoenixs rays, as it distributed dark Mana
in shockwaves and destructive blasts. If the King was clever enough, he would buy it off from
her and utilize it as he liked... but only if she was happy with the offer he gave.
She would make millions in patents and industrial deals, proving once and for all that there
was no better engineer than a shunned half-breed with too much time on her hands.
It would be a pinnacle of her creation that she had imagined since she could hold a wrench in
her clammy hand. It was incomplete, but seeing something as minute as a metal tube attached
to a boxy frame made her remember that it was still in progress, and it was best to keep the
work going for as long as it took.
Her heavy bag dropped on the floor. The feet that ran over the lab were lighter than air, and
the arms that gripped Riker from behind might have been made of steel for all he cared. One
hard squeeze, and all the air he inhaled that day was pushed right out of him.
Hullooooooooooo! She pressed her cheek hard against Rikers prickly chin. Hows my
fay-voh-rite cyborg? The woman made it sound like there was more than one cyborg she
knew. The mechanic struggled to breathe at first, and then lifted up his goggles and gave his
overly-excited girlfriend a small peck on the forehead.
Im fine. Ive been trying to figure out how to get the Phoenix to stop spontaneously
combusting. Its exhausting, but I will do whatever I can to better your creation. His
shoulders lifted up in reservation, like he was a hero undergoing a noble sacrifice.
Archer reached the final paragraph of his book, decided it was the most tedious book he had
read that month, and then looked at the two lovebirds kneeling on the floor. Aint that the
whole purpose of phoenixes? He mused aloud. Theyre supposed to combust, right? And
then they, uh, rebirth themselves outta their ashes in a display of glory and resurgence and
blah-dee-blah-dee-blah-dee-blah... One of his gloved hands waved around the air at the last
part. A phoenix oughta be on fire.

35

Not if its made of metal and the hull melts with every ... hm? Riker looked at Pion, who
tapped his back with his index finger and ticked his head to Archer. The mechanic nodded at
him. Oh. Youre still here. Well, Maggies taking over now, so youre excused. His metal
hand creaked while he dismissed him, and Maggie made a mental note to oil up the screws in
his wrist.
Pion took a solemn bow and approached Archer, sitting up straight on a wooden stool next to
him. Archer handed him the book he held, throwing in a quick remark about how shitty it was,
and then continued to speak with the tinkering duo as the Zeer opened up the paperback to
page one and slowly read the prologue with his eyes alight.
Archer never really enjoyed reading, but had a personal obligation to check the quality of
everything that went into Pions grasp. Books of lower quality were rarely given to him,
unless Pion absolutely insisted. This particular novel was actually quite good, though Archer
would have criticized it just the same. The last work that the critic found unforgivably awful
ended up in the fireplace an incident that Stella had never forgiven (not that he cared about
her opinion, though she never hesitated to bring up the incident on every given chance).
Nobody exactly knew why the man insisted on doing quality control of every novel Pion was
likely to read. When the mechanic asked him once, he received a none-too-polite answer
which, in a way, suggested that Rikers conception was the result of a drunken beggars
copulation with a tin trash can. After such a remark, it was understandable why nobody
bothered with Archers habits.
So, the bearded marksman folded his arms behind his head, leisurely leaning back in his
seat, any of you geniuses close to figurin out whats wrong with that thing?
Maggie propped herself up on her feet, using Rikers broad shoulders as leverage. Riker stood
up quickly after her, and the two stood side-by-side in perfect contrast. Her curly red mane
clashed with his straight jet-black hair that reached just above his shoulders. Her great
emerald eyes watched his narrowed hazels with fondness and warmth. His body was a
lumbering mass on its right side, intertwined with wires, iron and silicone attachments with
skin grafts blackening his once charred flesh. Even his mostly human half, dark and finelytoned, looked fit as a fiddle and capable of lifting up Maggies small freckled frame with ease.
They were such opposites that the room screamed with strain whenever they were in it for too
long. In a way, they found that this made them ideal for each other. Brimstone couldnt create
anybody more different, even if all the Gods gathered to try. Maybe that was a sign that they
would get along so well. It was a message from the universe that the two of them deciphered,
and everybody else still struggled to.
We will soon! They spoke in unison, looked at each other with surprise, and then laughed in
their own special demeanour. Maggie cackled openly and Riker sniggered into a hand that
cupped his chin.
It was oh-so-quaint, like a match made in Heaven. Archer was ready to puke.

36

Before he could even stick out his tongue mockingly, a flash of cyan light lit up the room, just
long enough to blind those in it, and then disappeared and left Stellas elegant form. Her body
was held up and steady by restraint. Her face, however, showed a will to track down and kill.
Maggie waved at her, stepping up on her toes. Hi, Stelly!
Silence.
Ho-kay. She tucked her head into her shoulders as far as her neck allowed it.
Has Aaron been inside the base today? Stella asked, searching around the room for clues on
the young mans disappearance. Sadly, all she could see were emotionless shrugs, and
Maggies ponderous head-scratching. The Dryad tried again, spicing up her phrasing. Has he
alerted anybody of his whereabouts?
Im afraid not, Riker responded.
Not me, Maggie added with pursed lips.
Pion shook his head and looked at Archer, who examined the tips of his gloved fingers with
disinterest until the Zeer elbowed him in the ribs.
Ow! The mans knuckles tightened as he reached for the sniper rifle leaning on the wall
behind him. Pion pointed at Stellas flaming eyes and Archers body loosened up, no longer in
position to attack, but rather in position to annoy. Oh. Uh, he said something about going to
the marketplace to get some merchandise we wanted. I saw him leave around... two hours
ago. He see-sawed his hand to show uncertainty.
And why wasnt this the first thing you told me?
You didnt ask.
I asked that as soon as I came in.
Well, he grunted and leaned back, looking at the lights on the ceiling, you didnt ask me
personally. Giving a little shallow laugh, he focused on the specks of dust on his shoes. Not
the most captivating sight, but it fared above watching Stellas boring mug.
Stella clicked her tongue, rose her arms up over her head and disappeared in electric wisps.
Not the brightest idea, Maggie thought to herself. Whenever Stella teleported in a hurry, she
usually ended up in Frost Peak, Kawala Lax or some other unfortunate place. It was quiet
again after that, and the past four seconds felt like an abstract mirage. Even Pion blinked
several times to make sure he hadnt dozed off and dreamed the whole thing.
It was no rarity that Aaron would escape from Stellas keen eye whenever opportunity sprung.
Each time, however, the group was left with the idea of how unreliable he was, and the
horrifying realization that they, as a group and as the people of Brimstone, all depended on
him and his legacy.

37

Archer pinched the bridge of his nose and squinted at the skin of his palm.
Is there any chance hes not The Last Xexarian? His gloved fingers released his bridge and
took to scratching out the coppery hair from his scalp. I mean, is it possible that we all
collectively made a mistake and overlooked some people? Maybe hes The SecondLast
Xexarian or something, right? Maybe One of The Remaining Few Xexarians. Maybe the
Grotesque Demon Child of a... Beggar of Damask Who Took a Xexarian Slut and Touched
Her Tits and Thats The Only Contact He Had With Their Kind So Thank The Gods We Dont
Rely On Aaron For Eternal Salvation. Or some horseshit.
Archer, I pray to the God of Justice Equiar every night that one of your crackpot theories is
correct, Riker said, pensively throwing away the meat hook (and frowning at the blood on
his hand before wiping it off his black wifebeater). He folded his arms over his chest and
shook his head. But I highly doubt that the coveted Scroll would put down The Last
Xexarians Second Cousin from His Fathers Sisters Side as our moral compass and saviour
of all things vile and sinful.
That just proves my point. How exactly is Aaron a moral compass? The mans a lazy neerdo-well, he stopped for a moment, impressed that the word came into his mind, who spends
his days chasing tail, smokin neon leaves and stealing pelts for fun! Pelts! Not even gold or
silver pieces of dead animal you wrap around your fucking neck! His curled-up fist
slammed hard against the table and he jumped up. His icy eyes shot flames with all the fury
he felt; the impertinence of the young man he actually once admired repelled and enraged
him. Hes a swindler! Hes a moron, hes ... hes a thief!
Give it a rest, Archie, Maggie spoke from inside the metal contraption, before emerging and
wiping off the oil from her freckled cheek. Hes leading the outcasts of the world! Freaks,
you know, like you and me. Whatd you expect him to be like?
She jumped back up on the soles of her heavy work boots and flipped the wrench in her hand.
Archer pressed his fingers on his forehead and ran them through his short carroty hair that felt
like a wiry nest.
The Outcasts were supposed to be a force of justice, tomatohead. Or ave you forgotten
that? Looking up at Maggie, who had made it to the other side of the glass workbench and
foraged for a toolbox, he outstretched his arms and took a step forward. I mean, look at this!
These are real, quality headquarters! Theres heat here sometimes, and do you see the pattern
of mildew on the walls? Beautiful! I got stung by a pixie scorpion in the latrines yester night
and I can barely feel the right side of my face but thats just how I sodding like it! This is a
place where great things could appen if our leader didnt care about getting is hands on some
easy broad more than the future of Brimstone! Look, I aint the one to preach goodness and
virtue or nothin, but ever since the attack on the Senate hes done nothing but sully the good
name of our group. And you damn well know it!
Good name? The redhead laughed briskly as she slammed down a taped cardboard box on
the glass counter. She ripped it open, dust flying from it in a flurry. Archie, she said softly,
38

trying not to tear up from the powder, you can sugar-coat and be sarcastic about this as much
as you want, but were the bad guys, bottom line! We go against the King! I mean, apart from
Aaron, we all have bounties on our heads! And weve all accepted it a long time ago. Her
fingers dug deep and she pulled out a tin box, just the size of somebodys lunch package. The
dust on the top was cleaned away with one of her sleeves.
Yes, but... Archer grabbed the sides of his head and took a deep breath through his nose to
keep calm and clear his mind. This attempt at self-soothing failed. BUT HES A
XEXARIAN!
Meaning? Riker asked flatly while Maggie studied an old and rusted blowtorch.
The marksman, unable to find any better way to phrase himself, pulled up his hood over his
head and slowly ambled back to his pondering chair, which Pion patted several times. The
Zeers oily black eyes shifted from the pages of his new book to the sharpshooter, with a look
at only Archer recognized as impatience. Folding his arms, Archer Acer Thorne muttered into
the fur lining of his thick winter coat.
Meaning he should be better than us.
And as if Archers complete resignation could summon antediluvian wood faeries and their
reckless protgs, Stella reappeared inside the laboratory again, holding Aaron tightly by his
forearm. The bolt of the blue made the collective take a cautious step back (even Pion scooted
his chair to the side while not looking away from his novel), and Maggie almost singed off
her eyebrows again when the blowtorch fired off in her hand. The Dryads arrivals were never
something theyd easily predict, and were more of a nuisance than a friendly visit on their
own.
The snow-skinned don, who at the time considered herself to be less of a mentor and more of
a glorified governess, reprimanded Aaron even as they both left the spiralling vortex.
I will not be here forever to protect you, Raemskal. Do not let my age fool you, us Dryads do
have our expiration dates. There will be a time when I will not be able to teleport you out of
your self-caused run-ins with the law, and Id like you to stop with your shenanigans before
you get somebody killed.
Thanks, Stel, Aaron brushed off her fair warning and yanked his arm out of hers, still
cradling the package of assorted goods in his other hand. Heeey, Rikes! Got something you
asked for! He called out, pulling out a pocket watch. The motion it swayed in was almost
hypnotic, and Rikers eyes followed the half-moon path in a slight stupor before realizing the
watch was for him.
Ya know how you wanted to calculate the charging intervals for your Phoenix cannon? But
you couldnt find a decent clock? Well I saw this and thought, he shrugged, giving his
signature crooked smirk, why not?

39

Stella could have told him thirty reasons for why he shouldnt have done that, but seeing
Riker look at the winged eye made her keep her mouth shut. The watch itself was grotesque,
but styled in the way Riker preferred his trinkets half organic, half machine. The centre of
the clock was a pupil and a green iris, circled in Macro numerals on a golden plate. The sides
of the pocket watch were engraved with small waves and vines, all connecting to two brass
wings on each side. They shimmered in the laboratorys neon light as Riker expected it closer.
The gold might not have been real, but it was a fine mechanism regardless. The mechanic
clung to it in his human hand (which had thankfully stopped bleeding by that time).
This is quite a fine watch, Riker nodded at Aaron in approval. I bet it cost you a fortune.
The Xexarian clucked his tongue. You have no idea. His head turned to Maggie, who
slithered her way into the Phoenixs gaping base and clambered around the tubes and
cylinders, constantly getting stuck in the wires. Couldja come out for a sec?
She surfaced along with a small magnifying glass and a muddy face. What? Her tone was
teetering on the thin line between mildly put out and frustrated. Her displeasure washed away
and her checkered eyes went wide when she saw two thin strips of silk in Aarons proffered
hand. By the Gods, you remembered! She pulled her gift and pressed it to her chest. Opera
gloves! Look, Rikes!
Her boyfriend looked away from his pocket watch and smiled at the gloves being waved
around above Maggies head. He chuckled into his chest before returning to pick away at the
small dial knob in the back.
Thanks, Aaron.
Any time.
Raem...
Nonono, Stel, just gimme a second. Ill be done in a wink. So Ive got something for Freya
when I meet her again, something for me, a cold chain for Daria, something else for me....
ah! The man took out a bar of soap with an air of triumph. Hey, Archer! Catch!
He threw it halfway across the room to have Archer catch it without looking away from the tip
of his boots. The marksman muttered a thank you before promptly leaving the room to take
one of his daily baths. Soap was surprisingly difficult to come by in those parts (especially if
you were an introverted sociopath who disliked human contact and leaving his station). This
was a pity, seeing that Archer was the one keenest on keeping clean. To such a degree that he
spent his days in the sizzling Aura heat always clad in gloves and coats only to keep away
from human contact. It was an unfortunate fixation to have, but then again, everything about
him was unfortunate.
Stellas eyes narrowed at the sharpshooter as he left the room and headed towards the baths.
You better refrain from burning any books in there.

40

The man did not react until the door shut behind him, and after they did, the Dryad was
certain that Archer was showing her the middle finger behind a safe shield of impenetrable
steel.
Nothing for Pion though, Aaron finished his train of thought. Sorry bud. Maybe next
time.
The Zeer didnt even move a muscle.
All right, you had your fun, Stella clapped her hands together and took Aaron under his
armpit. Now I could possibly tell you how your beloved leader has acquired these wares.
What you are holding in your hands are stolen goods, and they must be either paid for or
restored. And since Aaron is as tackless as a desert rat, I expect all of you to give back your
presents.
This gave out a collective groan from the Outcasts (minus Pion for obvious reasons). Riker
was the first to protest.
Must we return them? We could easily pay for them ourselves...
As decent as that would be, I fail to understand how you could possibly afford any of this. I
do not meant to offend, but such a watch can easily cost you fifty tacks, and as I recall, most
of your meals this month came from hunted game or somebody elses garbage.
A protest lodged in Rikers throat and refused to come out. The mechanic broodingly hovered
a hand over his acquired watch.
I... I cant return mine, Maggie said flatly, with a hint of humiliation. She lifted up her
gloves and the small frayed strips of silk she cut off with a knife. I turned them into
fingerless gloves.
Stella blinked. Why?
I wanna look pretty but also kickass.
You could still get the soap back from Archer but, Aaron crunched up his nose in distaste.
If hes already used it, Im not sure theyll take it back.
Sweet Serena, Goddess of Light, his matron recited her prayer, closing her eyes shut to hide
her aggravation. You have had those for a second and you have already ruined them.
Mine still works fine, Riker said. Stella turned his way, impassive.
Good. So youll return it.
Now that I look at it, I think I scratched the eye.
Stella tented her fingers and pressed the tips to the bridge of her nose, sighing deeply. This act
of exasperation wasnt pointed at anybody in particular, but rather at the fact that, once again,
she would have to tighten her purse strings and salvage the situation. There would be a time,
41

she decided long ago, that she would make Aaron take full responsibility for his actions. Even
though that day was an excellent day to start disciplining him, she decided to let him have his
way one more time.
And so, the twenty-year-old tradition of Stella turning a blind eye to Kronos imprudence has
continued.
Ill give you two hundred tacks to cover the merchants damage and nothing more. I still
expect you to return the ring.
Aw, geee, you shouldnt have. Aaron put his arms around her stiff form, like a small child
trying to relax an infuriated mother. His head rested on her shoulder before he spoke again, in
a manner even more rushed than usually. Can you get me to the infirmary now? Im
beginning to lose feeling in my foot.
The Dryad snapped her fingers and the man was gone in a flash of blue and white.
By the Gods, Rikes, Maggie inspected her invention, already putting her fine fingerless
opera gloves to use. What were you even doing in here? The engines completely shot!
Yes, I know. Ive tried to reconfigure the core matrix that captures the Mana but I didnt see
any results.
Have you tried putting the thing in the thing?
Riker adjusted his goggles to better fit the frame of his face. He came up to Maggie, scooted
close and watched the small wire she was pointing at. Put what in the what?
The thing in the thing. Look, this needs ether to conduct the dark Mana, because it doesnt
flow as steam or oil. Its plasma, so whatever all this is, she made a vague gesture with the
tip of her index finger, circling around the box, comes off as pretty needless. There is a
chance that Mana can travel through the brass pump if we cut out the middle man being the
tubing and connected the pump to the air compressor with some kinda, uhh... ya know,
thing!
Rikers thick eyebrows knotted at her vague explanation. What thing?
Thing... thing. Look, Rikey, I cant explain it, but I can fix it on my own. In the meantime,
you can go make some tea because this is gonna take a while.
How long can it take? Ive been trying to fix it myself for hours before you finally came in!
Erm... how do I put this without offending you...? Maggie turned to him again, thankful that
her brass goggles concealed her apologetic expression. Her shoulders lifted up, only slightly,
and her voice lowered by a whole octave. You made it worse.
The mechanic looked at her, then at the machine they fuddled with, then the scab on his hand,
before looking at her again. All this while trying to conceal his twitching temple. His
girlfriend has basically shot down his work, but what could he do about it? She was the true
42

genius in the facility, even though her technical vocabulary was limited to screwing the
doohickey into the whatchamacallit. It came with being half-Sheeban he supposed, her
intuition. It resulted into marvellous gadgets or, albeit in rare cases, small forest fires. For this
reason alone, he decided against objecting his demotion to a barista, and walked up to a
copper tea kettle in the other end of the room.
You tell me if you need anything, alright? He said through gritted teeth.
Dont worry, I wont, she replied in a chirp.
Their exchange was brief and left them in silence, both unaware the Stella was still in the
room, crossing her long trumpet sleeves over the puffed up bodice of her dress. There was
worry in her light eyes, usually vibrant and interested in her surroundings, were now gray and
matte. It was like boredom had taken over them, like Sorrow took grieving widows and
orphaned children. This was no true Sorrow, but rather its distant relative that seemed to strike
her more and more with each passing day. Hopelessness, some called it, though she referred
to it as Melancholy.
I dont know what has happened to him, Stella spoke quietly, not expecting Maggie and
Riker to look back at her. This soliloquy was more of a therapeutic way of handling her
thoughts and less of a conversation starter. She ran the thoughts in her mind, unsure of if she
had spoken them aloud or not.
The Raemskal she knew would have fallen right in the mould of a man destined to carry out
the prophecy. He was a kind-hearted, eager, loving child. But the fame that came with his
Aaron Kronos identity completely muddled with his mind. His pleasures now were trivial,
his ideals completely shot. Though he still held his legacy, and was adored through the land
or perhaps, he was feared? Because only those deemed worthy were destined to reach
Zephyrs Field. Everybody wished to be that select few, even if it meant coddling him or
allowing him to have his way.
With a deep, restless exhale, the Dryad leaned on a cold tiled wall, allowing the cool to rest on
her back and extinguish the fire in her head. Her long digits rubbed her temples and the heated
eyelids of her sleep-deprived eyes.
I can only wish the prophecy mislead us. Or at least, her head tilted up, I wish for him to
return Raemskal to have him cast away the notoriety that came with his new name.
But there was no time to think about this. Not now, merely hours before the Festival of Light.
It took every shred of composure she had left to bring herself up, twist her arm upwards and
join Aaron in the infirmary. He would need to be in his prime when he came to the event.
Hell need her to do so.
The Dryad left the mechanics once again, who cursed when the brightness shot through the
air. Magic, it seemed, came off as far less impressive when performed in a cramped space.
/***/
43

Let the festivities begin!"

The voice came from the formal political leader and premier of Encantadia, Julius Flammeus
Plamen, who clapped his wide, paw-like hands and lit up the forest with the light of countless
spheres, pyreflies and beacons spread over the ground and canopying treetops. Hundreds of
people; humans, Dryads, centaurs, goblins and panes alike, all came out of the woodwork and
came in through Zara, the realm connecting Brimstone to the magical world of Saga. Despite
many faeries who refused to take part in a celebration along with etherless human excreta,
the woods have filled up nicely, and the merry bunch swarmed the area like a colony of
worker ants, all astounded at the beauty and wildlife of the magical world. Small children
gazed at the firework display in awe, pointing at the powdery streaks that came to life in the
cerulean sphere of the night sky. Mages performed tricks for the astounded crowd; creating
fire orbs that combusted and shifted into woodland creatures that ran amok. Crisply, honeycovered scones and rich, creamy cakes were exchanged from the hands of the most practised
bakers of Saga to the hungry Macros who had never had a better meal than a warm slice of
toast. After the mead and wine was distributed evenly among the guests, even the most
bigoted of Dryads soon became moreorless ambivalent towards their non-magical brethren,
and started to sing shanties alongside them while guzzling down copious amounts of liquor.
Not even the strongest firewater could erase how they felt about mixed races. This is why,
every so often, Maggie would get something thrown in her direction, along with a hateful
comment.
This time, it was a slice of lemon tart that she expertly caught in her gloved hand, and the
comment was a distressed cry of Half-breed! cutting through the elms like a knife. Hearing
that, Riker was about ready to rip the trees apart to find and maul the offender, though Maggie
stopped him by putting a firm hand on his chest.
This happens every time, Rikes, she looked at him, taking a small bite of the projectile tart.
Just ignore it. Least its not a rock this time.
I cant ignore it, he responded as he took her hand and lead her through the rabble of young
Dryads excitedly chasing a blue lightning puppy. The yapping illusion sped phased right
through the cyborgs legs, and the children evaded the couple, only some stopping short to see
the mans strange tubular arm. He turned to Maggie again. None of these people have the
right to look at you like that. You share their blood. You can come in and out of Saga any time
you please. It isnt fair to you.
I know its not, but Im used to it. I mean look at us! Im a half-breed and you, erm... conduct
electricity better than any other human.
Thats not even true. Titanium isnt even that conductive.
You know what I mean, she clucked her tongue. People are gonna stare at us. Theyre
gonna call me names and throw things. Its the way things are.

44

But this days about unity, Mags. This is one day a year when we are supposed to be
respectful of others.
Other races, Maggie corrected, taking another mouthful of the tangy pastry. Her cheeks
were puffed up while she mumbled with her stuffed gob, Theresh nuthin aboat reshpecting
haff-beeds. She swallowed hard. And I dont mind.
You should.
I dont. She came closer and embraced his human arm, staying like that for a brief minute
before the streaming crowd forced them to move again. I have you, and as long as you
respect me, I dont give a damn about what anyone says.
Riker tried to add something to his former statement. But, seeing how tightly she held his arm
and how her bright emeralds gleamed at the sight of another firework gracing the night sky, he
refused to ruin the moment and settled for planting a kiss on her forehead instead. She giggled
into his bicep.
GO BACK TO HELL! Shouted a flaxen-haired moon elf, throwing something her way. She
caught it, inches from her face. There was something sketchy about those who expressed their
hatred even at the expense of wasting perfectly good food. With a smile on her face, she bit
into the butter muffin and nodded in thanks to the elf (who had caught a sight of Riker and his
vindictive glower and promptly hid behind a tree).
You sure you can eat all that? Riker asked, gesturing to her hands. Maggie looked
downright offended at this remark.
If Rowena the Creator didnt want me to eat two cakes at once, she wouldnt have given me
two hands.
This was enough to make the man regret ever having said that. With a goodnatured smile,
she offered him a taste of the butter muffin, which he wordlessly accepted.
Hey, you were only supposed to take a bite! The redhead protested, jumping up to retrieve
the muffin which Riker captured in his hand and unfairly held above his head.
The two continued their battle long after leaving the promenade and making their way to the
main festival arena. Completely invested in each other, they didnt even notice Aaron who
stood only several feet away from them. He had a tin canister filled to the brim with frothy
ale, a hand pressed on the scaly bark of an ancient oak and a crooked, almost seductive grin
over his face. The Xexarian was chatting with Freya at the time (he had circulated the area
and talked with a number of attractive potential sexpots before returning to his old faithful
friend), and judging by her unimpressed expression, telling some fairly stupid jokes.
Uhm... okay, I got one! Taking a long glug of his drink and licking the foam off his upper
lip, the man looked at the musician again. How many tickles does it take to make a Cthulhu
laugh?

45

Freya was, incidentally, a short and stout halfling with brown pixie hair, hyperactive hazel
eyes, and a freckled apple-shaped face. Her cheeks were ruddy from years of various
indulgences, and this also contributed to her languid, slurred manner of her speech. This did
nothing to better her default brogue an atrocious southern-Aura accent which mixed well in
conversation with Aarons audacious northern one. Any magical being worth their ether would
take one look at the ale-chugging girl and roll their eyes, but Aaron loved her for her
eccentricities, her carefree partygoer attitude. She had learned the ways of the streets by living
on them her entire life, by gallivanting with the ruffians and draining whatever wine and mead
her ham-fisted little fingers could find. Aaron learned almost everything about life from
Stella, but his street-rat tricks were taught by Freya, personally. He couldnt have asked for a
better tutor in the field of riffraff-ery.
The short lass scratched the back of her head and lifted up her shoulders. Gettin a giggle
outta Cthulhu, eh? Got me, lad.
Ten-tickles! The man grinned like a cat who had just eaten a goldfish without even having
to gets its paws wet. Freya contorted her thin mouth into a curve, scoffing loudly.
Lad, thas orrible! Thas tha worst one yet! Alroight, Oive got one worse. She cleared her
head, twirling a large hoop earring that Aaron had lifted for her. Her eyes flew up to the flock
of glinting firebirds and their glowing peacock tails. A smile crept over her face. Oh! Wots
the diffrence between a teacher and a pa
Yeah, I know that one, Aaron interrupted, finishing off his drink. A park bench can support
a family of four.
Truth be told, he had gotten tired of teacher jokes by now, especially after overhearing some
elderly centaurs complaining about how little work was put into this years festival, and how
Stella should just stick to lecturing, seeing how she was nothing more than an overestimated
schoolmarm. It was something he could overlook most of the time, but hearing three tutor
jokes in a row made him slightly on edge. A roar of laughter escaped from Freya, and he
needed to look away politely and stare at a spot in the grass for a moment. Freya
Woodchester, as much as she was helpful and fun to be around, had a taste for clichd and at
times off-color jokes that left a bad taste in his mouth, more often than not. She had a
tendency to forget that the man took criticisms against Stella and her profession as personal
insults. Aaron never wanted to remind her.
Alroight, hear this! She coughed and pressed a hand to her bosom. What do you call a
teacher whos not in a relationship?
Aaron looked back, all hope drained from his eyes as he sighed. What?
Homeless.
Hilarious. It was not.

46

Ey, wossa matter witchu, lad? She put a plump arm over his frame and lifted up her pint of
grog that burned the back of her throat. Is a bleedin festival, innit? Cheer up! No man can
snog me behoind a tree if hes gon be loike that. Not even you. Jokingly, she pushed him to
the side and laughed in her usual open-mouthed equine cackle. But seriously, lad, tell me,
wos wrong?
Aarons eyebrows came together as he gave a one-shoulder shrug. Its nothing. Its just too
quiet around here. At first this was meant as some distraction from his real issue, but as he
thought of it for a second, he found fault with the festivals dullness as well. I mean, I know
the real entertainment doesnt begin until an hour into it, but its taking forever! I mean, I get
it. You can play light mood music. Mood music does not a party make. I need something to,
ya know he flexed his arms and stiffened his palms into fists, a mischievous twinkle
shining in his eye. I need something to dance to. Or at least make me liven up or something.
A skeleton warrior of San goes into a pub and asks for hot cider and a mop, Freya said,
finally thinking of a joke. The blur in her eyes suggested that she was only partly listening to
him.
No, I dont mean a okay, that was actually decent no, but, I mean like I want to hear a
jig.
Freya looked at him with her head bowed down, looking at him in incredulity. A jig.
Well yeah. We need a dance, right? I mean, its not a party without it, he gestured to the
soft, harmonious burr of flutes and violins around them. I just wish theyd get this snoozefest
over and done with. I dont wanna listen to goblin music all night long. If I wanted to, I
woulda
He was promptly cut short by Freyas hand. Her head fell to the side, eyes shut tightly. Not
one more word outta you, lad. Oive got jus tha thing.
With only that as an explanation, she stumbled over to a cherry red lute that she dropped on
the ground before her arrival. Smoothening out the hair on the tops of her crinite feet, she
picked up the heavy instrument and sauntered through the crowd, leaving Aaron to watch her
go with a baffled expression. She strutted, coming in the crowd inconspicuously, like an
invisible antimatter, phasing through the chattering guests. The only person remotely
interested in her actions was Stella, who sat on a leafy throne with Pickering standing by her
side, pouring warm tea into her porcelain cup. The Dryad, after giving her a careful
observation, nodded at her and continued to observe the etheric illusions and firecrackers
whooshing through the crowd. It was beginning to seem quite tranquil, as far as the
companys interaction went. Nobody had started a fistfight, and that was a decent start.
The atmosphere as a whole shifted as the halfling girl stood on a lower, sturdier tree branch,
took the lute in her hands and shouted an earsplitting OI! over the people around her.
Everyone froze in place, from the Dryad children chasing a silver fox to Maggie stuffing a
cup of raspberry pudding in Rikers face. Freya stood as tall as her three feet and four inches
47

of height allowed her, and seemed as prepared and willing to play a tune as much as a
drunken bard could have been.
Ello ladies and gents, she started, plucking an outoftune string on her instrument. This
one ere, she wiped her nose against her bare forearm and sniffed, immediately pointing at
the grinning Aaron in the back, this one ere is fer someone very dear tae me. I wrote it
loike three four nights ago. Given that I didnt write it or did it very well. Ya know, I
dont know where I wos goin wif this, but OH ROIGHT!
She looked at the willothewisp hovering above the now azure tree tops, and immediately,
inspiration came flooding like mothers milk. Freya strummed her instrument, looking at each
attendant of the audience straight in the eye; firing hot with a gaze of artistic strike of genius.
With every line, she engaged more and more with the crowd. The young bard, though not
especially profound in her lyrics or even as skilled with her instrument, became appealing
enough to make the whole band stop playing, and all that could be heard was she and her ode
to The Last Xexarian.
There once wos a lad, born in the sand.
His infanthood wos tragic.
is village burned, is whole koind turned
to stone and ash from strange dark magic.
Oh what a wretchd travest-ey
tae ave a baby rot tha way
but worry not, fer e were saved
By a sage
Her thin finger pointed to Stella sitting on her throne. The audience turned to the Dryad, who
waved politely to the songstress, though her apt student Pickering hid his face behind a pot of
warm tea. Freya continued her song in hushed tones;
Though e wos tha last o his koind
is life wos far from somber.
One glorious morn in is childhood ome,
e experienced a wonder.
A vision of is granddad said,
My child, be not afraid.
But prepare yourself for a journey.
Goodbye, farewell, he bade.
Hed lead the mortals to Zephyrs Field,
to the land o gold and rye.
It lays upon Heavens cloudy peak
and its really uhh bloody damn high.

48

The proper lyrics were quite the stellar sight, though there was no way that could have
crossed her mind in her inebriated condition. Nevertheless, this improvisation made a couple
of Macros chuckle, though most of the magical realm found it incredibly impolite. Her
strumming sped up, her footwork quickened as she patrolled across the branch that just barely
supported her weight.
Since tha distant fateful day,
tha boy as sadly gone away,
but a man remains
And wot a man hes become, amirite ladies? She clumsily broke from her songstress
character. We ave to thank the Gods fer that.
More laughter ensued, now coming from members of both realms.
And wif tha dangerously handsome man,
so stays tha promise of our Salvation Day.
ell take us all when tha toime comes,
all of us who e deems worthy.
Ill be tha first tae follow when tha man foinds is way.
Hell need a companion thats Planting one hand on her hips she wiggled them about, lips
pursing as she winked. sturdy.
Stella had trouble drinking her tea after that.
Oh, imagine the mirth and light of our Salvation Day!
Gather round, my sycophants!
We must go my destined way!
Hell proclaim!
The halfling girl jumped, the branch cracking back to life. Hopping with the grace of a
jackrabbit, the bard landed on her feet, strumming her instrument while tapping her feet
across the cool grass, dew becoming stuck between her toes during her dance. Her singing
became louder, her fingers travelled across the strings with a speed most professionals would
have envied. It wasnt technically perfect, but it was merry and light, fit to bring a whole pack
of assorted rival races to a dance.
So boldly I will go,
and boldly we will go.
And boldly we will march on through
and cross the great deep snow!
So boldly I will go,
and boldly we will go.
49

So gather all, lead to war,

through the storm well row!
And when they ask im, Whats yer cause?
Well raise our eads, and e will sing:
To trample those who we oppose,
to save ourselves from our good King.
Lead by those words of yore,
hell take us to tha Field!
So rest assures, ye doubtful drones,
our lad will never yield!
So boldly I will go,
and boldly we will go
She ran through the crowd, singing aloud the chorus, which stuck so deep into the musicians
heads that they had no other option but to play along. Her voice and promise to boldly go
mixed with two others, twelve others, tens of others, until the chorus became a jaunty caper
and an inspired roar of the trampled folk. Freya ran to Aaron, who had finally gotten his jig,
and twirled in circles with him. They locked their arms, skipping on the balls of their feet.
Seeing them, the Dryads, Panes and Macros mostly everyone with feet and a sense of
rhythm, repeated the chorus from the top of their lungs and danced like they were on hot
coals.
Stella watched the merry bunch, her head resting idly on her palm. She looked down to her
feet, and then to Pickerings tapping sandal before glancing up at his expression. He tried to
keep it cool and unattached to the dance, the silly young thing.
Green, she started. The young Dryad retracted his foot into its respectful place.
Pplease excuse me, milady, he stammered, cheeks becoming dark. He tucked his arms
behind his back, looking away from the dancers.
Green, Stella tried again, you are not required to stand guard and do my bidding all night.
Leaning over an armrest on her throne, she gave him an in-the-know kind of smile and ticked
her head to those who actually attempted to enjoy themselves. Of course, the man shivered
with anticipation and dread, wondering what in Heaven that smirk of hers meant.
Go on now. Have some fun. She winked.
Pickerings eyes might have been made out of starlight, as much as they shined at her. He set
down the teapot and smiled from-ear-to-ear, taking a few steps back while his heart beat its
way out of his chest. His arms flailed, unable to keep close to his body any longer, and his feet
scurried across the field. Even his tongue was excited and keeping him from speaking.
Thathank you, Stel milady, m, oh, thank you, thank you, my lady Forrester!

50

Jumping head first in the fray, he found himself right in the arms of a rather exotic-looking
Sheeban maiden, who pushed away her robotic boyfriend to give the bloke a dance. Pickering
and the redhead danced out of Stellas sight, the look on the students face nothing short of
elated.
Stella shook her head at the crowd and remained seated, though her nails tapped her armrest
to the jaunty beat.
Through fire, blood and Brimstone
hell bring us to Holy Land!
Our day will come, and we will run
to our new Khan and out the sand!
We all will live to finlly see
our much awaited prophecy,
so keep standing high, and hark his cry,
for it will set us free!
So boldly we will go
/***/
Not all those in Brimstone were fans of noise and light, and those select few failed to see the
point of a festival. Unfortunately, the number of those anticulturals came down to one man, it
appeared.
He sat up on the large sequoia, polishing his sniper rifle and pulling his unbuttoned winter
coat over his chest. The Barren Lands became chilly during the night, and he was always very
much bothered by his companions decision to keep shirtless, displaying his jagged scars and
inked markings over his chest and stomach. The marksman was looking up at the stars small
glimmering lights on a blanket. A blanket thats how they referred to the night sky where he
was from because the world had to be put to bed and the Gods of Night covered it just like
one would cover a bird cage.
The mere idea was idiotic beyond belief, but it was a sweet, melancholic thought to cross
ones mind.
A heavy book fell by the mans knees. Archer looked up from his rifle and over to Pion.
You finished it already?
The man nodded.
Was it any good?
The man waited a second before giving a noncommittal shrug. Archer furrowed his brow.
Eh. Ive never really cared for romance plots, either. Dont worry. He waved his hand
placidly. Next time I get my hands on something, Im making sure its good.
51

Archer had a friend who used to do that; take several books and scrutinize them carefully.
Only then would he pass them over to friends. It was too easy for the quirk to rub off on one
of his closest companions. Domagoj Dvorak that was his name. It was the second memory
of the night. Archer found it irksome for some long-forgotten and saddening reason.
The two watched the constellations above them again, creating a milky film over the night
and lighting up the cold soot beneath them. In the distance, they could see the outlines of the
Aura Kingdom, so grand during the day and reduced to a cold, lifeless construction after the
sun fell behind the western hills. Crickets chirped, wolves howled, and the rag Archer wiped
his scope with squeaked once he reached the desired polish. All in all, this was truly a
peaceful night. It was always serene whenever Aaron was out, but this was different. His
comrades were out there, somewhere eons in the past, behind the conceivable notion of time
and space, in a magical world that neither of them could truly imagine. Knowing that such a
place existed and that their comrades could freely access it, with the help of a Sheeban mage,
made them think.
Mate? Archer asked, dropping his weapon to his knees. Do you believe in Zephyrs
Field?
Never being a man of many words, Pion refrained from a response. Not that Archer expected
anything. This was merely a onesided conversation starter.
I mean, there are so many realms, thousands of em! I believe it might be one of them, and I
really think there is some code to cracking it. But then again, I dont believe in all that
Heavens Apex talk. Thatd mean you need to get to Heaven beforehand, and Aaron aint
bloody likely to do so. Hell, were not likely to do so, either. I mean, he rose up his arms,
face becoming red as he became mad at his own thoughts, by that logic, only the purest of
heart could get there. Is Heavens Apex just a figure of speech? Is it something lyrical? Hell,
what are we supposed to do die to fulfill some fucking prophecy of a thousand years? Why
would we even need Aaron for that? I think its a realm, but the only three realms mentioned
in the Scrolls that we know of are ours, Saga and the Field. Ticking them off on his gloved
fingers, he didnt even look to see if Pion was paying any attention at this point. He
continued: And thats unbelievable to me. Frankly, I think theres a number of Scrolls that we
dont know about not just the Eleventh and maybe theyre all coordinates to other realms
and Im
His breath hitched. This happened often, whenever he talked so quickly for so long. He
hacked, hitting himself in his chest until his lungs no longer felt like they would sink down to
his gut. This is why you oughta keep your gob shut, he reminded himself. You arent worth
much with half a lung, and you sure as hell wont be worth more with no lung at all.
Swallowing some hot saliva, Archer panted and pressed his hands on his criss-crossed legs.
One of his beady eyes shot to Pion, who looked at his episode without even flinching at it.
Im crazy, Archer said jokingly, his laugh throaty and strained. Im crazy, you know? If I
talked about this anywhere else, theyd hang me for blasphemy. Shit, he wiped the sweat
from his brow as his heart returned to its normal pace. Shit, I need to shut up.
52

In lieu of a proper response, Pion scooted over to the man, inching it as close as he could
without actually touching him. His large black eyes inspected his features before stopping and
straight right at his eyes. It was a dark, menacing sort of gaze, like watching straight into the
darkest pits of his soul. It was the kind Pion only gave to those he most trusted. Archer was
around him long enough to know that.
Thank you, he smirked. Its nice to have somebody let me ramble on for a while. I mean
nice as in decent cant even get a word in edgewise with those other idiots. Buncha drongos,
all-a them.
The marksman sighed contentedly into the stars, feeling the need to end his speech with a
proper conclusion.
Aaron is a dick, he blurted out.
Pion nodded with such intensity that his neck cracked.
/***/
The non-believers who disagree,
or think its a great big fallacy,
they can drag through muck and kiss our feet
for true salvation, theyll never meet.
Yes its close, but oh-so-far,
like tryn-a grab a shootin star
but rest assured its in our grasp
and the lads not lettin go!
And boldly we will go!
The song ended on a powerful note, by the time everybodys blood was already pumping red
hot. All clapped and cheered to the halfling who crossed her legs and bowed deeply. Aaron
ran to her, grabbing her by the waist and giving her a spin, their noses touching before he set
her down.
That was amazing! And its all for me! So you really just came up with that at the top of
your head? He laughed and shook his head. You must be some kinda musical prodigy or
summin!
Freya chuckled and waved her hand. Nah, I wos drunk and took a chance.
No, but it was it was a good chance! A really, really, really good chance!
All chances I take are good fer you, lad.
Aaron almost said something back but was rudely interrupted when the silver trumpets called
out all the guests to gather in the main arena. Freya jolted up and took Aaron by the arm,
making her way through the crowd.
53

Oi! Its the big thing! Cmon, move it, lad! She plowed through the horde in front of them.
Last Xexarian coming through! You step on his toes, and Ill step on yer ead! Oi wot the
HOLY MOTHER OF DEUCE!
Her bare feet dangled up in the air and several Macros watched them go up. Freya was
sweating, kicking her feet and gritting her teeth. The disquiet made her whole body numb, and
all she could feel were twinges of pain through her stomach and limbs. This didnt last long,
as she soon saw Aarons head above her. The Xexarian was holding her by the waist as they
levitated up, and her mass made it slightly more difficult. Her face was red and bloated, but he
managed to take her up to the highest treetop in the area, giving a perfect view of the grassy
arena, on which premier Plamen was giving one of his trademark speeches that very few
humans listened to.
After recovering to the initial shock, Freya looked at Aaron with loathing in her eyes.
You right bastard.
Puffing, the Xexarian shrugged. Thats the thanks I get for getting you up here?
We woulda ad a better view if I jus pushed us up front.
Says you. He leaned back against the trunk of the tree and waved to Maggie, who was
sitting several feet away from them, atop her boyfriends shoulders. She turned and waved
back, grinning widely.
All interaction between the audience members stopped as soon as Plamen announced the
highlight of the evening.
Plamen himself was a large, barrel-chested flame Dryad, whose girth and presence far
outmatched Stellas. He was a brute force who struck fear into mens eyes just by stepping
into a room, with a gaze that could melt the truth out of every man and arms that looked like
he could run down to the spiked bottom of Brimstone and lift the whole thing up. His
luxurious beard resembled a mane of a ruthless pride leader, and his thick eyebrows only
brought out his ferocious facial features; his strong jaw, sunken cheeks and long scars
stretching across both his orange eyes. Though this man seemed brutal, he was anything but,
as the man skillfully avoided all disputes both verbal and physical. He was a damn fine
negotiator and spokesman, as his thundering voice failed to leave anybody apathetic. Truly, he
was a fiery force of a man, and a Dryad worthy of replacing Stella Forrester from her position
as premier after she had gone to teaching.
And now, ladies and gentlemen of both instituted realms, he announced, stretching out an
arm to the darkness behind him. I present to you the matron doyenne of out Sheeban youth,
the founder of the University of Saga, the sole organizer of this annual event and former
premier of Encantadia; Lady Stella Concordiae Forrester.
The man stepped away, clapping steadily as she emerged from the dark with a solemn
expression, a twisted achromic crystal rod in her grasp. She slowly strolled down to the centre
54

of the arena and looked down, still hearing the faint clapping from the crowds (and not-sofaint clapping from Aaron, who apparently tried to start a wave).
The woman waited for every last person to quiet down; her hand clenching her long scepter
tightly, like it could fall and shatter if she let go of it. She slowly set it in front of her, hands
folding over its top and shielding the crystal. It was cold to the touch, like it was made of
compressed ice. Gingerly, she lifted up her head and opened her eyes, now a bright shade of
aquamarine.
The grass under her turned blue, and the sky went to pitch black. They were in the sphere
the visitors and denizens of Encantadia standing on the field which let out a soft, misty
glow. It was eerie to newcomers. Those who have been there before hadnt been impressed.
Is that all? One Dryad whispered to the other. She started off with this two years ago.
A teachers mind is never creative, another whispered back. You put too much pressure on
them and they break.
Stella did not hear them. Or perhaps, she acted as this didnt bother her.
Fifteen years ago, she started in a voice much humbler than Plamens, at the court of our
former great King Pasha, a rogue brigand infiltrated the guards and committed regicide, the
most atrocious of crimes, from which Brimstone has yet to recover.
KAYARRA VNTAR! A voice shouted from behind, followed by shushing from many sides
. Stellas face was close to contorting into a disgusted grimace, but she controlled herself
enough to carry on with her speech.
What followed this sole act of malevolence was a decade of war. The Kings young, bitter
heir, his nephew Aurus, has commanded an entire army of soldiers of all ages to capture and
execute all those conspiring against the King, or those involved in his murder. This later
developed into a massive attack on the members of the brigands race.
FILTHY SYTH SAVAGES!
A GOOD SYTHS A BURNING SYTH!
The crowd still shushed and muttered, the gathering turning into a cluster of opinions. Stella
kept on talking, the veins in her hands popping out as she crutched herself with the staff.
The war against all things Syth lasted for ten strenuous years, during which many, both
Sitkan and not, lost their families and homes. Today, five years after the cleanse had ended,
hundreds of Sitkans and prisoners of war stay chained up as slaves to the King, as corpses
piling up as they build his statues, as laborers in death camps, and as foundation of our town.
Every fallen soldier, both Sitkan and Macro, came into the grasp of Death without having
their body removed from the ground they fell on. They rotted in the streets your parents,
siblings, children leaving their homes empty and their homeland devastated. Thousands died
at the hands of our warfare, and the difference between the Sitkan and the Macro body count
55

remains marginal. There are houses that turned to ash on our towns square. We have
graveyards that were emptied and filled again with fresh bodies. There are beggar children
and invalids in front of your homes, surviving today on whatever they find I know because I
can see them here, in front of me, eating well for perhaps the first time in months. This is all
because, a decade ago, an enraged monarch wanted to see a body burn. But seeing one did not
satisfy him, so he set fire to a whole nation.
No comments from the audience this time.
Stella took a deep breath, worrying that this speech came off as slander. It was slander, but
what example would that set?
Five years into the war, our countrys economy was bare bones, and so were its people. I saw
the aftermath of The Great War, when some of my fellow Dryads starved for centuries and
when Brimstones sky turned to smoke and cinder. Five years after the Kings death, our land
resembled the graveyard it was, four hundred years ago. There was no end in sight. Fearing
for the future of the human realm, in which I spent most of my time alongside a young Aaron
Kronos, I prompted premier Plamen to open up Zara, the passage into the magical realm,
where we werent affected by the warfare. Several benevolent Dryads as well as I fought tooth
and nail to bring in the people most desperate for nurture. Today, the third day of Zsetva
month, was the day we picked. One year, we took in twenty. The next year, we took in a
hundred. The numbers grew, more and more, until by the fifth year, we took those in need in
their thousands. And I remember
Forresters eyes filled up with something unpleasant and watery, which she cast off with her
index finger before it reached her cheeks. She shook her head, trying to dispel a warm smile
that came over her.
The fifth time we took you in, the King declared an end of the war. I still remember the faces
of those who rejoiced bright, happy, hopeful for the first time. Some celebrated by firing off
fireworks and lighting pyres, and thus, the Festival of Light was born. So today, ten years
after our first meeting, I implore you to take a good look back and honor those who couldnt
be with us today, to be thankful of what you have today, to respect those of different cultures
and creeds, and have us call this conflict The Last War for a reason.
Several people dropped down their heads and stared long and hard at the cyan grass, slowly
shuffling in the wind. The matron took her staff in both hands, lifting the crystal fragment
above her head. Once again, she closed her eyes to concentrate, and in the deep silence of the
night, new words came to her. They composed a prayer from an ancient, dead language. It was
to be sung, not recited, and every note came and flushed her body with ice and fire in
intervals, bringing the craze of Gods into her heart until it burned with passion, fire, song and
light.
She heard the chimes and strings around her, like a summoning ballad to reach out to the
Gods. She heard it in the wind, in the trees caught in the pitch black. And when she danced,
moving in a trance and lead by some higher power up in the Heavens, she knew that they
56

could hear the music too. Her mouth opened and angelic words poured out, though nobody
could tell if she was the one singing them, or if it was somebody else using her body to
channel their message.
The grass became white with every footstep, her staff waved like a magicians wand, casting
streaks of red, blue and green, like northern light. They swept to the sky, trapped in the stars
that reappeared. The night was no longer pitch black, but rather a cascade of colors and
prisms. If anybody were to describe it, it was like being trapped in a diamond.
Flowing colors turned to columns on which she stepped and danced in the air, transfixing
those who watched and reached out to touch the rainbow above them. But they were held
down, watching the dance they could only see in Heaven and Saga. She was a Zephyr, a
goddess, a saint, a witch, a sorceress, a sinner, an illusionist, an artiste and a philosopher, all
their collected souls expressed in a dance that took over her body. Inside the dancing shell that
performed miracles, the matron Dryad felt like she was going to scream in terror and agony.
At the same time, she had never been happier in her life. Knowing she was the only person
able to do this to survive this on a yearly basis, bringing light and joy into the hearts of
thousands who needed it.
Her body slowly descended back to the grass, turning verdant once the ritual was complete.
To her, it felt like she plummeted.
She kneeled and clutched her pounding heart, not even remotely aware of the applause around
her.
/***/
The blonde in leather tugged at the strange beasts wrist, examining the slashed triangle across
her veins. She took out a thin cigarette out of her mouth and puffed out some hot, tar-tasting
smoke. Her sharp, painted fingernails dug deep into the creatures skin and made it shriek. It
wasnt soon until she became annoyed with his and responded by taking the beasts chain
around its neck and pulled it close.
The Wanted, huh? Thats a slave sign. Nice trade too. You mustve been a fine whore.
Pushing her on the ground, she dusted off her hands and stomped on the creatures stomach. It
yelled out, clawing at the ground beside it.
The blondes cigarette shifted in her mouth as she leaned in to take a closer look; the dark skin
slashed with olive-green markings, the striking hazel eyes, the unkempt hair and lacerated
bottom lip, still dripping with fresh blood.
Sitkan runaways always get me a nice reward. Youve had your wear-and-tear so I might not
get as much. Whyd you have to run off, love? I mistook you for a desert wolf when you first
jumped my chimera. Thats how fucking ugly your precious escape made you.

57

The blonde leaned on her knee, kneading the Sitkas ribcage with her thick soles. The woman
looked up into the bright, starry sky. Today was the Festival of Light, was it not? She had
been there among the first, seven years ago. That was where she first met Donovan. Oh,
Don the memory brought a fond smile on her face.
One look back at the squirming Sitka shifted it into a malicious grin.
Decisions, decisions Smoke blew out of her nostrils as she rolled her heel deeper into the
Sitkas stomach. She wouldnt do this too long, she decided; she usually stopped when they
puked. What, oh what, am I going to do with you?

58

Chapter IV: The Sevis Battler

The punch flew through the air. A grunt. The scrawny Macro lunged backwards into the hot
dry sand. He wiped off the blood from his nose and coughed out the dust and humiliation that
caught in his throat. There would be a day, he thought only a minute before this match. A day
will come, when the ragtag crowd circling around the two fighters will chant his name and
stomp their feet as he delivered the final blow to his opponent. The beaten tower of a man will
tumble down, and he, the underdog of the inner circle of battlers, will be victorious.
This day would not fulfill his wish.
He caught a glimpse of his challenger, who was standing tall with his massive fists clenched.
Sweat oiled his marred body; the sun sluicing his rippling muscles and casting a shadow over
his features, like he was the embodiment of a warrior God. His nostrils flared at the man
below him, his eyes steady and showing controlled anger; a powerful force that he channeled
into every one of his blows.
One swift kick in the stomach rolled his opponent away, clutching his stomach in agony. The
God-like victor rose up his fists, breathing fast and hard as the crowd cheered and jumped.
They chanted his name: Faf-nir! Faf-nir! Faf-nir! Schoolchildren ran to the front to take a
better look at their hero. Money exchanged hands from dealers and betters as they loudly
debated the legitimacy of the fight. The underdogs family ran to the shorter, bearded fighter,
helping him get up on his two wobbly legs.
Fafnir lowered his arms and turned to him, taking the man by the arm and pulling him close.
Good fight, he assured, tapping his bruised back.
Good fight, the loser responded in good humor. He took a step back, saluted the champion
with a closedpalm pat on his heart, and then dispersed into the observers that had yet to
continue on with their busy schedules.
And so, the smell of blood and the thrill of the fight were gone in what seemed like a second.
Fafnir still shook hands with various drunks that bet on his victory. One of them jokingly said
that his drunken arse could safely go to home to his wife, now that he had some tacks to line
his pockets with. The fighter chuckled while pocketing his earnings from his sponsors.
Good fight!
Good fight, he agreed, staying in the chalkedout ring to soak in the electricity that zoomed
through it.
After every won battle, no matter how many times he stepped into the match and emerged
from it without a scratch, he could still feel the punch of euphoria, the sun shining brighter on
those who won. The crowd would leave to seek out something new, but the scent of sweat,
59

blood, tears and power would stay and linger. It intoxicated him, and he loved nothing more
than to bide his time in the buzz of his glory, until every drop of humanly ichor in his veins
smoldered.
But no good feeling could last.
Fafnir!
The fighter opened his eyes and looked at the young Macro boy, sitting on a rooftop of an old
bookshop. The skinny child jumped down and landed on all fours, looking at Fafnir from
under his blue bandanna.
That was your best fight yet! He gave Fafnir a wholehearted smile, proudly displaying his
missing tooth.
Fafnir shook his head, holding back a grin of his own. I underestimated him. He put up a
good fight. If he hadnt dropped his guard in the last minute he would have easily bested me.
You always say that, the boy jumped up on his feet and took up a boxers pose, jumping on
the balls of his feet. A shadow fell over his eyes, and the kid was staring at the vision of the
underdog opponent himself. But you had him right there! Right from the start! You were all
like Punching through the air, the boy grunted whenever he switched his arms. And then
you were like The kid jumped, leaning on his foot and kicking the air, his fists still stiff and
folded against his body. Fafnir tried not to interfere with the kids reenactment, as hilarious as
it was. Jumping up and striking the dust, the eager fan stood tall and glowered at the imprint
his fist left in the soil. And then you stared him down and then you just he ran his foot
through the ground. Dust scattered all over his clothes and hair, some particles even getting in
his mouth though the gap in his teeth. BOOM! Right there! It was your best fight ever,
Fafnir!
Hmph. The mans lips stretched to the side. You have a good memory.
But you shoulda seen the guy theyre picking out to fight against you next! HES HUGE!
Hes got these big red eyes like hes been drinking mercury all his life, and hes as tall as a
dragon! He put his arms up and jumped to show just how massive the man was. And hes as
quick as lightning and his kicks are so fast you cant see them! Theyre like
The kid jumped and scissorkicked the air, trying to accurately portray the mans technique.
He was quite skilled at imitating him, and at one point even, his legs flailed as if independent
from his body. It was a fast, furious technique only found in Sevis battling and river dancing.
Of course, there was a difference between the fighting style of an eleven-year-old Sevis
fanatic and his thirty-five-year-old idol and former fighting champion.
Fafnir grabbed the boys raised ankle with his right hand, giving a conceited smirk as the kid
scuffled to break free. After a while, his struggle for freedom became a struggle just to stand
on one leg.
Hey, lemme go!
60

There is no letting go in Sevis, Fafnir said flatly. If this man is about as careless with his
kicks as you are, I will have no trouble dominating him.
With that conclusion, Fafnir let go of the kids ankle and had him falling on the ground (much
harder than either expected him to).
Unimpressed, the kid dusted off his unbuttoned plaid shirt and hopped back up. That was a
cheap shot, Scion. But Ill let you have it. When I grow up, you wont get a chance to pull a
dirty trick like that. He closed his eyes and pointed a thumb at his chest. Therell be no
better fighter than Yaksha Raal and you can count on it HEY!
Grabbing the edge of his bandanna, Fafnir pulled it over the boys eye, turning on his heel and
slowly leaving the empty rink, though not before shuffling his foot to cover the small red
droplets on the sandy soot. Go home to your momma, kid, he said with a smile. She
wouldnt want you to be around a fighter.
Yaksha put both hands on his head and pulled the cloth back into place. Who in the Hell do
you think sends me here? She doesnt want me around the house or nothin. I get in the way.
Fafnir craned his head, still marching on forward. In the way of what? Who told you that?
She did! She said to me, Yaksha,, his pitch was no higher than before, but his manner of
speaking was now strict and overbearing, and accompanied with him wagging his index
finger. I better not see your face around this house until you fix the table and chairs you
broke playin fighting games with your brothers. If I see you in this house again, Im gonna
knock the life outta you so hard the gravediggers wont have nothing left to bury!
Sounds like she keeps discipline.
No man, she keeps me outta the house. Yaksha lifted up his shoulders and rose up his open
palms, as somebody would to demonstrate giving up on something. His mouth contorted into
a half-frightened grimace. I aint going near that. Mas a ticking time bomb. She didnt kick
my ass yet, but I know its coming. And I dont wanna be there to see it happen.
Have you tried behaving well and respecting your mother? Fafnir suggested as Yaksha
caught up, casually strolling next to him with his hands pocketed in his olivegreen cargo
trousers. The boy looked at him and tilted his head like he was dealing with a madman.
Aint nobody got time for that! You respect one thing she does and she goes out and does
another! You respect that thing too, and she starts doing all sortsa crap. You respect the
home, you respect her cooking, but the minute you dont respect her new curfew its like
youre signing your own death warrant. Its like, Im gonna do my housework and eat
whatever the hell she puts on my plate, but then shes gonna start threatening to kick my ass
over something stupid. Your clothes are dirty? Im gonna kick your ass. Got home late? Time
to kick your ass. You forgot to feed the dog? Hear that sound? Thats the sound of my damn
foot kicking your ass. Its a vicious cycle.
Hmph.
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Yaksha looked up at the mans face briefly before mirroring his emotionless expression and
folding his bony arms over his chest. He nodded like a philosopher thinking over his theory
on the meaning of life. Damn right, hmph.
He made several more steps forward before hitting his nose against Fafnirs back. Stumbling
away, he rubbed at his face and demanded an explanation.
Hey, whyd ya
The young Macros eyes widened as he saw the item that caught Fafnirs attention. With his
jaw dropped low enough that it could have fallen on his toes, the two carefully moved towards
the large chariot that rolled in right into the ghetto marketplace. A pack consisting mostly of
elderly drunks, solicitors, prostitutes, children, gamblers, beggars, liars, thieves, dealers and
amateur Sevis fighters swarmed like wasps. They stood in lines, muttering among themselves,
and not without cause. This sort of vehicle rarely came into the dark and desolate parts of the
Kingdom, unless it was stolen by a vagabond bandit. After a good hard look at it, Yaksha
barely refrained from gasping in awe.
Whoa, he managed before turning to Fafnir, who had started fingering the small blue vile
hanging from his neck on a chain. Whats that?
Fafnir watched with dread in his gaze, as he immediately recognized whose carriage that was,
and the horses which dragged it along. Immediately, his mind flashed back to the years he
spent at the Panopticon, where he used to watch the man seated in the booth above the
fighters. The watchers eyes scanned the fighters, expertly pointing out any error they made.
Those who hadnt lived up to his expectations were never heard from again. Those who he
found acceptable only continued to fight with greater foes.
His eyes those unfathomable burning stars, seeking nothing short of perfection in his men
still burned the back of Fafnirs mind. The suppressed memory that he had tried to conceal
during the past two years has come back, slashing right into his dim pupils. He could see the
arena, the crowd, and its observant demons again.
The generals facial features were as Fafnir remembered them. A black band covered the side
of his face and what Fafnir could only assume was a gaping hole where his other eye used to
be. The injury was a result of, what he liked to refer to as, an unfortunate incident with an illtrained doxy. His body, despite his impaired vision, was at its peak physical condition. Not
so much in shape like it was in mass and strength. He stepped out of the black lacquered
carriage, his heavy hand grazing the golden dragon ornaments surrounding the door. Four
black stallions whinnied when the man came out and stood akimbo. Two guards, clad in full
armor, were set at attention on either side of him. These were not the typical gardenvariety
Guards. These men were killers, and the generals personal shield. The sun in the slums might
have been orange and vicious, but the air around the arrivals felt dusky and cold. This man
and his companions brought Death with them, and it lingered above like a thick shroud.
Fafnir?
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The fighter looked down to the eleven-year-old, who had propped up on his toes to see
through the bustle of chattering folk.
Who is that?
The Sevis fighter swallowed a node in his throat and responded as soon as the generals eyes
locked in on his.
Smee.
As if on cue, Smees narrowed eye glinted and his mouth warped into a menacing grin.
What does he want, Fafnir? Yaksha looked up to the battler, tugging at the belt holding his
loosefitting slacks to grab his attention. Fafnir, tell me man, what does he ?
Stand back, Yaksha.
Two thoughts passed like a summer breeze through Fafnirs head when the crowd slipped into
a portmanteau and created a wide passage for the portly general to march through. Why is he
here? How did he find me? For the sake of his pride and the people interestedly looking his
way, he kept on his steely expression.
Yaksha stayed next to him, coming even closer once the grinning Smee came a foot away
from the Sevis fighter, watching him straight in the eyes with his head craned upwards. The
contrast between them was striking the stunted, pale-faced general, standing across from an
ebony God of war.
Smee crossed his arms and scrutinized Fafnirs appearance, seemingly amused by what he had
to see.
Fafnir Scion, he started, pushing Yaksha away without even glancing at him. The boy
stepped back, fists clenched as if he had the courage to attack the master general. There was a
hint of perverse anticipation in the way he addressed the Sevis battler. Fafnir could only
associate it with him expecting a panicked reaction. Hed fail to give him the satisfaction.
General Smee of Tosh county, Fafnir extended his hand for a handshake, which the man
gladly accepted, crushing the Sevis fighters hand. I have not seen you since two years ago.
You bet against me, if I remember correctly.
Cackling nefariously, Smee shook his head and rose up his shoulders in admittance. You
have the memory of an elephant, Scion. Mark my words, it will do you wrong later in life.
Dont hold a grudge against me, chap, he hit Fafnir on the back as somebody would tap a
friend, I lost everything I put in. A soothsayer told me to go against the grain, so I set my
money on the little guy and expected Lady Lucks fidelity. But you and I both know that Luck
is a shameless whore. I just had to learn the hard way.
He cackled again and Fafnir gave a sour, forced sneer in turn.
Calling my opponent little is quite the irony. The man towered over me.
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Did he?
Mmph.
Little good his height did him. He noted, casually noting the foot of height Fafnir had over
him. For some reason, the general gave off an aura of confidence. But Im not exactly here to
bemoan loses from two years ago, Scion. Looking behind him, he could see the small crowd
gathering around them in an oval, anxious to hear what the exchange was about, but not
courageous enough to come any closer. It was a fine thing, their fear. Even now, the stout
general had leverage over the people, and infused terror into their souls just by being present.
He had to grin at that. His pointy teeth shone like fangs of a porcelain shark. Do you know
why Im here? Or would you like me to explain?
Fafnir remained silent, though his sharp nails dug into the tender of his palms.
Not talking, eh? Smees round head ticked to his shoulder. His tongue flew over his
polished teeth. I shouldnt be surprised. You left off in quite a hurry last time. What exactly
did you do? Punch through the arena walls?
General Smee, he began in a polite tone, his deep voice growing dark. I have been in your
service for decades. All I want for myself now is an honest and peaceful existence.
Are you planning on achieving that by spending your time fighting like an animal in front of
a booing audience?
Its what Ive done all my life. With no thanks to my upbringing, this is all Im good at. He
rose up his head to look at the sun. But at least now I have a say in choosing my battles.
If you returned to the Panopticon, youd have a large variety of
Enemies, yes. But Id be pushed into every fight like a lamb to slaughter. I escaped the
Panopticon for a reason, general Smee. And I know exactly what you suggest. He inclined
his head slightly, nostrils flaring with suppressed rage. His voice didnt tremble, but it took
every ounce of restraint to keep from punching the man in the jaw. Taking one final breath, he
finished his statement. My final answer is no, general. I have made my home here. Im not
planning on leaving it anytime soon.
Of course, the general laughed like Fafnir and pretty much everybody watching expected him
to. His guffaw was coming from his stomach and creaking as it went out, the sound
characteristic to men of old age and decades of smoking under their belts. Yaksha grew
restless as one of his large brown eyes looked at his idol, who continued to stand with his
clenched fists and his back completely straight, not giving in to the generals means of
intimidation.
But as all the wicked did, Smee abruptly stopped his display of gaiety. A dark force fogged up
his eye until it was monochrome and blacker than death. Anybody accustomed to seeing Zeers
up close was familiar with this transition; their eyes became infested by dark Mana coiling
through them, and turned to coal whenever they experienced discontent, malice or a similar
64

emotion. This was the first time Fafnir had seen the occurrence, and as most people did,
responded to it by flinching away. His eyes went alight with shock and fright.
I wasnt asking you, Scion.
Waving his hand sent the Macros around them slinging away. They were hurled back several
feet while Fafnir and the general remained cemented where they stood. Even the boy standing
near Fafnir flew out of sight, arms flailing before he slammed backfirst into a brick wall. He
screwed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth upon impact. His head violently jolted sideways.
Yaksha! Fafnir called out as the boy slid down. The last thing he could see before Smee
pulled him closer was the kids faint wave.
You think youre clever for hiding here? Smee growled, a spiral lodged deep into his eye
bleeding red. You think youre the first one who tried to escape? You signed a contract,
Scion. A written document that stated you were going to devote your whole life to Sevis and
nothing else! Hiding in the slums cant protect you from that!
I am a free man, Smee! Fafnir shouted through the clamor of the fallen audience. He ripped
his arm out of Smees grasp. My destiny wont be a criminals verdict or a judges will!
You have no destiny! Punching Fafnir in the jaw, Smee crossed his arms and watched the
Macros body flop on the dirt like a ragdoll. The golden horns on his helmet took in all the
sunlight and made it their own; burning like hot iron at a blacksmiths. You were indebted by
your murderous father and his multiple life sentences! You are a Sevis fighter until the day
you die! Youre one tier above a damn slave!
I was, Fafnir breathed out, wiping off the blood from the corner of his mouth. He saw
Yaksha, who managed to come as close as he could to better see his hero. The rest refused to
inch nearer, in fear of being struck by Smees Mana field again. But that one boy, the runt of
his litter and Fafnirs most loyal fan, dragged his beaten body to see him better. One person
willing to strain themselves to watch him win was all it took. Fafnir turned on his side and
kicked Smee in the gut. Im not going back, Smee! He howled as the royal guards ran to
take him down. The only way youre taking me is in a body bag!
After his men seized Fafnir, pulling both of his arms behind his back, Smee only noted darkly,
That can be arranged.
It wasnt much of a struggle, but Fafnir pushed the men off his back, throwing his arms out
and striking both of them one in the face, the other in the chest. Though the second mans
armor was solid and made the Fafnirs hand cramp up, the disoriented guard had no
opportunity to decently strike before he was kicked in the shoulder. When the other one tried
to grab Fafnir from behind, the Sevis champion turned on his heel, grabbed the guard by the
waist and swung him into his colleague. This act of beating a motherfucker with another
motherfucker gave opportunity for an uproarious applause.

65

Thats my man! Yaksha cried hysterically through the commotion, spitting a tooth out.
Thats my main man right there!
Sweat glistened on Fafnirs back as he faced the two guards who formed a human pile of
limbs. The pile shifted slowly, and the Macro had a few more punches to throw, and they
passed with such passion and expertise that the whole crowd was in awe. There was the thrill
again. This was a battle he chose, and by the Gods he was going to win it. Kicking the
standing guard hard in the throat, he watched him fall and threw his limp body into the
spectators, who welcomed this opportunity to raid whatever they could remove off his armor.
The same fate awaited the second guard, who had fallen merely a second before, by a sweep
under his legs.
There was no chance for Fafnir to lift up his arms and bask in the glory then.
The atmosphere lifted and dropped down hard, like an almighty God had taken the world and
shook it. All of a sudden, the fighter could no longer hear the bustling crowd, and after turning
away, he saw the spectators blown away again. A strange, invisible force cut into the ground
like an axe. The sand slid down the transparent wall, and seeped down into the crevice below.
Confused and infuriated, Fafnir ran to it, repeatedly slamming his fist against the glass that
couldnt be broken. Every hit gave out a sharp ringing sound, but despite his herculean efforts,
he had failed to even crack the dome.
You didnt seriously think that those two were your actual battle, Scion?
Fafnir turned to face Smee standing behind him, bound hands set on his hips. He was no
longer clad in full armor, but instead in the light clothing he wore underneath. He could move
in it freely. His entire body was bandaged, save for his pectorals and upper arms, and there
was no longer a shred of metal or a shell on him. Instead, his cast was set aside; his chainmail,
his lamellar armor, and atop all that, his horned helmet that gave him the illusion of height.
Without his spikes, with his hair loosely tied back, dressed only in slacks and sandals, the man
looked almost as any other Zeer. But Fafnir knew that he was at his most dangerous.
Two orbs of darkness dementia, despair, malice and anguish all crafted into a ball of Mana
circled in both of his palms with black and purple hues, twisting like images of the future in a
crystal ball. They shone black as sin, the color of Zeers blood as all of Brimstone knew. Smee
lifted them up, presenting them to the crowd which had gone mute.
Isolation. The strife weighed on the circle with grueling gravity. Without the cheers and
chanting, Fafnir lost the notion of battle, and saw the clash as survival.
I suggest you give up while you can still stand, Smee said, gathering more energy. His body
became radiant and the dark Mana grew into the size of a melon.
Fafnir swallowed hard, but otherwise refused to budge.
Smee flung the spheres to his opponent and they burst like lightning, hitting Scion against the
side of his head and sending all that despair and darkness his way. He could taste blood in his
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mouth. His eyes refused to take in any light. All he could hear was the brisk, buzzing noise
when Smee recharged his orbs and balanced them in his clammy hands.
Had enough, Scion?
Instead of answering, Scion scowled and pounced.
The generals orbs sank deep into his fists and shrouded them in the dark force; patches and
wisps of purple haze travelled through the black. When Fafnir jabbed him in the jaw he
grunted, but not before using his energy to return the favor. Scion could hear the sound of his
bones shift. His head arched back, his neck felt like it was made of rubber. Smee hit him with
the force of an angry God, and the punches came in flashes. Even though he tried to advance
into Smees part of the impromptu arena, his unstable legs started to lead him back.
It was quiet. All he could hear were Smees fists against his skin, his pulse and his own howls
of pain. It was madness; Panopticon relived.
The last hit blasted him across the arena and flattened him against the glass force field. He
rolled off it, clutching his shoulders and coughing out sand and soot and blood, blinking
heavily and gasping for breath. His organs shifted, or at least he felt like they did. Honestly,
he couldnt tell. The dark force surrounded him, and slowly, his eyes started to close. He
bared his teeth to Smee, who gave him one of his most sadistic expressions as his new
formed spheres spun above the palms of his hands.
Grinning at the mans state, Smee snapped his fingers and the orbs disappeared into
nothingness. His monochrome eye glinted.
I will not hesitate to kill you if you fail to comply, Scion, he spoke, examining the man who
struggled to see through his swollen eye, hacking blood over his curled-up fist. Even from a
distance, it was a pathetic sight. Youre the only one I ever gave the choice of life to. The
crowd was flattened against the invisible field, pressing their hands and faces on it, banging
their fists and hoping to attract Scions attention. Sadly, Fafnir couldnt hear as much as a
blunt thump.
He wiped the warm substance streaming from his nose with his forearm, and then stood at his
full six feet of height, holding out his arm and taunting Smee; ridiculing him into attacking. Is
that all you have? Is this your fabled might? Why am I still standing? Why am I still able to
grin at you?
The Zeer blinked before advancing, blood boiling in his veins.
Nobody escapes the Panopticon on my watch. Nobody! Not even the great champion. You
can drop your dukes and fight for me, or you can fight with me and die a mangy dog!
Not if the dog bites back!
Roaring like a hundred rabid beasts, Fafnir thundered across the ring, the dust flying above
him and his pulse beating like a war drum in his ears. His fist was heavy, hard as a stone when
67

he welted the man hard in his cheek. He could hear Smees teeth crush inside his jaw. Fafnirs
arm lost momentum and fell, slack as a ragdoll.
Something told him that this was the last decent punch he had the power to throw.
And when he finally looked up to see the state Smee was in, he started to believe that the
punch was more than enough.
It didnt matter how hard he smote him, but where and how the mans body fell after the
impact. For a few seconds, Smee watched the small droplets of blood fly through the air.
Lightly they cascaded into fluttery oblivions, like petals of a dark rose in the soft breeze. All
he could feel was cold, and every time the man shivered, the more of those fragile flowers he
saw before his eyes. His good eye was swollen, and the color of its iris was slowly returning
to its default. Or rather, it became a new shade entirely; more gray than brown. The eyeball
rolled into the back of his head, but not before he managed to see two pointed, bloodied
spikes protruding from his stomach.
They resembled horns in their own merit. Their base was thick and his body was sliding on it,
inch by excruciating inch. The tips were thinned and sharper than any razor, and when his
blood slid off them, he could see the gold leaf they were covered in, only marred with
thinning coal-black stripes.
The last thought Smee had, while his fingers still coiled upwards in hopes of standing up, was
the ironic realization of being killed by his horned helmet.
Then his arms dropped, and he no longer felt the cold.
Fafnir slouched over his bent knees, mouth agape. His eyes scanned the crowd, all the faces
breathing over the invisible field that isolated him. He was in the Panopticon again; no longer
feeling the rush of victory, but instead facing a thousand judging eyes. They focused on his
body, on his battered flesh, in his withering soul. Even Yaksha, who up until then chanted
encouragement, shook his head in disbelief. In fact, he was the first one to let go of the dome
and step away, his eyes still fixated on Fafnir but no longer in awe, but rather in fear.
Trapped again, like an animal. This was only a taste of what he had escaped from two years
ago. Despite the identical horror he felt, this was different. The dome will shatter in seconds,
since there was no longer a living Zeer to power it. Then, all those men watching will be
ready to attack. Guards, veterans, war heroes who looked up the Smee and his work. Theyd
come for him. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, knowing that hell need the oxygen.
Last minute of peace before all hell broke loose, and the clock inside his head was ticking.
Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Ticktock ticktock ticktockticktockticktockticktock or maybe this was his
heart.
A buzzing sound broke him out of his state of deep thought. The people and the royal guards
were stepping in the rink, their rifles at the ready. What separated him and the pandemonium
was the ever-shortening diameter of thirty-two feet. The dome would crack and mayhem

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would take place. It was a heroic end to a tortured life, he thought. Smees death would be
symbolic, if nothing else. He scanned for a weak spot in the ring of people surrounding him.
And then he ran.
The crowd came crashing on him; all grabbing his arms and screaming in his ears. He hadnt
even regained his full vision yet, and ran barefoot on the hot sand while listening to gunshots
flying past him. With only the hope of losing the guards in the crowd, Fafnir looked away
from Yaksha who watched him with a hand pressed on his heart and a wish for good fortune
on his mind. Shoving, elbowing and kneeing his way out into the open, he gasped when he
could finally breathe again. His heart was tearing a hole through his chest, and every bang
made his ears shatter. There was no way he could escape. The walls were falling on him. He
made it out into the open, running as fast as his feet allowed him. The air turned dense,
pushing on his lungs. This was it. This was where he would lose his energy and collapse, and
theyd do him in with a bullet to the head, like he feared that they would every night. Those
dreams weaved into reality, but this time he couldnt wake up in cold sweat and every second
ticking away made him know that this was real, all too real, and how no matter how fast he
ran he could never make it past the Elite and the former champion of Brimstone was
struggling to keep running, wheezing like an ill, dying man
Suddenly, he was pulled to the side by a cloaked figure, dressed entirely in black.
By the Gods, man, what did you steal? He asked, tugging him as he turned to see the angry
mob, chasing after the escapee. You can tell me later, right now we gotta get you outta here!
Fafnirs steps became lighter, softer somehow. Who? He tried, swallowing something
that could have either been spit or blood. Who are you?
Priorities, priorities, nagged a short, pixie-haired woman, holding up her skirt while she ran.
You can thank us later, lad, but roight now you need tae follow im!
Follow him where?
Wherever e bleedin goes, lad! Oi! She smoothly slipped away from the two runners and in
front of the mob, raising her fist in the air. Fafnir couldnt help but to notice the coarse hairs
on her feet. Get that sodding Sevvy!
He and the hooded stranger moved through the dilapidated brick houses as the halfling girl
lead the crowd astray, shouting madly as the guns fired behind her, loudly at first and then
softer as they moved out away. Fafnir, whose savior allowed him to lean against a cold wall
and rest, honestly thought he was going to pass out.
Who are?
Hey, man, I dont go out incognito often, but every time I do, spoke the stranger
nonchalantly, I always expect the guards to chase me. But theres always just a handful of
em. Cant imagine what you tried to steal. He pointed at the small vial of cyan liquid

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hanging around Fafnirs neck, and immediately, the Sevis fighter grabbed hold of it. This
necklace? Is that what you stole?
I didnt he swallowed, unable to keep his breath, its not
Eh, we can talk about it later, the man cut him off, waving his hand to show disinterest.
But when you do, we really need to talk about what you did. It mustve been epic! Oh. And
if things get too serious for you out there, Ill plea your innocence. My word has leverage
around here, trust me.
The fighters sweat rolled down his forehead in beads, like shards of ice. The man beside him
looked up and, for some reason, clapped several times as a mischievous grin spread over his
visible features. Who are you? Fafnir finally asked.
The hooded figure observed him from head to toe before shrugging. His thin fingers came
around the edges of his hood and lifted it up. Eh. As long as Im saving you, I might as well
show ya.
The fabric came down, loosely handing behind the mans shoulder-length, chestnut hair. His
hazel eyes turned to Fafnir as he ran a hand through his two braids in the back, lightly tussling
the soft skein. Pitch black, tiger-like markings spread over his neck and jaw line, circling his
oblong face and gave it intensity. Fafnir only recognized him, however, by his wide, lopsided
grin. His teeth were white, perfectly aligned, and showed a confident albeit childish grin of a
certain Xexarian, a folk idol for decades, who had been used by the King as a poster child for
all things pertaining to progress, but was today a rebel without a cause, and a secret
infatuation for the odd and peculiar youth of the Kingdom. The fighters jaw fell.
The Xexarian stretched out his arm in a friendly greeting. Aaron Kronos. Pleased to meet
you.
Fafnir saw a flash of luminescent blue before he fainted.
/***/
How many times do I have to tell you? If you disobey my orders, you disobey all my
teachings and everything Ive ever stood for!
Aw, come on
Not one word out of you. Do you realize how foolish it was to bring a Macro into Saga?
Plamen is going to be furious and I will be the one to suffer the consequences.
If he finds out.
He will find out, Raem.
Well if youre that worried, why didnt you just dump him off somewhere?

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Because, Raem, I wouldnt want to have a dying man on my conscience. Doing nothing in
this case would be equal to me knocking him out cold myself. And I suppose that this
shouldnt exactly be the first time I sacrificed my security to save an injured human. Or have
you forgotten that?
Mmy lady ow, my head my lady Forrester, perhaps if he were to stay at a goblin
establishment for the n eugh night
Easy on the mead next time, alright Pick?
Goblin establishment or not, he is still in Encantadia, and he is still in danger of being
found.
Its better than keeping him here in Librarinarium.
Raem, not another word. Green, I want you to announce our new arrival to Meecrow. Have
him save a room.
I I have already alerted him of our possible arrival. He said that he has a room available but
hell need twenty tacks for it per night. Its not the cheapest accommodation, but its the best I
could find.
This pleases me. You have done well.
Any time, my lady Forrester.
Pfsch. Suck-up.
Raem!
Ow, not so loud, milady, I beg of you.
But he is a suck-up!
Uhh
Wait, Stel! Look there! I think hes coming to hellooooo?
Raem, stop that!
Unconscious guy? Helloooo? Wakey wakey!
When Fafnir woke up, his throat was dry and his eyes swollen. It took some time to adjust to
his surroundings, which were freezing cold in comparison to his home. All he could recognize
was that he was on some springy bed inside something akin to a small library, and that the
Xexarian from before was slapping him lightly with a concerned look on his face.
Rise and shine, its waking time! He spoke in a singsong tone, still tapping the mans cut
cheek.

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Where Fafnir attempted through his mouthful of cotton. When he tried to sit up, tendrils
of pain shot through his abdomen and lodged deep into his brain. He drew some air through
his teeth and tightened his grip on the cold metal rails of his bed. His other hand looked for
support behind him, knocking over a nondescript jar that fell and shattered on the ground.
Be careful with that! Fretted a prim womans voice. It sounded strict, almost like a
professors, and it made Fafnir force his eyes open to have a better look.
He made a vaguely panicked, animalistic noise when he saw the two other people in the den.
There was no doubt that he had seen far stranger creatures when he was in the Panopticon, or
even back at his home. One could also argue that the woman shaking her head at the broken
glass was attractive for her kind, if not even beautiful. There was something deeply unsettling
about her eyes; large and checkered with traces of blue and gray. The other concerning factor
was her skin tone. It was white not as the Callahanian pigment, but quite literally, the color
white. He had seen snow more impure than her skin and hair. And while he tried to wrap his
head around her achromic appearance, he even failed to see her long, hairy, goat-like ears that
drooped over her silken hair and perked up at any sound louder than the drop of a pin.
The shape of her ears was the only thing she had in common with the seated man behind her.
He was moaning at the time and dampening his forehead with a damp rust-colored cloth, most
likely recovering from a massive crapulence. Quite short for his kind, Fafnir guessed, since
his wide feet dangled as he sat. His skin was purple, freckled with tiny black spots, and in
stark contrast with his curly hair that grew out of his scalp like grass. He couldnt see his eyes,
since they were screwed shut in quiet tolerance of his migraine, but there was certainly a
chance that they were checkered as well. His doubts were confirmed when the strange
humanoid cracked open an eye at Fafnirs screech, and revealed hues of lilac and white.
What is it? The pastel-colored man asked in a tone that desperately wanted to be polite.
Havent you ever seen a Dryad before?
A Dryad? Fafnir blinked hard until his vision became clear enough to concentrate on his
surroundings. Youre Im His orbs shifted from the ground to the ceiling, over the
potions and books behind him and to the quill on the writing desk. All in all, this seemed like
an everyday study, but there was something strange about the light coming from the round
window above them; fabricated by some synthetic light force. He wouldnt have pegged it as
Mana, since Mana by itself only created darkness. This was something more benign;
something nave, jaunty and colorful. Where am I? He finally asked, wondering how long
he had been unconscious. Am I in Saga?
Yes. We transported you into Encantadia, the taller Dryad answered as she commanded the
green-haired faerie to clean up the mess Fafnir had made. Green complied without protest, but
seemed none too happy as he dabbed his cloth on the ground to soak up the potion. His eyes
were fixed on the silver-haired maid while she spoke. Allow me to introduce myself. I am
Stella Forrester, and this, Stella gestured around the stony dwelling, is my abode. I call it
the Librarium. I expected it to be my private quarters but I suppose I had my standards set too
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high. This here is my star student, Pickering Green, her finger pointed at the smaller Dryad
whose cheeks flushed with pride, and I suppose you have already met Aaron Kronos.
I I have. Fafnir swallowed, and his throat felt like somebody had mutilated it with a fish
hook. The Last Xexarian in the flesh. He saved my life.
I did?
He did?
HE DI oh, that smarts, Pickering muttered, recalling his splitting headache. Ow.
The fighter nodded curtly. He did. I owe him.
Aw, come on, you wouldnt have been killed or anything, right? What exactly did you steal,
anyway? Gold? Jewels? Leather?
Fafnir propped himself up on the bed, anxious to get outside of the cramped room. His body
ached, moved out of his control. When he tried to shuffle his foot his back would drag him
down, and when he attempted to straighten his knee, his neck would crack hard enough for
him to yell. He was thankful of the bandages and oils he was covered in. Those were the only
things keeping his body from breaking apart. When his bare feet finally touched the ground,
he shuddered and almost fell flat on his stomach.
Whoa, easy there! Aaron said as he jumped up to support him, putting Fafnirs arm over his
shoulder. We just got you patched up. Dont need you breaking more bones or bleeding out
on us. Are the guards using dark Mana now? Thats harsh.
Its also illegal, Stella added, gently nodding towards the two. Not to mention impossible
to use in modern weaponry. Have the officers had a Zeer in their ranks?
Nno, Fafnir gulped hard, mouth parted as precious air finally came into his lungs. The
image displayed over his mind was clear as crystal, not one detail gone awry. Energy orbs that
hurled into his body. Blood dripping over his chin. The spikes glinting in the sun as the
generals body slid down them. The crowd shouting and grabbing onto him as he ran away. It
all played out like a theatre drama; even worse, since he could feel the pain and mania inside
every cut and bruise in his body.
These people didnt know the full story yet, he remembered. For some reason or another,
Fafnir found it best to keep it this way. Would somebody shelter a thief? Maybe. His injuries
already drew out some sympathy, at least enough for them to staunch his wounds. But would
they hold in a killer? Not only that, a murderer who finished off an army general? The army
general, no less, who defeated the Syth armies on his own? No. They wouldnt. For the sake
of his safety, he decided to lie about the whole affair.
His head shook. No, those those were from before. I encountered a wyvern once and it
attacked me. The burns take some time to heal.

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You fought a wyvern?! Aarons eyes glowed. Thats astounding! You have to tell me all
about it and hey, whats your name again?
The fighter swallowed hard, limping alongside Aaron as he took him to the green exit door.
Fafnir Scion, he said.
Strange Stella commented, slowly pivoting around the Macro. Her checkered eyes
scrutinized his appearance, almost undressing him out of his bandages. I havent noticed any
singed flesh
It was only then when he realized that telling his true name might have been a mistake. It was
too late to correct him now, as Aaron was already butchering it.
So, Funfair, Ive got good news and bad news. Good news? You get to stay here until your
wounds heal up. Bad news? Youre staying at a goblins place. Its much less homey than this
right here. Also goblins are nasty little buggers. His nose crunched up in discontent. Kinda
stingy. Ugly, too. And dont get me started on the way they talk. Its like they speak with a
damn potato in their mouth.
Will I be safe there? Fafnir asked, only half-aware of his words.
Safe from the guards? Yes. Safe from the goblins and their smelly cooking? Hell nope.
Thats enough, Aaron. Pickering, Stella turned to the purple-skinned Dryad, who was busy
dusting off the glass into a small pan. When youre done there, I expect you to go over this
months curriculum with Djali and Tamara.
yes my lady, he replied, withholding an exasperated groan. By the time he picked off
every shard of glass from the ground, the three have already phased through the trunk and
were off into a goblins inn.
/***/
The trio passed through the undergrowth, pushing away the leaves that hindered their path.
Goblins, as one might have already guessed, were not the most pleasant of folk. Their
dwellings, inns and shops in Encantadia were hidden away, and had to be searched for
through shrubberies and secret passageways. At one point during their excursion, Aaron took
off his cloak and placed it over Fafnir, just in case an inquisitive Dryad decided to spy on him
and Stella dragging a stranger around. The tall Dryad looked around for signs of Plamen or
another Sheeban with enough political power to banish somebody (at times even casting
shadows that rendered them invisible from a distance when things became too quiet). Aaron
would sometimes quip about her paranoia as he continued to descend through the bush and
into a narrow passage, lit with flickering torches that were secured to the cement walls.
You worry too much, Stel. Make a left turn here, he said to the towering Macro. Stella
squinted into the distance, head craning behind her.

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Thats easy for you to say. You have diplomatic immunity that you can abuse. I, on the other
hand, do not. Every crime you do bounces off your record and somehow sticks to mine. By
now Im surprised that they didnt send me to Lorna.
They wont do that, youre not Syth, Aaron assured, and then added with a smirk, They
might send you to Nikta.
Stella awarded his retort by smacking him against the back of his head, like a chiding nanny.
Even Fafnirs damp, tired eyes looked over to Stella in mild shock, since he had first pegged
her as a very permissive and tolerant guardian. Tolerant, perhaps, but the subject at hand was
touchy enough to drive even the most disciplined of scholarly Dryads into an outburst.
Labor camps are nothing to make fun of, Raemskal.
Beg pardon, Fafnir lifted up his head, looking puzzled. This was most likely the first thing
he had said in the past half hour, and it took both Aaron and Stella by surprise. Whos
Raemskal?
Oh, thats just my name before I dubbed myself Aaron Kronos. Watch your step! By the
Gods, its dark in here. They should really put more torches here. I suppose a dekatack only
buys so many
Thats enough, you pestering sprite. The King and court may not have power over your anti
goblin calumny but I still do. Keep your comments to yourself.
Aaron watched his matron guardian from under his knotted eyebrows and then settled for
keeping quiet, gnawing at the inside of his cheek. He looked into the hall beyond, happy to
see that the door to Meecrows inn was near them, barely ten feet away. Jumping up, he had
forgotten that Fafnir was in no position to move, and quickly apologized for his hyperactivity.
Were here! He chirped and tugged hard on Fafnirs arm. The Macro hissed in pain. Were
finally here and ah. Sorry. Didnt hurt you too much, did I?
Fafnir shook his head, a tear streaming down his cheek.
Stella walked ahead to knock on the innkeepers door. It was mahogany, and as far as she
knew, the most expensive item the imp had in his possession. Her three knocks echoed around
the narrow passage, bouncing off the walls and ringing in her sensitive ears. The trio waited,
Aaron tapping his foot against the dry dirt they were standing on. Suddenly, the doors
mechanism clicked several times, and the heavy flap was pulled away, dragging on the
wooden floor like nails on a chalkboard.
And right there, standing at two-foot-nothing, a greenly bald proprietor with a wrinkled brow
and an enraged look in his red eyes, greeted them with all the courtesy of a rabid hound.
Whaddya want?! His voice was highpitched and similar to that of a forest pixie, had the
pixie spent her afternoons drinking grog and shouting at small woodland creatures. Having
absolutely no chin or jaw at all, the goblins bottom teeth dug far into his upper lip. His bald
75

head shone in the candlelight behind him. The short, olivegreen nails he clawed at the
mahogany door with were pointed and sharp enough to cut off an ear with an errant flick. His
appearance was reminiscent of cantankerous uncles who visited families once during the
holidays, and were accepted solely for the fact that they belonged to the clan. To sum up, the
creatures appearance was none too friendly, and Fafnir had half of his mind set on turning on
his heel and leaving. A Dryad he could accept. But not this whatever this sharply-dressed
thing was.
Stella hunched far enough to see into his eyes, not wanting to seem condescending. We are
here to see Meecrow. I believe my assistant, Pickering Green, has made a reservation.
The goblin looked almost offended. Meecrow?! The hells a Meecrow?! This is my inn! Get
out of my sight before I !
The creatures tongue froze just outside of his mouth, and hung over his lip precariously.
SNAP! His neck twisted by half a circle with an ear-splitting crack of bones, and in the place
of the goblins face came an identical expression; the same wide nose, red eyes and yellowed
teeth. This visage, however, was smiling and had an absurd air of affability to it. The only
thing Fafnir could think about was how the goblins neck snapped like a twig when it turned.
His body felt heavy.
Easy, there, Fafnair. Funfare. Fai air? Whats your name again?
Youll have to excuse Chrome, he gets a little thankless sometimes. Not to mention
aggressive. He tends to forget that I run the place, the goblin spoke in his highpitched voice,
this time light and silvery. He jumped to take Stellas hand, and kept jumping to shake it
properly. As a result, his introduction was cut into snippets. Hell-o my la-dy, I am Meecrow. He landed back on his two feet and outstretched his arms in the fashion of a retired
showman. Welcome to my humble abode!
Thank you for accepting us, she replied as the three followed Meecrow into his
underground hole. The Dryad had to slouch as she entered the doorway, and then closely
observed the moist, dripping wooden surroundings. There wasnt much here besides a halfempty, cobwebbed liquor cabinet, a rickety staircase behind a small column that supported
nothing, and a boxy reception desk that doubled as a bar; filled with cracked bottles of beer
and chipped cups. In the middle of it, there was a leather-bound entrance book that had been
gathering dust for some time, and Meecrow started coughing profusely when he opened it.
The place smelled of stale milk, dust, grime and, if you bothered to talk to Meecrow long
enough, chronic halitosis. After spending less than two minutes inside the inn, the trio halfexpected to see a small army of child laborers emerging from the gaping cracks in the walls,
all wearing tatters and scars and begging their wicked goblin lord for food and a break. This
was a tourist trap to end all others; literally a trap in sense. Aaron was beginning to suffocate
with boredom, his head lulling light.

76

It was the exact opposite of the Librarium. Stella desperately wanted to be there at the time,
lounging in her seat without fear that it would break under her and possibly enjoying a cup of
tea that wasnt simply charcoal and mint floating in water of dubious purity.
Fafnir, on the other hand, didnt seem to mind, and was glad about having a place to stay in at
all. He was more focused on the dead head on Meecrows scalp; its brow corrugated, its eyes
screwed shut and its mouth arched in a permanent frown. The ridge of fat above its eyes
connected perfectly to the folds on Meecrows neck. In fact, the entire additional head hung
behind the innkeepers like a hood and cloak. It was powdery when the goblin wasnt using it,
and Chromes multiple chins jiggled whenever his host body moved. In all honesty, this made
Fafnir sick to the point of gagging. He tried to occupy his mind with something else his
bandages, his pain, and his memories of what brought him here, though everything which
occurred in the past twenty hours made him queasy. In the end, he settled for looking up into
the ceiling. There were spiders crawling across the supportive rails, and Fafnir felt ineffably
pleased that a dump like this could sustain any life.
So! Meecrow started with the reservation, taking a quill and licking its tip. Clotted ink
smeared his green tongue and he spat it out beneath his counter. What are you looking for?
Stella cleared her throat. I am looking for a room with a single bed that is not extravagant or
gaudy and has just enough necessities inside of it to keep ones basic needs satisfied.
Ah, so cheap, eh?
Asochipey to you too, Aaron said, bowing down in a quasi-greeting. Stella placed her head
in her hand and shook it.
Sweet Serena, Goddess of Light
Lucky for you, cheap is all I have! Meecrow announced with glee as he dug out a rusted
key with a small paper tag taped on it. Taking it in her hand, Stella asked Aaron to take care of
the money. The Xexarian pulled the Macro along, putting one of his arms on Stellas
shoulders as he rummaged through the loose change in his pocket. Strange, he thought, how
Fafention Fufnation? was slightly shorter than Stella when viewed from the side.
So it does not bother you that he is of Macro lineage? Stella asked, steadying the Macro and
taking him by the waist. Fafnir was more than a little surprised by this contact.
Nonono, my lady. Around here, we have a saying. Meecrow clapped his hands. Not a Syth,
not a problem. He chuckled, holding out his hand for the twenty tacks Aaron was presenting
him with.
Twenty seems too much for a night, Aaron commented as he wiped off the smell of cash
against his thigh. Meecrow clucked his tongue.
Ah, I can never truly bring myself to charge a mans safety, he said coyly. But I can always
charge for his bed, and that price is final.

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Always the shrewd innkeeper, I see. His voice sounded posh, and overly so. One of these
days, youll rob a sleeper of his teeth.
Raem!
Ach, now youre just trying to make me sad, son. Im just a poor old soul who wants to earn
enough to keep myself warm and fed. Oh! And while on the subject, it costs extra if hes
going to eat.
Aaron ticked up an eyebrow. How much extra?
Two tacks a meal.
You son of a !
Raemskal, go wait outside. Ill help the man to his room and ask if he needs anything else.
Aaron looked at her, then at the receptionist, then at Fafnir before staring at Stella again. He
huffed and grunted on his way outside, stomping so hard that the floorboards rattled. He
opened the entrance door wide and stepped outside. The room immediately felt more alive, if
only because of his vivacious stamina that strengthened tenfold when he was irritated by some
goblin or another. He pirouetted at the threshold and waved at the patient he came with.
Bye, Fenrir!
The door slammed, and the cold inn died as soon as the door rested on its hinges.
Stella swerved around the desk and came to the stairs leading up, still gripping Fafnir tightly
around his waist. I deeply apologize, she said to the proprietor. My protg tends to get a
little overdramatic.
Pish-posh, its alright. At least he doesnt live in the back of your head, Meecrow laughed as
the two climbed the stairs. Every step was rotting and barely supporting their combined
weight, and yet somehow, miraculously, they both reached the top virtually unharmed.
Fafnirs room was the first one on the first floor, and just as suspected, had nothing much to
offer. Not that the man needed anything. Stella helped him up on the stained bed and dusted
him off, contemplating his wounds. Fafnir, meanwhile, was busy looking at a small halfempty flower pot in the corner of the room, water dripping in intervals from the room above.
Drip. Drip. Drip
So this was Saga, he thought to himself. For some reason, he was underwhelmed.
I hope this is fit to suit your needs, Stella said, tightening the gauze around his shoulder that
supported his arm in a sling. Fafnir tightened his muscles and felt them pulsing rapidly under
his skin. The sensation was short-lived, but very uncomfortable.
Ill be fine, he lied. I have a bed to lie on and a pot to piss in. Thats more than Ill ever
deserve.
78

Something about the way he had said it made the Dryad purse her lips and take a deep,
pensive sigh. Slowly, she held up her hand and snapped his fingers. Except maybe some
light.
What she created was a small spinning bubble of yellowish light, but it gave the room a faint,
golden glow that made Fafnirs jaw drop. Despite the pain, or maybe even in spite of it, he sat
up and outstretched his hand to the small orb. It hovered in mid-air, floating around the room
and finally landed in his palm. It didnt feel hot. It didnt feel like anything, really. It was pure
light that he closely examined and then put up on the tip of his finger.
Holy shit, he commented as the small orb spun on his fingernail. Stella pressed two fingers
to her mouth and hummed, which was the closest thing to a giggle that she ever did.
It makes the room seem far less depressing, does it not? Now, she cupped her hands and
changed the subject, voice formal and pragmatic. I dont exactly tolerate criminals who
associate with Aaron.
Fafnirs calm expression fell and he looked up, the small orb of light escaping into a dark
corner of the room. I I understand.
The proper thing to do is to report you to the authorities immediately. If what Aaron said was
true, you have committed a heinous crime.
Fafnirs heart leapt to his throat, and he began recalling everything he had told the Xexarian.
Or rather, everything he hadnt said. His mind grew heavy and muddled with dark thoughts
again, and he was beyond thankful for Stellas imminent however.
However, the humane thing to do is to let you rest and heal. Mana poisoning is nothing to
take lightly. It took every antidote I had to battle the dark magic, and it would be unfair of me
to turn you in. Be advised that this time should be used to reflect on your actions, and try to
understand what to do next. You have been given a chance, Fafnir. I suggest you use it well.
Fafnir closed his mouth and nodded, unsure if the knot in his chest was from guilt or relief.
His heavy body fell on the mattress, seconds away from falling into much needed sleep.
I will. I promise.
Good night, Fafnir Scion, she said as her hand lightly turned the door knob. She opened it
slightly and placed one foot outside his abode. I will come tomorrow to check on the state of
your bandages. Be sure to tell me if you need anything.
His head shook on his pillow, a wide smirk on his face as he enjoyed the silence. I can never
thank you enough, he said to her before her foot left the threshold. When he saw that she
poked her head back into his room, he continued, keeping that satisfied smirk, Youre a
saint.
Stella tried to withhold a smile but quietly gave into it. Im far from it. Im simply a decent
person.
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With that, she exited and slowly closed the door behind her.
It was eerie how much this room reminded him of his sleeping quarters in the Panopticon.
There were spiders, rats, mold and a chill that could freeze and crack a spine. The smell of
death was still in his nostrils; shame attacked every fiber of his being and twisted it into
insanity. All he could do for the rest of the night is to wallow in his thoughts and nurse his
wounds. In a way, this goblins cramped dorm was exactly like the arena.
That little fluttering light in the room, however, reminded him that it wasnt. He made it out of
there alive, and hed make it out of this alive. Hed consider this his third chance at life, and
he wasnt set on wasting it.
He watched that speck of light for an hour before exhaustion finally forced him asleep. His
dreams were riddled with bloody, screaming nightmares.
/***/
The moon was full and manic, like it would crack open and swallow Brimstone if it grew any
brighter. Some people escaped the outdoors and sheltered themselves into their houses in fear
of paranormal activities taking place in the moonlight. Specters roamed the Barren Lands
during the cold nights, reaping souls and tearing up bodies of the unfortunates who wandered
too deep into the fell. Old wives tales suggested that those were the disembodied visions of
fallen warriors of the past, trying to win battles against the living in their dishonorable deaths.
They came in on horses, raising their weapons high and slicing off heads mid-gallop,
recruiting the living to their feared, fabled brigade.
It was a shame that not many people witnessed these slaughters. Nobody dared to.
Or rather, nobody dared to but Billie.
She was reclining on the ground with her legs crossed over a smooth stone. The tips of her
heavy boots touched the white moon bow that arched over the Barren Lands like some
celestial passage for the Gods. The tax collectors flaxen hair fell and spread on the dirt and
over the arm she set just above her head. Her brown eyes moved from the glow of the moon
to the Sitka she captured. Vigilant, she observed the slaves movements through the thin veil
of cigarette smoke.
Shit?
The Sitka did not respond.
Outraged by the Sitkas lack of respect, Billie cocked herself up on her elbow and put the
cigarette back into her mouth. Her jet black eyebrows knitted when she released the billowing
smoke through her nostrils. Angered now, she rose up her voice until it echoed through the
plane.
Hey, Shit!

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The Sitka or Shit, as Billie dubbed her weakly pulled at the chains that tied her to her
captors chimera.
The chimera was a massive, glorious beast with the body of a lion and a serpents tail, his
frayed, thinning wings falling over his back lazily. His talons were sharp as a scholars wit,
the round, chestnut mane surrounding his head dense as the smoke billowing out of his
humans maw when she smoked. The Sitka touched his jaw, a strong, massive bone covered in
patches of misplaced hair. The beast was always salivating through his yellowed fangs that
pierced through bone line a tailors needle through fabric.
Shit had felt the pain of being bitten several times that day, even when his owner hadnt
ordered him to. There was something bothering this poor animal. Something over his neck
or maybe, on the chain that connected his paw and her ankle. She gave a precarious tug at the
heavy iron links
and was then pulled up from the ground by the soft hairs on the back of her neck.
Billies stiff chin was the first thing she saw before the blonde rose her up at eyelevel. Her
wide, amber eyes met with the captors striking brown ones.
What do you think youre doing with my pet, Shit? The womans voice went through the
Sitkas ears like a knife dipped in honey. Answer me! When I call you, you answer me! Lo
look at look at me, she struggled as the Sitka tried to force herself out of the grasp. Three
bony fingers pressed hard against the slaves sunken cheeks. If Billie had pressed them a little
harder, she would have broken Shits teeth. Fucking look at me when Im talking to you, you
fucking whore! What the fuck are you even doing?
Kimer! The Sitka gasped in alarm when Billie pushed her on the ground. Kimer! Kimer
trevva alikkatam tuya!
Spare me your Syth crap, Billie muttered, crossing her arms. She set them on her stomach
before Shit got up and clung to them, her knees grazing over the soot and grime.
The savages finger pointed at the animal, which had sat down and rolled his serpent tail
around his torso. Povrey! She cried. Nogg! Nogg! Norroro shushalla noggam kii!
If you dont start making sense right now, Im
Her hand froze in mid-air. As the chains beat and rung the bitter melody of the captives, Sitka
half-crawled, half-dragged herself to the animal. She tugged at his chain; the heavy ring
circling around his ankle, and pulled at it with no hope of taking it off. The chimera roared in
pain before the Sitka grabbed his matte coat and pulled her body up, breathing heavily into the
creatures skin.
The chimeras ear perked up as she recited into it.
Your blood drains, but fear quickens the flow. Your body burns, but dread sets it on fire.
Breathe and face your ailments, seek healing and not Death. Your blood drains, but fear
81

quickens the flow. Your body burns, but dread sets it on fire. Breathe and face your ailments,
seek healing and not Death. Your blood drains, but fear quickens the flow. Your body burns,
but dread sets it on fire. Breathe and face your ailments, seek healing and not Death. Your
blood drains
The chant was in a language unbeknownst to man or animal. Those words, gibberish that she
spoke into his ear, only made sense to the two of them, and slowly, Shit could feel the
chimeras heartbeat steadying under her hand, as his breathing became even and his eyes shut.
Still in pain, he now suffered through it in dignity, like a stoic warrior on the frontline with
nothing to lose but his life.
Billie was one who broke apart the creatures chain, seeing the blood seep through the
animals fur. It was stiff already; clotted and covering his ankle like a ring. A long gash spread
under the thick coat of burgundy, and once it was released from the shackle, it started running
red again.
The tax collector stared at her pet, shocked with her unawareness. Her cigarette fell on the
ground, ashes burning like the moon in the night. The link was too tight; so tight that it cut
into the bone, and yet she had no idea. Such a connection between and her pet, she thought to
herself. And she had the audacity to call herself a lover of animals. She threw down the chain
and looked closely at the knife she used to pick it apart. Cool saliva, spiced up with guilt,
pooled in the bottom of her throat.
You didnt want to attack it when you jumped on it, did you? She asked, watching the Sitka
gently caress the side of the creatures ear until it was almost purring. There was still fresh
blood on his leg, but without the chain to rive deeper, he could bear it much more easily.
You didnt want to attack it. You wanted to set it free.
At that moment, she knew that a Sitkan of such intuition was far too valuable to be given back
to the King.
The chimera was softly nuzzling Shits cheek, and she smiled at the animals kindness, her
eyes closed and her hands softly stroking his back. Her eyes flared open when she was pried
off the chimera with one brutal grab of the shoulder. She screamed and clenched her fists,
knuckles white and ready to hit until she saw Billies hand reaching deep into the inside
pocket of her black leather jacket.
Relax, Shit, Im not gonna hurt you this time. What came out of her jacket was a small
piece of bread, roughly the size of the Sitkas fist. I see you know your way around an
animal. I respect that, she prattled along as her knife went into the bread, slicing it in half.
Guess youre not a complete savage like I thought you were. You hungry?
Throwing the white bread in the air, Billie put her knife in her boot, sitting on her knees and
gesturing that the Sitka should do the same. The former slave acquiesced, but not before
sniffing the foodstuff. Go on, the blonde Macro instructed, scratching the shorn half of her
head. Its not poisoned. Eat up before I change my mind.
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Within seconds, her food was gone in starving gnaws, similar to those of a famished lion
feeding on a gazelle. It was clear that the Sitka hadnt eaten; her arms turned to bones, her
ambers sank deep into her head and her ribcage was showing through the tatters of her slave
clothing. The golden silk had become brown and hung around her body in strips. It was a
sorry sight, even for a Sitkan nomad.
We gotta get you cleaned up, Shit, Billie warned, perfunctorily picking a corner from her
half and popping it between her lips. Youre gonna catch a fair price. If you eat well and
build your strength, we can even turn you into a Sevis fighter. God knows demand is high for
them. Youre not weak, Shit, youve just been starving a while.
The Sitka refused to look at her captor, and instead continued to lick at the crumbs on her
palms. Her tongue was discolored; a sign of an illness or possibly a bad diet. Of course, when
it came to a slave, nobody could tell for sure, as one condition complimented the other.
You speak the Kingdom tongue at all? Or is it all killikalli mumbo jumbo? Billie awaited a
response for a moment, but seeing that it wouldnt come, she twisted her mouth and
surrendered what remained of her dinner to the Sitka. The nomad grabbed it and swallowed it
whole. Good, Billie thought. She still had appetite. The Sitkans willing to eat always sold
better. Dont worry about a thing. You just respect me, maybe help me take care of my pets,
and Ill make sure I put you somewhere good. There might not be many better places than a
palace, but if there are, Ill find them. And if youre really good, and if I feel like you can be
trusted, I can even give you your spear back. But dont think for a second you can use it
against me. You so much as try to hurt me, and theyll need a pack of bloodhounds and an
army of telepaths just to find whats left of you. Understood?
Shit by the Gods, Ill need to give her a better name than that if I expect her to catch a
better price nodded at something that might not have been related to the subject at hand, but
Billie took it as affirmation regardless. Satisfied, the blonde started inspecting every pocket on
her person in search for another cigarette. She had to get back to Don soon, and she never let
her smoke in their house. There was no point in letting these next few minutes before
departure go to waste.
Good. She twiddled her newfound cig between her fingers and jumped on her feet. Breaks
over, get off the fucking ground.

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Chapter V: Revolution
My liege!
The messengers robes were drenched with sweat and seeping down his back and underarms
like the rapid currents of Dionite slashed across the edge of Barren Lands. His plump, spotted
cheeks were bright red and scorching hot; enough to fry an egg on them. Normally spiked red
hair lay matted over his oily skin and loose strands of it were tucked behind his pierced ears
(one of them was missing a gold earring which he had forgotten to put on in a hurry, and his
left ear now had a gap in its lobe that was as wide as a bean). The mans wide, flattened nose
failed to take in enough air to keep him from passing out, so he had no other choice but to
breathe through his mouth, which stretched as wide as a cave with every sharp intake of
breath.
Mouthbreathers were never a good sign to the King of Brimstone. With his hand still atop his
tigers head, Aurus propped up his head and watched the winded and perturbed envoy. This,
he spoke in a tone that was no different than a bored sigh, better be important.
It is, my liege! The young ginger dropped down on his knees, palms flat on the cold ground.
He tried not to concentrate on the fact that Kaaba was licking his whiskers ravenously, or how
Silas put up his hand to keep the guards from attacking the young man. Suddenly aware of his
sorry state and the sharp, shooting pain in his tendons (that came as result of running from the
ghetto to the palace in less than ten minutes), Shan bobbed his head down until his sweaty
forehead almost touched the cool marble underneath him. This was the deepest, humblest bow
that all men of Brimstone could only give to Gods and Kings. I am Shan Payano, the herald
of Kix County and its provinces.
State your business, Shan Payano. Beside him, Kaaba settled on all fours, in a pose that
might have been either a preparation to jump the herald neophyte, or simply a comfortable
napping position. The tiger was still watchful, however. His owner not as much.
Or better yet, not at all until he heard the troubling news.
General Smee has been murdered in duel, my liege, Shan said in a crisp, clear tone. His
hazel eyes were still stuck on his fingers, as if Aurus could set him ablaze if their eyes met.
When Aurus sat up on his golden, rubyencrusted throne, his booming voice echoed through
the quarters like a wounded wyverns vengeful cry.
Murdered?! His sinewy fingers clutched to his padded armrests. There was an air of distrust
in his voice, like he was hoping that he had misheard the news. And yet, Shan Payano never
moved or spoke up to correct himself. The King was at a loss for words, and spewed out the
first that came out, in a lighter and saner tone. When did this happen?
Just now, my liege. Minutes ago, during a Sevis match.

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Aurus right hand gripped at the cushioned support. Slowly, his head rose up from his
shoulder. His eyes flared up with confusion and interest before squinting at the younger man,
like he was facing the sun on a hot summer afternoon. A what?
A Sevis match, my liege. General Smee challenged him to a fight
Challenged whom?
The offenders name is Fafnir Scion. We had a squadron sent out to track him down and
incarcerate him; a couple of Elites as well. They chased him down to the edge of Kix and
then he just Shan Payanos quiet, boyish voice turned down to a tremulous whisper,
almost ashamed of the news he had to bear. His King wasted no time in demanding an ending
to his answer, and even his royal advisor, Silas Rotarum, gently lowered his arm to his waist.
The surrounding sentinels had their spears cocked up and at the ready, still holding their
ground.
He just what, herald Payano? If I do not get an articulate and sound response, the next death
notice will be your own.
The messenger swallowed hard and crossed his fingers together. He wrung them as he
delivered his answer in one matter-offact word. Disappeared.
This information satisfied nobody, though by the look of things, it did not drive anybody mad,
either.
Fully aware of how blunt and daft his brief response sounded, Shan finally let his face touch
the cold floor. His heart was throbbing in his chest cavity, digging a hole to his stomach while
the mans throat closed up and went dry. He disappeared. This is all the news I have.
The silence that ensued could have been cut like warmed butter. Kaaba flicked off a fly on its
golden pelt, lazily licking his snow-white paw. The sentinels lowered their weapons, a few
awkward glances shooting from Shans forehead and to the King. Silas Rotarum looked at his
liege as well, still kneeling beside his throne. Troubling thoughts trampled the Kings mind
this was obvious from his expression, neither strict nor nonchalant. He looked like a peasant
choosing between two stands at market. His thick eyebrows met, his lips were pressed tight,
not to seem foolish as well as stunned. After some thought, the Kings first instinct was to
wave his hand upwards and compel two of the guards to bring Shan Payano on his two feet.
They grabbed him by the shoulders with the gentle touch of rabid wolves.
How did he die? The King asked with genuine interest, though the herald mistook it as a
threat and started to carefully cherry pick his words.
Nobly, in a final battle with a former Sevis champion an honorless runaway.
Did the battler use dark Mana to match his own? Were Omniae involved in the duel?
No, my liege, nothing like that Shan Payano swallowed some saliva, spiced with the
piquant potato he was eating minutes before being sent off to message his leader. They were
85

made for him especially, by his lovely new ocean-eyed bride. Her face was the only image he
could settle in his mind, and it gave him enough courage to finish this statement. The sooner I
deliver the word, the sooner I can come back to Delilah and her home cooking. General
Smee was pushed during the struggle and then he plummeted. On the horns of his helmet.
The spikes pierced his lungs. I am terribly sorry, my liege.
The Kings abode fell silent as Death.
The Guards donned in heavy gilded armor and carrying large pointed lances that circled the
herald dared not look behind them. The King only fell this eerily silent during his foulest
moods; the last one being fifteen years ago, when his uncle was announced dead. A young
man barely into his adulthood then launched an attack on an entire Syth race in a blood bath
that lasted for a decade. Some say the man hadnt spoken for hours before declaring the war,
and Silas once uttered that the Kings face turned to fire and rage.
Aurus was silent before making an odd noise.
A scoff.
The Guards lowered their weapons and looked at the King, who was deep in thought and
smiling quietly to himself. His shoulders jittered under the weight of an unwelcome fit. Strong
arms clutched the sides of his armrest; gripping them like a widow held her husbands grave.
A roar came through his throat when his head fell back.
With his eyes screwed shut, the King laughed at his generals death, and not one pair of eyes
watched him without confusion. Even Kaaba shook off his head and became tense, about to
rush from the quarters. The warm sound travelled from the Kings cold throne and into the
opposing side, into the messengers ears.
Silas was the first one to join into his fit, chuckling lightly. Sir Jocel followed. Then sir Kith,
Captain Karalynns grandson. Lady Smith, Sir Cunningham and Lady Dess were soon stifling
back their titters, and once they found the courage to guffaw along with the King who was
pounding at his throne, even the three humorless Guards Staples, Storm and Zera started
to feign their amusement. The boisterous display came off as unnerving and forced; half of the
Guards were unsure of whether or not to lower their weapons, and the other half wondered
how long would they need to keep up. It was a laughing fit most commonly seen among the
wandering temple spirits.
Not seeing anything to lose, Shan Payano chuckled into his chest.
King Aurus slammed his mouth shut and watched the ginger from under knotted eyebrows,
until the only titter inside the echoing abode was the heralds confused snicker.
Kill him.
As Shan opened his mouth to question him, a bloodied spear was already protruding from his
tongue. The lances crossed paths like a web, all eight of them. One went into Shans back, the
other through his knee, the one leaping out of his throat was centered at the base of his neck.
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In a perfectly executed execution, the eight sentinels kept their spears inside the flesh for a
total of two seconds, until the mans blood started to seep down his sweat-drenched clothing.
Then the Guards pulled their weapons away and stood at attention as the heralds body
dropped like a ragdoll. Lady Staples threw a sorry glance at the mans stained red hair and
bucked teeth, but was the only one to pay attention.
After the killing, the Guards stood in line and saluted the king, in unison, their form as perfect
as clockwork.
Ignoring the eight standing in front of the corpse, Kaaba slowly stepped into the receiving
area and started to lap the thick blood from the ground. He purred in content, his warm tongue
often cleaning up the stains on the white fur around his maw. The tiger was the only one
satisfied with what had just occurred.
I want it to be known, King Aurus settled comfortably into his throne and addressed Silas,
that the herald has been openly mocking the death of a decorated general before my armed
forces.
Silas nodded solemnly, his monochrome eyes as black as jet closed to express a civilized level
of sorrow. His heavy eyelids hovered above deep dark circles carved under his sockets. As
you command, sire.
King Aurus turned to the Guards and pointed at the second shortest one; the mousy-haired
Lady Staples. You. How many Elite Guards did Smee have with him as he departed?
The obsequious Sir Jocel opened his mouth to answer the question before the stoic Storm
inconspicuously tapped his back to indicate that the King wasnt addressing him. Lady
Staples lifted up her pointed chin; the sterling silver piercing in her bottom lip shining in the
candlelight.
Exactly four Elite Guards, my liege, she spoke in a voice akin to an only recently sobered
alcoholic. Maxwell, rank forty. Svenly, rank thirty-eight. Hughes, rank forty. And Bluefield,
rank thirty-seven.
Forty-one.
The King, Staples and a good number of gold-clad guards lifted up an eyebrow at Jocel, who
had the air of a cat eating a flock of canaries after correcting the dogs grammar. Maxwells
ranks forty-one.
Youre both wrong, Aurus spoke flatly. All four of them have been demoted. Starting from
the day after tomorrow, I want them marching up and down the walls of Nikta and sweating in
the Kawala Lax heat! Until we find suitable replacements from the trainee unit, three of you
will be filling positions as new Elite members.
His determined eyes, the texture of steel under hot melted chocolate, took note of every
attribute his Guards carried. Eventually, he ordered Storm, Staples and Zera to take the
position. The tree of them bowed in thanks before the King dismissed the eight of them. They
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stood in single file, the Elites leading the way as they marched out the side of the room, and
into the common room. Sir Jocel cast a look at Kaaba, who was starting to tear off the heralds
flesh. The sight of that always made him ill, so he exited the throne room with a slightly green
complexion.
Still kneeling, Silas turned to the King with concern over his features. Sire, who are your
current candidates to take Smees place as major general?
The look of boredom went away, but the Kings default, composed nature remained. As Silas
posed this question, Aurus simply waved it away. There are many men lining up. As the
ranks line up, so do new opportunities. Smee was an admirable man, but grew highly
replaceable during this time of peace.
Silas nodded once, turning to his tiger, who had nearly ripped away one of unfortunate Shans
juicy tendons.
What of you?
Beg pardon, sire?
Smee was your brother, Aurus reminded, aware that Silas was determined to forget this fact
with every fiber of his being. Do you have any sentiments you wish you could have shared
while he was still among us?
With a sly yet cautious smile, Silas shook his head. Smee might have shared my mother and
my blood, but this didnt stop him from becoming a drunken, gallivanting, whoremongering
fool. My only regret is that I did not see him die like he did. The herald made it sound
humorous, may the Gods bless his soul.
Strong words for a brother. Poor ones, at that.
Well, Silas spoke through a sigh, standing up from his numbed legs and dusting off his
smooth black robes, the Omnia my brother and I shared stays immortal. It will remain under
your command, and so shall I. While my heart still beats, I will concentrate on the living far
more than I will ever lament the dead.
Even if I died?
Aurus gentle appearance might have been sardonic or sincere, though Silas could never tell
the difference. Because of this, he decided to respond in an answer which was mocking as
well as honest.
Your majesty, your passing would absolutely crush me.
Blowing some air through his nose, Aurus dispelled the smirk on his face and returned to
glowering at the unrecognizable mess his pet tiger had made. He placed his elbow on an
armrest and propped up his chin, his narrowed eyes slowly closing under the weight of the
tiresome news he received.
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Have somebody clean up the body. I hate the smell of rancid corpse.
As opposed to the scent of fresh corpses thats like spring blossoms to you. At once, sire.
And as for this Sevis battler, Aurus decided just as Silas opened the door to the common
room, I want a bounty set on his head. One thousand gold pieces to whichever man brings
Fafnir Scion to me alive.
Silas gloved hand slid off the heavy knob he grasped; his fingers clenching in mild
discomfort to exit the room. And if they bring him dead, sire?
Two thousand, Aurus said, tenting his fingers under his chin. But Id like to see somebody
kill a Sevis champion, former or not.
Oh I suppose it shouldnt be too hard, sire.
On that line, Silas pulled the door open and stepped into the room filled with sentinels
marching out of place, a Syth concubine in chains, and a couple of high lords and ladies
discussing political matters. Some rushed to enter the Kings throne room as they saw Silas
exit it, but the dark Zeer assured them that the King was already attending to an important
matter of national importance.
He marched his way into the cellar, one clenched fist resting on the small of his perfectly
straight back. Ordering some chambermaid to grab a bucket and a mop before approaching
the throne room, Silas chose to ignore the annoyed cries of the new Elite guard.
You act like a child! No wonder the King didnt choose you as an Elite!
The King didnt choose me because I didnt come outta is sister! I dont care how many
heartstrings of his ya had to tug to get that job, it was spposed to be mine!
Dont you dare reduce my blood, sweat and tears to nepotism! You are a disgrace to your
uniform, Jocel! Youre a disgrace to Brimstone!
Dont you dare talk ta me like that! I put in as much effort in this as you! Go talk about yah
hard work to your handmaidens in the ivory tower! Sit on Aurus lap and tell im what gifts to
buy ya! You coddled little whore!
They bickered for a couple of seconds more, not making more than four exchanges altogether
when Staples grunted and pushed Jocel into a crystal cabinet. Silas could only hear glass
shattering and Jocels accusing cries of bitch and whore. But, he supposed, whatever those
two were doing afterwards was none of his business at the time. When an advisor kept his
ears too sharp, something far more important might have escaped him.
Any further delay on meeting Epsylon would not be prudent, he thought as he closed a heavy
oak door shut. Suddenly, he was in the small black crypt that he could barely walk through if
he hunched. He pulled an emeraldencrusted key from his pocket and locked the door before
descending down the spiral flight of stairs, each stone step feeling more gimcrack when the
building howled under his unimpressive weight.
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He might have been walking these steps for decades, but a feeling of imminent doom hung
over him like a vice, and his right hand always held onto the dusty, spider-infested walls.
A dark Zeers Omnia was the sole purpose of their lives, and his was a deprived, faceless
mass of shadows and darkness, sometimes thick as tar and sometimes as light as smoke and
ash. Whatever form it took on, it always managed to make the man choke, and festered deep
in his soul like a cancerous time bomb.
When it spoke, the stone walls of the crypt shook and the air turned bitter like winter on Frost
Peak. As it talked, it growled and whispered with a tone of somebody who knew ones darkest
secrets, and was not afraid to use them until the person in question was completely destroyed.
Named appropriately after the son of the God of destruction, Epsylon was the foulest of
Omniae, and only allowed Silas alone to speak with him, even when Smee was walking with
the breathing, unimpaled folk.
The Omnia finally appeared to Silas when he descended and stood in a long narrow corridor,
which held nothing but a wide gray rock right in the middle. When Silas was becoming
accustomed to this Omnia, he felt as if the walk from the bottom of the stairs to the stone took
hours, but now it took no time at all. Perhaps this is because he was used to it all; the
blackness and the hues of violet that pulsated before his eyes, the headaches and the sensation
of his bones turning into dust right under his flesh. The pain would come and go, but the
Omnias power would remain in him for eons upon eons.
He grabbed the stone one hand on either side, and soon Epsylons distressing form started to
seep out of the stone cracks like plasma, sinking and hovering and engulfing everything in
sight as Silas stood there, grinning at the apparition.
The Zeer was blunt and started off by delivering the news. Smee has been reckless with your
power. This time he met his doom because of it.
This wasnt fully true. His brother died because Silas had revealed Scions location on the day
when the general was particularly fond of his opiate, consuming three full bottles before
embarking on his mission to capture the celebrated and undefeated champion. Smees death
was unimpressive on its own, but masterfully manipulated on his siblings behalf.
This I know.
The voice echoed inside the starving hollow of Silas stomach, soon to be filled with the dark
energy that was now draining from the stone and in through his ears and nostrils. The black
bile pooled inside the mans abdomen, satisfying the hunger and greed.
With no blood of your kin to share your talents, Epsylon preached, you are now free to
practice your command over mana, as well as your Tricksters Trait. You have waited long for
this make sure you do not abuse it.
I will not.

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This was a lie, and he had a feeling Epsylon sensed it, judging by how ferocious his following
transmission was.
Epsylon took away his might, his fluid and power right out of Silas form, as quickly and as
harshly as a kick in the head. The Zeer stumbled back and grabbed his temples, hot blood
trickling from his left nostril in a crimson streak that scorched his upper lip. He wiped it with
a sleeve, black eyes searching for Epsylons presence.
He was gone. It was gone, and only smoke and the voice remained.
The contract has been sealed. Your blood for mine.
Thank you, Silas spoke, looking away from the pool of scarlet in his hand. His back was
hunched and his breathing heavy; his raven hair flew from his braid and into a wild mess of
tendrils and frays. I will not fail you.
Just remember, Silas Rotarum. Brimstone is a revolving place. Everything comes back; every
murder is a rebirth. You hold a part of my might, and this is the last of my power you will ever
receive. The next time Im summoned, it will be after your blood is drawn. If you call my
name upon your demise, I shall consume this world in ethereal flames, bursting through the
core of the underworld and crushing the heights of Zephyrs Field until streams of blood drip
down the four corners of these desert lands.
I will not be quick about it.
It was as though Silas couldnt say another word. Epsylon disappeared into a spinning tornado
that shout through the ceiling, and out of the blue, Silas was outside near the kitchens again,
and the heavy door of the crypt slammed behind him. The emerald key flew back inside Silas
robes.
The man couldnt compose himself, with the sounds of the kitchen scullions underlying Jocel
and Staples curses and grunts, the sound of flesh clapping against flesh and the smell of
sweat, power, starvation and odium.
Brimstone is a revolving place.
In here, all revolves around power.
The more power a person had, whether be it of wealth, strength, magic, sex or wisdom, all
those who held power sought to exploit it, to make their lives happier (though each man
defined his happiness differently).
When Silas rose up his hand to face it, he witnessed his gloved palm holding up a spinning
orb of dementia, despair, malice and anguish. Grinning darkly, the Kings advisor came to
understand that he would soon make himself a very happy man indeed.
/***/

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Darkness came first, before the screams no. No, it blended into the yells, curses and the
audience shouting. Outcries, chanting, he couldnt tell the difference anymore. It all meshed
in his mind. The darkness was the sole thing that kept Fafnir comforted, lulled in by the
monotony of dwelling in his iron cage. He had made the curtains out of his scarlet bed sheets.
It was the only way to stop the guards from watching him. Or maybe maybe the color drew
attention. Why did they have to be red? Red, like the sheets were dipped in the blood of those
crying boys he killed.
Guards marched up and down languidly over the walls. Watching him always, forever,
monitoring every move. He couldnt breathe or eat or sleep, always feeling those eyes boring
on him, searing into his flesh, drawing out his essence and twisting it into a paranoid
repugnance towards every person in the screaming crowd that wanted him to go outside. Into
the sun that taunted him with the memory of freedom, into the world he could always see and
taste and smell and never know again.
They wanted blood the people of Brimstone wanted blood , and he was there to give it.
Growing ravenous, they called out and chanted his name, along with the foul moniker that
came with his kind. Sevvy. A Sevis fighter obligated to live inside the Panopticon for the rest
of his earthly days. In between the thrill of battle, bloodied knuckles and tasting the copper in
his mouth, he needed to face the nightmares and specters rolling in the stagnant air. They
grinned and called his name; time to get out, Fafnir! Time to battle again. This is all youre
good for, and all we will ever let you do.
((Who are you?))
Were watching, Sevvy. Us. The Guards. The rabble. Dont try to fight it, Sevvy. You are
doomed to lose. Not today, not tomorrow. Someday. That is your destiny; to die for the Gods
and live your life in misery and fear.
Fafnir Scion?
Did you think the night would be your demise? Those makeshift curtains can only protect you
so much. Does it get excruciating, sitting in your cell? Are you proud of yourself, you
glorified thug? Nobody would recognize your dog face if you went out of here. They will smell
the blood on your body and the tar in your soul the thickest secretion flowing only from the
core of those who took a life. Lives, Sevvy. You collect lives like the Reaper and it angers the
Gods. Your penance will come, cur, and you will die by the weight of your sins!
Fafnir Scion.
You are NOTHING in the eyes of Kings you pitiful Sevvy! Your piousness will not save you
from the wrath of the Gods!
((he fell on the spikes, he did, I only pushed him it was in self-defense I am a dead man I
never meant to murder again please))

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Enjoy the night while you can, Sevvy! It is your only salvation. Once the day comes everyone
in Brimstone will be after your head! They will impale it on a stake, like you impaled the good
general Smee
((I fought back, I only fought back, please go away I only want this to end))
and left him for the flies like the coward you are! You are NOTHING in this stone
construction, dog! And you will be nothing in the soil! You will die like a fly, and if you think
the Gods will have mercy on your soul you are as big of an imbecile as you are a coward!
You are beaten,
((please go away))
forsaken,
((get away from me))
and condemned to a lifetime in Hell, catering to THE DARK ONE, living in your shit like the
animal you are! Washing the blood of those you SLAUGHTERED, AND IT NEVER COMES
OFF, ONLY STICKS AND CLINGS TO YOU, UNTIL YOUR FUCKING BODY RESEMBLES
THAT OF A WALKING CORPSE OF THE WOODS OF THE DEAD
((GO AWAY!))
Fafnir Scion!
IN THE ETERNITY OF THE DAMNED, YOU WILL SERVE NOBODY BUT THE DARKEST
GODS AND OMNIAE, WISHING YOU COULD FEEL THIS PAIN, THIS VERY FUCKING
DISTRESS!!! YOUR BONES WILL ROT! YOUR EYES WILL MELT! Best hope your death is
a painful one best hope it hurts enough to prepare you for an INFINITY OF BLOOD AND
TORMENT
FAFNIR SCION!
AND THE DESPAIR OF THE SEVEN SINS COLLIDED INTO THE GREATEST
PUNISHMENT A MORTAL COULD DESERVE!!!
This was most likely the first time Stella had ever had to slap a thrashing nightmare-ridden
Sevis fighter awake. Immediately she regretted it, though her blank, seemingly-worried-bydefault expression stayed intact.
Her face was the first thing Fafnir had seen when his reddened eyes flew open. It was a bright,
warm, comforting sight, even when paired with the blistering heat that overcame the tight skin
on his left cheek. His fingers gingerly trailed over it and warmed up, like he was touching a
glass workers tongs. Once the warmth had subdued (and Stella politely worded out
something that might have been an apology), he moved his hand away and sat up on the
rickety bed. Immediately, he hissed in pain. His torso was bound by bandages, heavy with his
bloody and curative oils. This made it impossible for him to breathe, and even harder to catch
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his breath after such a nightmare. The spirits of those he killed, white and decaying, still spun
around the wooden shack. In Stellas presence, however, they broke down and blew away in
tufts of steam and light. Fafnir screwed his eyes shut, teeth gritting with an intensity brought
on by pain, terror and embarrassment. The greatest warrior the Panopticon had ever known
was woken up from an incubus that left him in cold sweat. This was by no means an
impressive state to catch somebody in.
Stella was more understanding of his situation than he was. She placed her delicate, freezing
cold hand on the moist back of his head. Gently, she propped it up so he could drink from the
bejeweled goblet she brought into his chamber.
His wary chestnut eyes travelled from the brim of the cup to her checkered eyes, then back
into the foamy liquid trembling at the top. Swallowing some spit that went through his dry
throat like honey, he asked for an explanation.
Honeyed tribble milk, she explained, ignoring his confused squint. The man had no idea
what a tribble was. She did, apparently, and somehow this was enough for him to bring his
full lips closer to the rim. It is a home remedy of mine, and a personal favorite. It should help
with the shock and tenseness. Give it a taste, Fafnir Scion.
Please, he moved his head back to speak, you can just call me Fafnir.
I appreciate your friendly approach, but I will do no such thing. We are hardly on those
terms, she said, putting the goblet back on his lips and slightly titling it at an angle. I expect
you to call me either by my full name, or by Lady Forrester. You may call me Stella if you
like. I merely wont respond to it.
There was something about the way she spoke; her voice harsh, proud yet smooth enough to
make people comfortable. He honestly did not care that her last sentence came off as slightly
abrasive. The specters died out with every word she said aloud, and by the time he took in the
first sip of the tribble milk, his damp and bleary room was hospitable again.
The tribble milk was beyond excellent his eyes flew wide in surprise when he first took a
sip. It was smooth and sweet, fragrant of vanilla and cinnamon with some other spice that
gave the velvety texture a kick. He sipped greedily, like he hadnt had a drop to drink in a
fortnight. Each drop had a healing, nourishing quality to it. By the time he was halfway done,
his pride triumphed over his pain and he snatched the goblet away from Stellas hands and
finished off the drink himself. Even when it was empty and dry as bone, he still held it tightly,
tipped to full tilt. Perhaps he thought that, had he inclined the cup enough, some mystical
force would replenish it and send another wave of milk streaming down his gullet.
Eventually, he tapped an index finger over the silver surface a couple of times to evict a few
more clinging drops. Fafnir gave up and returned the goblet in Stellas hands.
Thank you... Lady Forrester. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

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It is quite delicious, is it not? It is by no means a cure, mind you. You have a long way to go
before returning to your thieving ways.
Fafnirs brow corrugated.
Thieving?
The creases in his forehead ironed out almost as quickly as they clenched.
Oh. Thats what he told them.
If he had told them the truth, they would have persecuted him like the voices in his head.
The memory flashed back into his head; Aarons take on the situation that had him running
through the ghetto, amok. They thought he was a crook, not a murderer. He slowly shook his
head at the Sheeba.
I I highly doubt either one of us need to worry about that. When I heal, I promise to start
leading a better life. Far better than I ever did.
That is all well and good. But you still need to face your punishment.
Fafnirs eyes became hazy again.
Stella put away the empty cup in the corner of his bed before standing up and extending both
her hands to him. He took them, as icy and bony as they were, and came up on his feet.
Standing up sent stings up the soles of his feet, but the warming tribble milk kept the pain
from reaching other parts of his body. He could stand straight, and this was a start of his
recovery. A worrying thought came into his head. How long would she allow him to stay in
the magical realm? Surely, there was some way to convince her to prolong his stay. The price
thieves paid was a complete refund of the wares they stole, along with accumulated interest,
accompanied by a limited time in prison. Murderers were not of such luck. Most of them were
hanged, for everyone to see.
Some served life sentences, sometimes multiple, like his father. If they kept him alive, even
the children he could have had would serve in prison or fight in Panopticon. He recalled how
they took him; announcing his fathers death and taking him away from his grandfathers
maps he played with. They tied a bag over his head and rode him on a saddle-less horse into
the gargantuan arena. Within twenty-four hours of his murderous fathers passing, he was
taken, tied, locked up and forced to train for his first battle that took place three days later, and
ended when Fafnir was forced to gouge out one of his opponents eyes. He was eleven; a year
younger than the boy he fought against. That is what happened to killers in this land; to their
children.
Stella looked up from Fafnirs marred abdomen to look into his eyes. A shiver went through
his spine, and she felt it through the gauze she peeled from his frame. Are you alright, Fafnir
Scion?

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His face was ghostly gray; beads of sweat were popping out of his forehead like dew drops.
He wiped the off with his hand, steadying his breath.
Yyes Im fine, Lady Forrester. I was just thinking about somebody. He lied, and Stella
could tell by the tone.
Who?
Some child. It was a half-truth. Yaksha came into his mind along with the judging voices
and condemning screams that haunted his night, though he could not recognize it at first. It
was the closest subject to the truth he could pick without giving anything away, so he carried
on with it. Before I left, I met a young boy a fan of mine. He claimed I was his idol, that he
strived to become like me later in his life. I would never want to have him see me as a
lurcher.
Stella furrowed her eyes and looked up at his features. He idolizes you? Why would he do
that?
The former Sevis fighter had no reply to that, and was almost thankful for the intrusion.
Aaron swept in through the door, cupping a small air pocket between his hands. Brass and
silver coins floated inside like flies around poisonous honey, and he rolled the sphere with an
almost childish excitement. Stella looked away from the patient for a second, and a grim look
flew across the room and straight into Aarons hazel orbs that never made contact with her icy
ones.
Hey, Stelly, I think I finally got the hang-a this aerokinesis thi
His eyes met Fafnirs bare, oily muscles and suddenly all seventeen of his pick-pocketed
coins fell and clattered on the ground. The Xexarians jaw dropped in wonder.
Whoa Ferfir. His parted mouth spread into a cocky grin. Fafnir wrinkled up his nose
before taking note of what exactly Aaron was staring at. My name cannot be this hard to
remember.
You need to put on some clothes, the Xexarian spoke, one finger holding up his chin while
he scrutinized the Sevis fighter, but, um, take your time.
Fafnir quickly tugged at the edge of his bed covers and pulled it from under the goblet Stella
set on the bed. It fell to the side, thankfully empty. The ebony battler covered his front with
the cloth like some blushing young virgin. This made Aaron cackle while Stella rolled up the
dirtied bandages around her hands.
Raem, she spoke sternly to get his attention, where did you get those coins from?
It was almost as if the beast Gorgona slapped Aaron across the side of his face with a tentacle.
The man jolted back to attention. Oh, hey, Stel! Didnt even see ya there! He clucked his
tongue, grappling his belt with his thumbs. Im surprised you got caught stealing at all,
Fafain. You couldve just oiled yourself up as a distraction. Id letcha take my money after
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that. Hell Id give you my money to see that. His tongue rolled over his pallet, sounding out a
lascivious noise that was similar to a small animals growl.
Fafnir wrapped himself in the covers further, remembering that his arms were uncovered. By
the time he completely sheltered himself from Aarons ogling, he resembled a hooded temple
monk.
Aw, youre no fun, Aaron noted once Fafnir shrouded his head for good measure. The
Xexarian created another aero-sphere inside his palms and sucked in the coins like a vacuum.
They spiraled inside it, counter-clockwise and in such an organized manner that even Stella
had to observe with a hint of pride.
Did you return every item you stole two days ago? The Dryad asked, looking at the brass
and copper coins. She was amazed how neither of them touched while they flew in ellipses,
always crossing paths but never interfering. Aaron stared at them as well, if only to avoid
Stellas gaze.
Yeeeeeeeaaaaaa no. I went over there without my disguise and wanted to give the stuff
back, but they were like, Oh, no, my Lord. Take whatever you want. Take my money. Take
my wares. Take my wife, please. That sorta junk.
But you did remember to insist on returning your stolen goods, regardless. As any kind
Savior and moral compass should. Her eyes moved away from the sphere and returned to
Aarons bored visage. And I dont suppose you took advantage of their hospitality and lifted
something else from them, did you?
This was when Aaron outstretched his arm and sent the coins plummeting in a cascade over a
small emptied night stand. He watched the bare inside of his other palm, like he was holding a
pocket watch. His eyebrows shot up into his hairline.
Uh good Heavens, look at the time! I gotta run and meditate! His long index finger
pointed to the pile of cash he threw into the dust on the square stand. One coin pivoted in an
orb until it fell over and landed inside one of the floorboards with a clink. Theres the cash
for Fafnirs stay, theres the exit, he ticked a thumb to the open door, I love you all and Im
out!
He jumped over the doorstep and practically flew down the flight of rickety stairs, ignoring
Meecrows (or Chromes) angered howls of protest. Bye Stelly! Bye Fine-fir! The Xexarian
shouted from the bottom of the steps. His farewell was muffled by his distance and the
innkeepers ragged voice.
What a strange person, Fafnir thought when he heard the door close.
Stella couldnt really respond to what had just happened. The migraine Aarons presence gave
her lately would not let her think about a lot of things.
It took a few moments of absolute silence to get either of them to speak. Fafnir did the honors
of talking first, seeing that Stella was much too busy rolling the thin fabric around her hands.
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Is he Fafnir asked, finally undraping himself. He threw the greasy covers back on the
bed, knowing well enough that the pesky two-faced goblin proprietor would charge them for
its cleaning. A node sank into his chest. Is he you know?
The real Last Xexarian? A lot of people ask me this. Sometimes I cannot believe it myself,
but my instinct and Brimstones latest census check tell me otherwise. I cannot logically argue
with either.
N-no, thats not He kicked the fallen, droopy side of the cover back on the thin mattress,
avoiding eye contact with the Dryad. His throat cleared up and he tried again. What I meant
was
Oh, she answered preemptively, hes not interested in men like you.
Fafnir sighed with relief, and the pleasant emotion remained for a record of three seconds.
Alright. Good to know for sure. His face tightened again when he looked back; breath
hitched and voice high. W-wait, what do you mean men like me?
Stellas gaze lingered on him much longer than necessary. Inhibited heterosexuals.
She changed her topic as soon as another detail caught her eye.
Your bandages need changing, she interrupted without even looking his way. The old gauze
was neatly folded in her hands like a muff. The embroidered hem of her long dress flowed
with each step towards the exit. I will be back momentarily. Try not to stand on your feet too
long.
When the door closed behind her, the room turned dreary enough for Fafnirs head to ache
again. He sat down on the springs that cried under him whenever he shifted, and this only
made his cranium burn hotter. Pensively, he looked at the door with the air of a great thinker.
As he awaited Stellas return, he took to contemplating life, death, crime, punishment, and
whether or not he should have asked for another glass of tribble milk.
/***/
In the magical realm of Brimstone, two forces reigned supreme over common organic matter.
All magic, whether benevolent or maleficent, was composed of either Mana or ether. While
Mana was hated and described as a vile, dark substance, ether was bright and kind,
characteristic of generous gods and innocuously pure Dryads. Despite these forces being
polarizing, they often needed a compromise, as few enchantments could exist in black and
white. Sorcerers, mages, healers, duelists, clairvoyants and charm casters held both in their
blood, though there were clans of a select few that held only one or the other.
The clan members which bore only the power of feathery ether were the Sheebas. Settled in
Encantadia, these select woodland Dryads used their magic; light, remedial or elemental, to
benefit others and selflessly bring the Five Virtues into deep corners or Saga. The Five Virtues
were, alphabetically, erudition, goodness, honor, mercy and patience. The Sheebas most
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courageous (or most foolish, if one were to ask some other Dryads), attempted to indoctrinate
the human realm into their selfless ideals. The ether flowing through their veins like air failed
to mix with the red human bile. Nevertheless, relying on their Fifth Virtue, these Sheebas
never surrendered to the mockery of their impure Dryad siblings. To this day, they continued
to lecture and aid, despite the reputation teachers and Samaritans had inside the derisive world
of Saga.
Banished from the magical world and compelled to settle in the mountains surrounding Frost
Peak, the Zeers had Mana move inside them like molasses. This was a force tenfold more
powerful than any skilled mages ether, though it was only to be used for the users own
benefit. Zeers were close to indestructible, and their blood corroded and dissolved everything
it touched. They were by no means evil; only seen as such by the absolute lack of ethereal
vigor in their bodies. Mana ran on Five Strengths; assiduity, control, cunning, haste and
mastery of ones mind. Zeers themselves made an adversary of the Dryads that, after centuries
of scorn and mutual backbiting, sent them to exile. Dark Zeers, mutants whose Mana clotted
in their brains, flaws in the natural order, also scattered the human realm. Most were inside of
camps or working as blacksmiths and miners in the dark, where nobody could see what freaks
they were. Zeers were perfectionists and quick to make enemies, even with their own kith and
kin.
These unearthly components and their accompanying ideologies stayed in total dichotomy,
and flew in every non-humans body. One force always prevailed and gave them personality.
The most dangerous scenario involving the two life forces was the unfortunate half-breed. A
hellspawn of a Sheeba and a Zeer, who lived with their lifeblood constantly in battle with
itself. Mana created cancer to destroy the body from within. Ether made antibodies which
attacked the malignant tumors and even the half-breeds healthy organs in confusion. From
the moment they were born, black and white merged and battled for dominance until the host
body crossed the great divide and succumbed to the fate that awaited all creatures of flesh.
Life was never long for these poor souls.
In fact, there was only one half-breed currently alive in Brimstone. At least, she was
breathing. In her state, nobody would call that living with a clear conscience.
Donovan Wan clutched the crutches that supported her arms and dragged her cold, bloodless
feet over the floor of her cottage. She hadnt felt hardwood under her soles in years. Was this
something to complain about? Don honestly couldnt tell for sure.
The fuck are you doing out of bed? Billie asked, holding the captured Sitka by her arm
while she rattled a knot in the chains surrounding her stomach.
The first time Shit whose name has remained unchanged for the time being saw Donovan,
the canellas and tubular pipes intertwining like ribbons around her face, neck and body
reminded the Sitka of a fabled tentacled God. Her natural reaction was to try and escape her, a
valiant attempt made impossible by the lock and chain around her legs. Billie took time to
explain Donovans condition (albeit her clarification was hurried and sprinkled generously
with swears and insults). For what she could gather, Billies lover was suffering from an
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illness that disabled her to walk without the aid of her crutches, breathe without wearing a
wide black mask or even sleep without taking several painkillers and serums. She even
injected herself with therolin, which was normally a substance used in professional Sevis
fighters to boost their stamina and power. It had a horrid reputation of causing its users to go
absolutely berserk and animalistic. In her case, however, it was the sole drug that gave her
assurance that, if she were to fall asleep that night, she would quite likely wake up the next
day.
Her genetics shared traits from Zeers and Sheebas in equal measure (not that one could see
from behind the rubber that covered her mouth and bloated with every strained inhale). Her
skin was ashen but carried a distinct Sheeban tone; lilac in her case. Across her cheeks, neck
and above her eyes, it was blemished with spotted, sickly, violet blotches. Her eyes that were
burrowed deep within her skull were monochrome; the iris and the white of her eye turned
completely pitch black and resembled the cold, lifeless beads etched inside the head of a
childs doll. The womans chin and cheekbones protruded out of her dry skin, sharp and
defined; much like any other Zeers. Unlike a Zeer, she had a microscopic, paper-thin pair of
lips that blended in with her chin. Her flaccid ears were either shaved or hairless to begin
with, and pulled back into her carmine hair band. Raven hair fell in longer, unkempt streaks
across her eyes and two, daresay charming curlicues framed the sides of her face like the
frame of a stylized, oddly grotesque portrait.
Breathing out hard through her oxygen mask, Donovan turned on her white bone crutches that
shook under the deadweight of her body. I could ask you the same thing, she said to the
bottle blonde, making her way back to their bedroom. Her voice was husky and muffled by
the round respirators on both sides. Come back to bed, babe. Its late.
The rubber tips dragged over the floor of the rickety shanty they liberally called their home. It
wasnt long until Donovan disappeared out of sight, pulling her body through the gaping wide
doorframe that had the flap long removed from its hinges. Billie secured the shackles on her
new Sitka, chaining her to a metal support column.
Is that too tight? Billie asked absentmindedly as she watched Donovan prop herself up on
their bed and pull her limp legs under the thin sheet. Her crutches leaned on the adjoining
wall, and quite soon, the half-breed started to collect the small intravenous tubes that hung
from a hanging drip chamber; a cylinder filled with viscous, royal-blue fluid that lit the
bedroom with a thalassic glow. Lost in the dismal sight before her eyes, Billie could hardly
acknowledge the Sitka who bobbed her hear in false compliance. Not looking at the slave a
second time, Billie tapped her on the forearm.
Good, she said flatly as she made way to Don. The old, rotted floorboards creaked under
her heavy army boots and scraped inside the Sitkas ear like a vice. You had your dinner and
youve been cleaned up, more or less. Get some sleep, Shit. Youll need it.
Ignoring her captors suggestion completely, the Sitka started tugging her bound body and
clanging the heavy links attaching her to the pole. Every failed attempt at breaking free
resulted in a disappointed grunt which later turned to angered cries. The noise didnt seem to
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bother Billie too much, but it kept Donovan up for some time. She was lying on her back;
needles in her forearms and pipes in her nostrils. Her black, matte eyes flew wide and a tense
sigh escaped her festering lungs when the Sitka released one of her loudest cries yet.
The new one is feisty, she noted nonchalantly while Billie kicked off her boots.
Huh? Oh, that. I gave her some food and I think it gave her some extra energy. Shell be over
it in a few hours; Ill just slip her one of your pills if she doesnt. Even Billie flinched as Shit
tugged hard enough for the pole to crack in its base. It wouldnt be that easy to pull herself
out, and the angered cries turned to frustrated whimpering. By the Gods, the Syth were
pathetic creatures. But to be fair, this particular one was starving for months, and went from
being free as a rabid animal to a caged beast. The tax collector retracted her darkly-painted
lips into her mouth. I think she let freedom get into her head. Cant have that, can we?
Don huffed out some hot air through pursed lips, which were thankfully uncovered during
nighttime. Her skin was streaked with purple furrows in places where her oxygen mask was
fastened, and Billie lightly touched the deep ridges to smoothen them out. Don turned her
head to kiss the Macros fingers. She started smoking again. The half-breed could taste it on
her nails. Couldnt you just I dont know I mean, you didnt have to tie her up, did
you?
I suppose not. She shrugged. Its safer this way, though, and the chains seemed like a nice
touch. I mean, I did capture her. And then I tortured her for some time thinking she was going
to kill my chimera.
How is he, by the way?
Better. Billie moved her hand from Dons face and smiled with relief. I rubbed some
ointment on his leg and bound it with gauze. Hell limp for a while, but hell be fine. Either
way, if I undo the Sitka now shes likely to kill us in our sleep. Not very likely, but safety first,
you know. Shes smarter than most, but shes still a savage. Trust me, she ended her small
speech, pulling an arm out of her jacket sleeve, this is better for all of us.
She peeled off her tight leather jacket and threw it over Donovans wheelchair sitting in the
corner. It was starting to collect dust, and was now mostly used as a spot to hang clothing. The
last time Don used it for its intended purpose was when she was still unafraid to go outside.
Its been years already, and Billie wasnt happy for it.
With a forlorn frown, Billie grabbed her yellow chemise over her head, crumpling it into a
ball which landed on the wheelchair after one overhead chuck. Her thick breasts were exposed
in front of her fiance, outlined by a soft neon glow. The star-shaped stud on her left nipple
glinted into Dons eye. The half-breed bit her chapped lip, giggling into her pillow.
Unfortunately, the Macro could not reciprocate the racy chuckle.
As she fell and laid her head on her downy pillow, her long arms clasped over her chest so she
wouldnt accidentally tug out the small hoses intertwining Dons body, Billies mind flashed
over to the time they had met.
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It was seven years ago, during Lady Forresters gathering in Encantadia Woods. She came in
as a shell-shocked guard who had seen the horrors that came with running a Syth-oriented
labor camp, and was reluctant to engage with the mirth around her. Out of her heavy,
disgusting guard uniform for the first time in months, she drank her mead and watched
around the Macros, Callahanians and Dryads who tried not to pick each other apart. If this
was a festivity of concord and togetherness, why were the people of Damask never invited?
This cynical question was going through her mind before she felt a light tap on the side of her
arm, and when she looked down, she saw a pasty, slouched, miserable-looking Zeer in an
optical mask. She rolled around in her silverplated wheelchair, presenting an orange rose to
the scarred, bleached-haired Macro. Her voice was somehow too light and chipper for
somebody speaking through that rubber sound barrier.
H-hello. I only came by to say that you are the most stunning person Ive seen in my life, and
I couldnt die with a clear conscience if I didnt recognize your beauty... so here, she
presented the flower. Her voice had left her, and she then spoke with a nervous tongue. It
hardly does you justice, but I hope you take no offense. Enjoy your evening, commander. I
wont trouble you further.
Giving her the rose, the invalid wordlessly pulled the wheels of her seat back and attempted
to blend back in the crowd that always seemed to spread a little wider than needed around
her. Billie rolled the pointed stem of the tangerine rose between her gloved fingers as she
watched her leave. This should have been the end of the entire would-be-courtship, except
Billie wouldnt allow it. She followed her into the crowd, stood beside her as they chatted into
the night, until the gathering ended and the thoughts of life in Sabina melted into the deep,
dark crevices in Billies mind. Years later well care to presume what became of that one
night?
The Sitka still banged against her pole and rattled her chains but soon, her incessant protests
turned to rushed inhales before she lost all vigor and decided to save her energy until morning
came. The freelancing slave-seller smiled fondly at her fiance.
See? Whatd I tell ya? She just had some extra steam to let off.
Donovan chuckled to herself before closing her eyes. Little could be heard inside the dark;
only the whirring of the half-breeds contraband life support equipment, the bubbling of now
liquidized therolin in a small brass pot, and the howling of wolves in the distance. The moon
was as big as a palace and lumbered the starry sky, letting an absurd amount of light through
their widow, uncovered and ajar.
Whatd you name her this time? Donovan asked, seeing that sleep wasnt coming her way.
She almost choked when she heard the blank response.
Shit.
Blowing a raspberry as she clutched the side of her bed as hard as she could, Dons
monochrome eyes went over the cyan glow flowing through the tubes piercing her skin. A
part of her wanted to punch Billie hard in the stomach, and another part of her needed to kiss
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her on the cheek while lovingly calling her an idiot. In the end, she didnt have the strength
for either. You see, this is why nobody buys the vagabonds you find. You keep giving them
horrible names.
I just name them what they look like. And she looks like a Shit.
The two watched each other briefly before their expressions slowly softened in a couple of
weak titters, and soon, Donovan turned her head to the cool side of her pillow and let the
weight of her eyelids overcome her.
You need a hobby, you know? Tax collecting keeps you busy for a week every month and
then what? You go into slave trafficking for fun. Who in the Hell does that?
Well what on bloody earth do you want me to do with my spare time? Crochet?
Is that really the hobby you compare Syth trafficking with? I suppose drug smuggling could
be fun. Or arranging cock fights. Maybe m maybe you can start a gang of bandits and
pillage the rich who dont pay taxes. No, that actually sounds like something you do already.
Oh! Do you know anything about organized crime? Besides politics, I mean, Don
recommended smugly and felt Billie sit up on her bed. The springs became heavier on her
right side and her body tilted into the slope. Her envisionment of the Macros dark, chocolate
eyes shining at the snarky string of suggestions almost made her laugh.
Keep talking shit, love, Billie said jestingly as she put her fingers in Dons thinning hair.
Leisurely, she rubbed her oily scalp until the half-breeds breathing became easy and paced.
About ten tacks go off our wedding budget for every comment like that. The ceremony will
be crap, so watch your mouth.
Blondie, as long as youre there, its going to be perfect, Don said and was a little bit
disappointed when Billies fingers stopped playing with her hair and pulled away. Her brow
furrowed at the lack of warmth, and she felt her body grow cooler, like something vital inside
her has been detached and thrown away. The feeling vanished into the cool air above them
when she felt Billies thick, plump lips on her temple, and her sweet, nicotinelaced breath
against her neck.
Ill be there, she promised, planting another kiss on her lovers jutted collarbone. She was
careful not to disrupt the hoses that connected to her, perfect and delicate like threadwork that
kept the greatest thing that happened to her alive. Just thinking about how Dons life
depended on those inert drips and Damask technology made Billies eyes misty. Her breath
hitched in the nook of her tender neck. By the Gods, I love you so much.
With her heart pounding deep in her throat, Don covered one of her fiances hands with one
of her bony ones, and ran a finger over her knuckles and veins that she knew better than her
own. She had those morbid thoughts again, the half-breed knew by the tone of her voice. She
returned her proclamation of love, leaving one small addition unsaid. Billie really neednt
worry about her. She was breathing, and actually happy. Every day she could be with that
crass, unlikable, beautiful Macro woman was a day damn worth living through. And as the
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blondes breathing became slow and steady, Dons lips burned hot and magnetic and brushed
hers, just as her last thought of the night bubbled to the surface of her mind, floating and
scattered by the nauseating cocktail of lethargy and medicine.
By the Gods above and below, I adore you. I adore every damn ounce. I adore your bones and
your soul. I adore your roguish eyes and the sashay in your step and your wild, impulsive
mind. But Im a freak of nature, who wouldnt even be alive without you. Who cant dare to
picture the world without you. Who just doesnt want to lose you. I can lose everything, damn
everything, but not you. Good Gods, never you.

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Chapter VI: Dead Asshole Grandpa

It took him twelve minutes to completely prepare himself for the sance. When he was much
younger, this same preparation took well over an hour, but after twenty years it came to him
as folding his washables or making tea. The process of arranging the setting to summon his
grandfathers spirit meant that he was required to set a handful on neon tree leaves in a perfect
circle, scatter rosemary, sage and pine needles within its bounds, drink a cup of steamed
thistle and hippogriff hair, light twelve candles one for each of the coveted Scrolls, and at
the very end, take a cane of cinnamon and light it on fire.
The Xexarian held it in his arms as he was sitting with his legs crossed, eyes downcast and
closed. He could hear the murmur of the small rapid that streamed through his homeland.
Bluebirds flew and rose up in a cloud over the brick houses and chattering people. Music
forced itself into his ears, and he couldnt tell Freyas singing apart from the howling of
spoony bards that trekked across Brimstone in its prime, and often stopped over to play in the
thronging Xexarian village. Aaron had never heard the notes, the language, the rustle of trees
or the rippling brook, though he had heard of them all multiple times, enough for him to
imagine it in perfect detail.
I am one with my people.
His area for meditation was an old abandoned dragons lair, where the psychic magic was
strongest. It was said that this was where Ryluth the Puny held its residence, stored his gold
and hibernated through the long winters before escaping to aid Princess Amelia Terracor of
the Hille. Forty-five years before the start of The Last War, Ryluth was slain by the Bucket
Knight; Waylon Wesson Thorne, and his faint-hearted associate, Lady Taryn Equinheart. The
serpents gold was never discovered, nor did he leave any trace of his existence inside Saga.
Despite some inconsistencies in historians tales and the far-fetched fables which denied the
dragons existence, this moist, frosty hole underground echoed with the soft din of ancient
runes of pyrokinesis and telepathy, presenting a perfect place to reflect Aarons thoughts and
mend his aura.
For all he was concerned, Ryluth was certainly using this as his lair at some point. Only the
places most prone to miracles attracted the fire-breathing beasts; this is what the dragons had
in common with the undying souls of the dead.
I am one with Brimstone.
Freyas voice vanished, and was replaced with the fragments of dated Xexarian tongue.
Having no exposure to it, Aaron needed to focus to catch something, though in all honesty, the
conversation between the two disembodied souls translated like a recipe exchange between
old pepper pots. He stopped listening and returned to the depths of his mind.
He saw smoke; tinted with amethyst, jade and primrose.

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His grandfather was smoking the calumet nearby. The moist reek of the gloomy cave
accentuated the smell of nicotine and herbs enough that Aaron could taste it on his tongue.
I am one with the dead and the living. I bring souls in and out of this world. I can see the
dead. I can set them free. I listen, observe and succeed. See everything. Be everything.
Bah dacis, Aaron mouthed in a trance, the smell of cinnamon and sage hard in his nostrils.
His hazel eyes flew wide open when the colored smoke became thick, choking, heavy and too
bright to look at. The spirals flew and formed a silhouette. Then a body. Then those milky,
hooded, awful eyes which Aaron saw so clearly in his feverish incubi. A face came next, and
the fingers that clutched the ivory pipe.
A gust of wind flew across the addled Xexarians face once his transparent grandfather set one
bare, lazy foot inside the ring and tapped his long cane several times to show disappointment.
His firm voice travelled far into the cave, breaking into stones surrounding his grandson.
Thats bar dacis, you ignorant buffoon. The old man said with no light in his eyes. He took
his pipe into his semi-toothless mouth and drew the smoke like it was mothers milk. Streaks
of crimson billowed out through his nose and right into his living grandsons face. The lads
disgust was met with the old prophets condemnation. Our motto is be everything, not
swive everything! Not that my philandering flesh and blood could tell the difference.
Aaron chucked out his tongue as he expelled the thick smog through his lungs. He smoked as
well, but only pure neon tree leaves, and never mixed them with nicotine and ground hooves
like the old Xexarians used to. After his throat cleared, he was able to speak as he normally
would.
Erm, he started sheepishly, nice to see you again, gramps.
His grandfather, who at the ripe age of twelve dubbed himself Alistair Dedal, was a lean but
sinewy old bear whose slightly hunched presence continued to instill wariness in the living
man. The mans hair, white as snow and beaded with small pearls of lapis lazuli, flew around
his sharp features and went down his back in two long braids reaching his hips. His nose was
craned downwards, as if the spirits had decided that Dedal did not belong among the living,
and tried to pull him back into the Underworld by the tip of his hawk-like nose. Stripes
similar to those of a tiger cut his features; spreading over his arms and neck like gashes.
Flowing in the chill breeze that came out of nowhere, the mans robes flew like dust in the
wind; the saffron pigment in the cheap cloth almost shining like flames in the darkness. His
hands were rough and wide; the mans knuckles clawed through his thin skin like a second
pair of fingers ready to pop out. While his beringed, already existing fingers clutched the
round handle of his white cane, his thin lips took in the tip of his feathered pipe, taking
another draw. This man was in deep old age when he fell victim to whatever disease took
away his life and eyesight, but a single look at his build suggested that this man was a striking
embodiment of human perfection in his prime.
Dedals terse demeanor was product of two wasted decades, which he spent bringing his idiot
grandchild into new visions to deduce the location of The Eleventh Scroll. Aaron imagined
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the location and Alistair would heed no danger as he dispatched him into the exact envisioned
scene. The first attempts have been fruitful to a degree; the young boy led them into old
temples and houses that held the Scrolls once, and even once made his way into a meisters
bed chamber in Damask, and this incident stirred up a bit of commotion among those who
feared the western society. The young boy who still went by Raemskal on occasion was a
truly prolific foreteller. The young man who had given up the name was a weasel who only
used his gift to visualize pubs, whorehouses and ladies bathhouses whenever his damned
Xexarian heart desired. His grandfather obeyed his visions before he began to send him in the
Kawala Lax desert or Frost Peak to punish his brazen behavior. Nowadays, the Xexarian
became more cooperative, even though his new revelations were never useful at all. And, by
extension, Aaron was never useful at all.
His grandfathers thinning eyebrows almost touched. Gramps he muttered, his head
shaking. The lapis beads clacked in his braids. Brimstones greatest soothsayer and Savior of
the human realm refers to his spiritual leader as gramps. By the Gods, we are doomed.
Aaron once took offense to these comments, but they barely made him roll his eyes these
days. The old spirit loved to speak, and did so with no filter. To these outbursts, Aaron usually
groaned internally. Or in this case, externally.
His eyes crossed as his grandfather planted the end of his cane right on the bridge of his
flattened nose. I dont care much for your impertinence, clod. The senex pushed his walking
stick viciously, until Aaron was forced to scuttle away like a crab. The canes sharp point
stood an inch away from the prophets forehead. There is a reason Ive put up with you for
all these years, and I am not leaving until you validate my efforts. Are you truly one with the
universe right now? Or are you one with some strumpets embonpoints?
Aarons almond eyes had trouble with keeping sight of the old man and his cane at the same
time. Um. First off, I have no idea what those are.
He means er tits, lad, said a third person with a strong southern twang. The senior was
shocked and waved his cane at the intruder.
Who in Mays unholy name is that?! He asked, striking the halfling girl on the head. She
replied with a shout and a threat.
Yow! Oi, wotch it, pop! Im gonnae take tha stick of yers and pick yer nose wif it!
Gramps, you remember Freya! Aaron said to the old man before turning to the plump
halfling with a relieved mien. Hey, howve you been? Havent seen you since yesterday
morning.
The curly-haired woman groaned, blowing some smoke through her mouth. A small
improvised cigar lingered between two of her fingers; shredded neon tree leaves stuffed inside
a small roll of crumpling paper. Oi lad, you wouldnae believe who I saw when you went!

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Stop your irrelevant prattling! My misfortune of a grandson and I have matters of great
sociopolitical import to discuss! If he envisions a lake or a mountain he could well save all
of Brimstone! The old man reminded with thunder crashing through his tone, though the two
young ones wouldnt listen, and his lecture fell on deaf ears.
By now, Alistair was essentially accustomed to the drunken halflings presence. For some
remarkably strange reason, Aarons and her mind connected on a precise frequency which
allowed her physical form to wander into Saga and attend the immature Messiahs sances.
An impenetrable summoning circle set up by the Savior of Brimstone, which was only open
to his closest kin and unapproachable even by Aarons matron guardian, was somehow
frequently disrupted by the presence of a madcap lute player with crinose feet.
The halflings were a strange kind; small enough to sneak anywhere they desired but not small
enough to be inconspicuous. They shared the Sheeban blood and their telepathic abilities were
unmatched by some humanborn mages, and yet they only used them for intruding
summonings and forcing listeners to enjoy and dance to their music, no matter how awful it
might have sounded.
Or maybe all halflings were wicked manipulative masterminds and Freya was the single
inebriated exception. Alistair never bothered with the psychology of lesser castes, especially
not her barefooted kind.
Dayanara? Aaron guessed again, the name of the skinny faerielooking tramp which
solicited Freya for Aarons permanent residence. The halfling shook her head at the guess.
No, lad, think! She ad long ears and them big old eyes wif green shit in em.
The Xexarian snapped his fingers. Callahaun!
Nah, lad, the one who looks like a bloke!
Aaron tapped an index finger on his jutted chin, trying to think of a name. Daniel?
The bloke-lookin one. Dans a man. You know who Im goin on about! Prissy!
The name did not sound familiar in the slightest. Prissy, the skinny faerielookin mannish
tramp did not give even some semblance of recollection. Scratching the scalp under his thick
hair, Aaron parted his lips sheepishly as he made a vaguely human noise. Euh?
Prissy! Freya was becoming hot and red in the cheeks, and needed to take another drag of
her cigar to make up for her stress. Ya know, bombshell bloke!
I dont know who Prissy is. The statement came as a shock to the Xexarian, seeing how he
prided himself on always remembering names. I never I dont think Ive met a Prissy.
Specially not the one youre describing. Prissy, Prissy, Prissy His index fingers tapped
several times before he set his chin on them. Gramps, you know who Prissy is?
His grandfathers blank eyes expelled the pure essence of ire in their direction. No. I dont
know who in the high Heavens Prissy is, nor do I know who any of your unfortunate
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bedfellows are. Unless these people have coordinates to the possible location of the Scroll, I
will not contribute to this guessing game you compulsively insist on playing with that filthy
trull of yours!
Who pissed in yer lemon tart, mate?!
One more word out of you, his cane was now pointing at her, and I will banish you to the
Netherworld faster than you can blink!
Freyas small, sausage-like fingers waved in the air to dismiss the old mans intimidation.
You cant do tha She chuckled briefly as she pulled Aaron by the scruff of his neck and
asked, in a panicky whisper, Can e really do tha?
Dont know. But you dont care to find out. Trust me.
He still recalled the time when he mocked his grandfather by saying he couldnt generate
enough heat with his ether to spew fire out of his nostrils. The young Xexarians hair grew
back eventually, but he learned an important lesson that day. If an old cantankerous Xexarian
was challenged to prove his point, he would prove it no matter the consequences.
Enough! A rush of cold wind flew over the old mans back as he spread his hands, and
suddenly the halfling flew to the way end of the meditation circle. She landed on her back
with a doof, and attempted to get herself to stand, all while glowering at the ancient Xexarian.
The shock of her landing made Aaron drop the burning cinnamon incense in his hands, and
watched his elder with enough contempt to glare, but not enough courage to say a word.
Alistair would have begged the good Gods for patience at this point, even though his supply
was completely famished long ago, and he had his doubts on the Gods replenishing it for the
umpteenth time. His grandson had this sort of effect, in a sense that he could suck the
goodness and grace out of canonized saints. There would be no coaxing him into doing what
he was supposed to.
The spirits thick eyebrows met again, assuming they ever parted since Aaron summoned him.
Aaron Kronos, he recited, his cane buried in the ground below him, Son of the Wind.
Ruler of the Free People. Last Xexarian. Bringer of hope and plenty. Savior of Brimstone and
Damasks pardoner
Thats me, Aaron mouthed at Freya with conceit. Freya pursed her lips and nodded,
impressed.
Child of the Unfortunate. Speaker of the world. Man of ether and smoke. Tap into the visions
that appear before the curtains of your mind, unleash them onto the sage and let the Gods
transmit you into the path you chose for your men. Imagine! For your heart sees what our
eyes cannot, and your instinct leads your kind to heavenly glory. Speak! Watch! Find the
coveted Scroll, and liberate us all from Brimstones domination. And do so post haste.
Aaron huffed as his eyes rolled. Fine.

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Alistair pretended not to notice the tone.

The halfling slammed her lips together and was set on keeping them shut until the session was
finished. But sometimes, in the strongest of bonds, halflings could speak without making a
sound.
She closed her almond eyes and saw the view Aaron has set before him. It was a full body of
water, with rippling tides and flowing currents, as dark as pitch and as menacing as a witchs
somber intonation. The Xexarians grandfather seemed to evaporate, as neither could feel the
weight of his blind stare upon their shoulders, and were left to watch Aarons universe in
serene quiet. Aaron blended into it, Freya followed suit. He flew over the hills and jumped in
the cold waters of his mind, and Freya dove alongside him. Through the bustling crowds and
the hazy overcast skies of San, Freya hurried beside him, and when he became completely lost
and had no idea where to go, the halfling took his hand and gave him a reassuring grip, a
smile through the din of moving bodies and roaring beasts.
Im not even close, Aarons thoughts echoed as the trees and plants around them burned like
pyres. His surroundings faded and rebuilt when there was no ethereal energy to guide him
further. Where the scenery collapsed, there Aaron started to lose hope and patience. Not even
close to the Scrolls. Im going back. Forgive me, Alistair.
Flames became white smoke that engulfed the two travelers. The milky smog started to rise
up and clear, showing the contours of the cave they started in. Bones inside his hand were all
but crushed by Freyas insisting grip, hard as tempered steel. He was the one who lost hope
and became uneasy after a futile search. Not her; she always made him persevere.
Mate. Go back!
Freyas disembodied cry made Brimstone hold still for the shortest time. The halflings
spiritual essence left Aarons proximity, but he could still feel the weight of her step, the grasp
of her hand, her southern drawl, her resolution.
Go back.
Where?
Just go back. Listen tae me. The first thin ye saw
Streams of cold ale filled up the Xexarians ears and nostrils, and he soared inside them, arms
floating like that of an angel in flight, as his robes flew behind him, cocooning his back and
flying off with every rush of water he was immersed in. The Adams ale was colder than the
jaws of Death, but they were new and unexplored, and this was what ought to have mattered.
The lake?
Freya hummed in agreement.
He could feel his spirit return into his shell; when the small bubbles under his pruny digits
became palpable. Well then if this was the spot Freya thought could be the place, he would
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connect with it and explore until he ran out of time and breath. Really, whats the worst that
could have happened? His drowned head nodded, the meditation broke apart, and he finally
transported right into the bottom of the lake.
Aarons body and mind were in a new place, out of imagination and into the cold, mortal
reality.
His bright eyes flew open just as the water started filling his lungs.
The water frothed as he tried to expel it out of his mouth; fizzing around his drowning body as
he kicked and tried to scream. Yet nothing could be heard inside the watery void. Nothing but
the flowing current and the din inside his mind as his vision went blank and his arms became
heavy and Oh Gods dont leave me, it was too early for him to die. Weights were stuck on his
muscles, his eyes went wide and were covered with a film of salt. It stung like needles and his
limbs flailed hopelessly upwards, towards the surface, but there was no light to be seen, not a
speck of sunlight. All he was left with was the heaviness of his shoulders, the water in his
throat, the ice in his feet, the thin airy foam his palms desperately formed, the looming
presence of doom, the shackles around his ankles, the
wait wait wait wait wait WAIT WAIT WAIT!
Slamming his face into his hands he took a deep breath, going against every instinct he had.
The pockets of air bubbling on his palms covered his mouth and nose, linking and expanding
over his ears, eyes and throat until his entire head was enveloped in a tight pocket of air.
When he inhaled sharply though his mouth, oxygen filled every nook of his body that wasnt
completely drenched. He coughed up whatever water came in, and the liquid dispersed and
turned to breathable air. After two or more repetitions, the Xexarian clutched his pounding
heart and floated inside the blue, exhausted and mortified and embarrassed, but still alive and
that was all he wanted.
His body twitched with fear of what could have been, had he not this reflex which saved his
life. A sigh of relief escaped him.
Phew. Give me a little warning next time, gramps. Im just glad nobody saw that.
I did.
Shut up, Freya.
Angrily, he flung out his arms and cut the water around him, set out to explore the lake. After
ten strokes or so, he was out of the darkness and could feel the area which danced inside his
head moments ago.
The view was nothing like he ever saw before.
The thalassic glow of the lake enwrapped him like foil, and the shades of blue became streaks
of teal and aquamarine. Breathing steadily now, the man pushed his body and slashed through
the cool; venturing deeper into the strange waters. He was guided by a light of yellowish
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white, feeling nothing in his body but tension and determination. Howling water filled his ears
and rung high in his head, over Freyas lyrics that played in his mind like a record. And boldly
he would go, and boldly he would swim, with light in his eyes and the will in his head, hed
follow the sirens hymn. Except there was no siren or mercreature for miles; apart from the
small congregation of lamellar jewelfish which he swam through. He was all alone, exploring
the kelp forest at the bottom of the pool. Vines wrapped around his limbs and slid away,
leaving muddy, slick trails on his skin which made him grimace. Why in the high Heavens
would the Gods place a scroll within these disgusting tree things, he wondered. Why couldnt
they have placed them in a temple, or a barge, or on a hill, or anything on the ground? Aaron
despised searching through waters, even more than he disliked goblins, jests about tutors and
Pickering Green. With perhaps more impatience than loathing, the man started to swim
upwards, to the surface.
A shadow flew over him and disappeared in to a flock of glass medusae.
Aarons pupils swept to the side. Hmwlo? He attempted to speak, small bubbles bursting
out through his mouth before he put a palm over his lips. There was no speaking
underwater or maybe he needed a bigger air pocket if he wanted to communicate with the
apparition.
Which, in all frankness, he did not.
The man swam above a small stone filled with sea urchins doing as sea urchins did. Slowly at
first, eyes peeled for any sudden movement or a rustle in the towering algae. Strips of oily
green still tangled his ankles, and he took to tearing them from his body. He would not stay
and be killed by some monster emerging from the depths. Especially not the kind of monster
which could blend in perfectly with the dark of the water. Shivering, the diver formed two
large cones of gas inside his palms, moved them to face the ground and lifted up his chin.
The air jets crashed down and his body flung upwards, closer to the sky, closer to the lighter
blue, closer to the ground and atmosphere he excelled on. Outlines of the rays of sun danced
on the surface, inviting him up just as the jewelfish invited him down. He followed, eyes wide
and focused, ready to leap out of the pool and catch some fresh air and then
The shadow swept up and coiled its tendril-like feet around him, displaying three rows of
needle teeth as it screeched.
Oh fuck no.
Kicking the creature hard in the teeth Aaron ejected himself out of the grasp, unsure where the
sunlight had gone, unsure where he should go. He swam to the only side where the shadows
vines couldnt web him. His legs struck out wildly, his arms stroking fast and hard through the
fleeting fish, the stinging jellies, and the disgusting kelp forest which almost suffocated him
with the green. The air bubble was becoming thinner, and breathing became near impossible
at this rate. Yet he couldnt allow himself to look back; not when the creature was still
swimming at his tail and appearing, silhouetted, against a curtain of green leaves.
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Blasting air at its foul form the man pushed forward until his legs were exhausted and hanging
from his hips as dead weight. His arms were keeping him afloat, and his powers kept the
creature at bay. With each stroke, his lungs banged against his chest, heaving and expanding
in desperate need for oxygen. Gods, not again. He couldnt allow himself to die underwater.
Not now. He was a hero, damn it, and heroes were never killed by shadows!
The kelp forest thinned and exposed a passageway; a wooden door blown off its hinges by a
vine-like tentacle. Its surface was green with moss and vines and rust. Not caring about the
aesthetic of his sanctuary, Aaron propelled through, first giving the lurking shadow one good
punch in the teeth from behind his shoulder. He felt its breath on his brown skin. It made him
ill and decreased his speed.
Maneuvering around the stones and rotting ebony cupboards which blocked the entrance was
excruciating, but he continued to throw them out of his way. He felt marble dry marble
under his feet, and he could finally breathe in some of the sunken castle, no matter how rank
its air was. This gave him a new fear; he wasnt going to die underwater. He would either
freeze to death or starve in a fortress. He had no time to ponder this. The shadow was still
behind him, hissing loudly just as he fell.
The trip was graceless, plummeting off a threshold of a small oval opening which he thought
lead to a room. It lead instead into a pit filled almost to its top with something cold and hard;
something that broke his fall inches before it might have been fatal. With a new shiner closing
up his eye and a swollen lip, the Xexarian lifted up his aching head and scrutinized one small
object which fell into his grasp. Splayed on the metal hill like a pancake, he started to pick it
apart and examine the small coins, jewels and goblets.
Gold?
His eyes, had they been able to open fully at the time, flew wide and he could only kneel on
the spot of his fall, gaping at the sight. Millions of coins and twice as many rubies were
spread across the den, all waves of riches and fineries which he could only see in dragon lairs.
He hissed as a tiaras spike ran into the soft of his knee, and only then did he see all the
treasures he was lying on, sitting on, running over as the shadow leapt from the opening.
Coins of gold and silver and brass flew over the mans freshlyhealed heel. Edges cut deep
into his skin, and the man ran amok, watching upwards, trying to find an exit inside the dome.
There was no escape. Had there been an exit, it would have been buried by the hoarded
treasure long ago. This was not comforting; his heart felt like it would burst.
Before it could, he was tackled, rolled over and pinned down by two icecold blue hands,
imbedded with aquamarine stones shining with specks of emerald and lapis lazuli. Aaron
could only watch the ceiling; brick and mortal riddled with moss which made it stink and
appear bleak. Or he could have gathered what courage he had to look at the shadow which
chased him into the house of gold.
The mer-creatures eyes were the strongest shade of blue he could only see in summer skies or
ocean waves. They watched him from under her matted, sodden hair, which was tangled and
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shaved from both sides, leaving only a spiked azure crest highlighted with the colors of
corals; deep red and dark green. Small stones were stuck on her body, over her neck and bare
chest, over her blue tinted hands and feet. One was even stuck in the bottom of her lower lip,
shining on the black velvet which hid her teeth, soaked with turtle blood. Seaweed traveled
down across her legs, which resembled those of a human had they not been webbed together
by the ribbons of kelp. And across each slit of her body, large black gills pulsed and tightened.
She looked about ready to kill; to rip out Aarons heart with her bare teeth.
A mermaid, Aaron thought. He had never seen one this close.
I knoww you, she said in a dragged-out, warbled voice of a mer-creature. Youre the last
Xexarian. Wwhat business to you havve in my swweet lair?
The human watched her for a moment, and then winked at her with a crooked sideways grin.
Hey cutie, he started, completely deadpan to the point where even the mermaid seemed
taken aback. Sorry about running. I thought you were a hydra or something.
The fat strip of her brow where an eyebrow should have been cocked up. She stared with her
watery eyes, unsure of how to reply. Am I to guess you wwere searchin for somethin
comin here like you owwn the wwater.
I was he purred, sitting up until he was at her eye level. He ran a thumb over her jutted
chin. But now I found it. Ya know, they say theres a lot of fish in the sea, but youre the only
one Id like to catch and mount back home.
The line was perfectly delivered and he wanted to give himself a pat on the back. He barely
noticed her quizzical expression, torn between wanting to dissect him and wanting to dissect
him quickly. His dreamy eyes gave no concern, or were absolutely clueless when it came to a
womans disgust. Im Aaron Kronos but you probably know that. Its always nice to meet
a fan. Whats your name, beautiful?
All that could be heard in the following few moments were water dripping from the ceiling
and the coins shuffling between their feet. The mermaid broke away the silence with an
ominous chuckle, putting all seventy-six of her pretty teeth on display.
I see wwhat youre up to, cravven. She shook her head. Youre the only man who lasted
here longer than a turtle. Ill ask ya one thing, smooth-talker. Wwhat beef do you havve with
my pretty gold?
Aaron looked around the lair. Oh, so this is your gold? Didnt even notice it, lookin atcha.
Yeah, I can see how somebody could get territorial about this. But Im not here about the
gold. Im just sightseeing. He winked.
Aint nothin to see here, airbreather. The mermaid pulled herself off the Xexarian and
began to slide across the self-made hill of coins. Her discolored legs and the stones on her
skin clattered and chimed. But if you feel like Im wwrong, you can browwse all you wwant.

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Ill be keepin my eyes on you. Since youvve been so nice and all, I think you deservve my
name. But a names all youll get, two-feet. Dont start thinkin anything funny.
The Xexarian stood up and dusted himself off, feeling alltoopleased with himself. Even
more so, when the blue-haired mermaid finally said her name, sashaying and twisting until
she disappeared like a dark mirage into the golden mountain.
Im Pira-Pira, knavve.
Kronos edged towards the small incline, hoping to see where she slithered off to. His answer
came shortly, when he was yanked by his ankles and pulled up to the creaking, waterdamaged beams on the ceiling. Small engraved coins fell from his heavy, overstuffed pockets,
and he watched them drop in a shower that clattered from an impressive height. Not even
bothering to look up, he could tell that Pira-Pira had skidded at the top of the dome, and held
him by her tentacle tendrils. Her voice was smooth and honeyed as she gave him a warning.
Steal from this lair and Ill break your ground-wwalker legs.
When the last bit of ancient currency fell from his pocket, he was dropped down like a potato
sack. He struck a seductive reclining pose as he landed, spitting out some blood before he
subtly pursed his lips.
So He propped up his head on his palm, his feet sticking up into the humid air. Do
you come here often?
Pira-Pira groaned, and her frustration resonated in the moss and wealth.
/***/
This is atrocious! Julius Plamen insisted as he banged his fist against the long oak table. I
never thought Id live to see such insolence from a Dryad! You are a disgrace to all of Saga,
and Ill be damned if I allow this act of rebellion a second time!
He and the members of the Sheeban council would sit at the desk he pivoted around. It was
empty this time, save for his kin; his tangerine-skinned daughter Lucretia and his inhibited
nephew Pickering Green, whom he had unofficially adopted after the tragic death of his
parents. The room they were residing in was black as jet, only illuminating the rectangular
desk which seemed to stretch for miles; holding five seats on each side and one colossal
throne right at the far end, this belonging to Encantadias ruling premier. Every word said at
the table would echo crisply to each seat, which ensured that even the most timid of
suggestions could be heard and judged. The talking was purely one-sided at the time.
Seated at each side of Plamens carved mahogany throne, Plamens family stayed in their
assigned places, keeping mute even as their uncle and father rose up and marched to better see
the Sheeba he scrutinized. Julius voice roared as he made sure, slow steps towards the
matron.

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You have been a thorn in my eye since the day I sat upon my seat and watched you leave. I
once thought you were a great mind of our generation, but now I know the truth! I have given
you the benefit of the doubt for reasons unknown, and is this how you repay me?!
His bearded face almost touched Stellas, and she could smell his vile firewater breath.
Lucretia watched the golden etching of two deer frolicking at the top of her fathers glorified
musing chair, and centenarian Pickerings violet eyes scanned Stellas calm, composed
features. Her bold, silent defiance against his uncle made him frightened for her fate. Julius
never took kindly to those who disobeyed him; not even a celebrity such as Forrester.
Especially not a controversial celebrity as Forrester. Pickerings eyes looked at Lucretias
blank ones, and watched her twirl a strand of long cornflower hair in annoyance. The elder
premier still spoke, this time weary.
What is a Macro doing in my realm past the Festival?
He speaks of it like its his entire magical realm to control. Not just one portion of pastelskinned xenophobes.
Arms folded behind her back, Stella lifted her chin up to better see the Goliath. I would
allow myself to say he is recovering. And at a rapid speed, credit to my care.
Have you any clue who that Macro is? Does your little fosterling know who he has
brought into Saga?
Stellas checkered eyes and their indifferent appearance hadnt wavered in the slightest. I
have a sufficient awareness to what he has done and why he ran. I also know the background
behind it. You paint him as a hardened fiend. It ill-suits such a civil gentleman.
He has killed one of the most revered generals of his human kingdom!
Who he has killed, my lord, was an weakened, audacious, inebriated coot who was drunk on
former glory and wished to abuse his powers against a defenseless Sevis fighter. Her nose
crinkled slightly at the blunt description she gave. I detest murderers. But Fafnir Scion is by
no means a killer. He is a man with talent, whose self-defense received bad publicity.
Plamen straightened himself, eyes aflame. A talent for reducing people to a bloody pulp.
It is his bread and butter. Why not condemn all Sevis fighters who are forced to do the
same?
We do! What we dont do, Lady Forrester, he said her title like one would say it to a toddler
or a stablewoman, is give them aid and bedding in an establishment within our bounds. This
harboring of a fugitive a fugitive with a bounty on his head no less! will reflect poorly on
you and your protg. I want nothing to do with him, have I made myself clear?!
Stellas lips came close to pursing. As crystal, my lord. Her head stayed up but her eyes
slowly edged to the side, to watch the darkness and the faint white glow that came as mist
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when she entered the conference room. She confessed; Aaron knows nothing of the man. He
assumes he is a stealer, and I am still waiting for the truth to find him.
I dont care if he takes him as a fruit vendor. He helped him escape. His long, red finger
wagged at her threateningly. After a second, his threats became sneers, and it was unclear
what she took offense to more. But with you to guide him and represent his moral compass,
what else could he have done? Lets all be lucky he hasnt robbed Encantadia blind.
If it werent for her good upbringing, she would have twisted her hands around his digit and
snapped it in half; by the Gods, she hated being condescended. Yet she still allowed him to
belittle and lecture her like she wasnt the one tutoring his relatives, like she wasnt the one
young Pickering looked up to most in the world, and like his words would finally take effect,
even if they hadnt in the past fifty years. His voice was a nail in the ear.
You have become too defensive of the Xexarian, and I couldnt care less about it! Its
becoming obvious I have been overly kind to you in the past. I may have turned a blind eye to
when you first found the brat, and decided to run away with him Gods-know-where
Her teeth found the inside of her cheek and started to grind at it. A blind eye?! She wanted to
scream. Decided to run away? You banished me! Your nephew cried over me, he was the only
one who did so! You made me wander an unknown realm devoid of magic with a crying babe
at my arms for half a decade! Dont you dare say you were kind to me! Nobody was. No one
ever was.
The veins in her fists tightened as she clenched her fingers. Her calm expression was left
unaltered, even as he continued.
Our doors have always been open, even before we found that the child was Xexarian. But
now he is nothing but a pest who has no place in Encantadia, and neither does the scum he
shelters here. By midnight tonight, I want Fafnir Scion out of Saga. It does not concern me
where he will go or how you will send him away. I only want him gone, even if you need to
kill him.
Lucretia took another strand of her hair and ironed it between her middle and index fingers.
Even if you need to impale him with a helmet, she spoke softly into the smooth threads and
smiled, possibly thinking of something else. Her mind wandered quickly and frequently to
thoughts of perfume and charming lads, making conversation with her a living nightmare.
Pickerings eyes switched between the young Dryad and the beautiful figure placed on a
stake. Plamens family be damned. Fafnir Scion be damned. Aaron Kronos be damned to
eternity! All he wanted to see was his matron at ease, away from all her troubles that came
with her suffering and empathy. Sadly, judging by how quickly she succumbed to Plamens
demands made it clear; her peace of mind would be coming no time soon.
With a gentle tilt of her head, she faced Plamen, her genius eyes locking on his. As you
command, my Lord, she said in complete agreement. Her ears perked up and stood erect at a
sound nobody else could perceive. Withholding a shadow of a smile, her feet took two steps
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backwards, away from the puzzled Plamen. She brought her white hands together and listened
closely, her right ear twitching at the familiar frequency.
Now, if you will excuse me. Her trumpet sleeve rolled down to the crease of her elbow
when she lifted up an arm and snapped her fingers. My brat needs me.
When her arm came down, she disappeared in a blast of cyan, leaving Plamen to his rage and
the young student to his glee. Lucretia still twirled her hair, unable to contain an enigmatic
little smile, brought out by the thought of Stellas protg.
/***/
They could have incinerated her in the flaming towers of Lorna and it still wouldnt have felt
as degrading as this.
She had been misbehaving again Billies Sitka also known as Shit and her punishment was
spending an Aurian afternoon at a marketplace, alongside her new master. Shit was not bound
in chains or golden silk. On the contrary; she was stripped naked and sealed in a thick maple
case, barely large enough for her to breathe, curled up in the fetal position as her limbs
became infested with pins and needles, never quite succumbing to comfortable numbness. Her
ears perked at the commotion of the outside world, the screaming children and chiding
mothers, their protests accompanied by loud haggling. The lid of Shits casket was nailed
shut, and the sharp, rusted points were mere inches away from her olive skin, one always
lightly grazing an olive green spiral on her hip. At times, Billie would bang loudly on the hot
wood and ask, in her smoky voice, Hey, Shit! You still alive there?. The Sitka never
responded to this. Instead she endured her conditions quietly, tolerating the heat that blistered
her skin, and the stale air that was barely breathable.
This was her punishment for trying to escape earlier that morning. She was so close; even
managing to rip apart a chain that bound her. The woman never counted on Billies quick
reflexes and advanced hearing, nor did she predict the limits of her body which had just begun
to be properly nourished. Instead of repeating the mistake, the Sitka decided to endure and
cooperate with her captor for now.
Her ears perked up and honey-colored orbs shook as she heard a western dialect, spoken by a
brazen tone.
Hey, beeutiful! Nice seeing you again! Said the cheerful muffled voice, not too far away
from the Sitkas boiling coffin of hell.
You too, replied the voice of her captor, slightly ironically. She leaned on the crate and the
trapped slave heard a soft thud right above her head. You went on some search again today?
The mans voice seemed hesitant; drawing out the introductory word like it could save his
life. Im I tried. I went into some lake near Verdegreen Vale. Met some mermaid and
found some old sunken treasure but no scroll. She even helped me look for it after a while,
s long as I promised not to take any gold but still nothing.
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So did you take anything?

His voice remained noncommittal. Eh. Some coins, a jewel or two for Stel and Freya, nothin
special. They fell in my pocket by accident hey, dont look at me like that! It really was an
accident! Anyway, this time was a bust, but theres always tomorrow. Hell, at least I got to
meet a sexy mer-girl. How many guys can brag about that?
Only you, because there is no such thing as a sexy mer-girl. Billies voice made her come
off as frustrated, if not even disgusted. They all look like dragon half-breeds.
Youre one to talk, engaged to a ha ! With a croak, the mans voice reduced to a timorous
whisper. sorry.
Ill pretend I didnt hear that. But mind your tongue next time. It would be a shame if some
bitch cut it off.
Alright, alright, youve made your point. And you have a right to think what you want about
Pira-Pira, I suppose. I mean, Ive noticed that my fetishes are becoming more and more
perverse, Aaron admitted, sighing pensively. Looking up, he said in all seriousness, It
wasnt until I spanked a statue that I realized that Id hit rock bottom.
The Sitka inside the cabinet of death cringed at the awful joke, and groaned loudly in protest.
Her cries of mental pain, confused for cries of physical pain, made her seller aware of the deal
currently bolted shut.
She sighed. Were off subject. Theres a reason I invited you here today. I have a new find.
The mans voice seemed to be brought back to reality, and the slave girl could hear a faint
knock on her hot casket, this time right in the middle, above her sunken stomach.
Ah. Still doing the old slave trade gig, huh?
That depends. You still willing to fuck anything on two legs?
Hey, now, I was never that picky! Two legs, four legs, peg legs, no legs
Your standards have never been lower.
Assuming I ever really had em, he chuckled. Brief silence followed, during which the Sitka
could feel four eyes boring in on her, from above the caskets fiery lid. So whos this?
Ill show you. Give me that crowbar.
The Sitkas nails dug into her calloused palms when she heard nothing, and only focused on
the small fragment of yellow light poking from the cracks in the wood. And then, out of the
blue, she heard her captors grunt and saw a thick stick of metal protruding from the sun spot.
The slightly curved, blunt edge touched the tip of her nose. Her breathing became deep.
And gimme that bucket too.
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This one? Here it co

There was a thump. The voice continued, F-fuck, thats heavy!
Hey, dont spill it! I need that water. Now on the count of five
The crowbar brushed against the Sitkas thick nose and curved upwards. The heavy lip
creaked above it, curling like rubber.
One
Bracing herself, the former slave screwed her eyes shut, prepared for the blinding light she
would be exposed to.
Twothreefourfive, heads up!
The outside air was the air of Heaven, compared to the arid environment inside the hotbox,
but what took getting used to was the sun whose rays sliced through the Sitkas eyelids like
razors, and the pain this caused her was only augmented by the burning sensation of ice water
that doused her skin. Most of the ice cubes which filled it melted in the desert sun, but some
stayed to steam up against her body, cutting into it and making her scream loudly enough to
draw attention from the merchants nearby. Slave trade was nothing uncommon in those parts,
and neither was the use of the hotbox. It came as no surprise that Billies find would scream
her lungs out like this, since the former Guard had a knack for putting runaways into place.
One day spent with her, and the slaves would grovel back to their masters, kiss their feet and
endure whatever treatment they deserved with a smile.
Shit had no master for now. Unaware of her surroundings, and blinded by the light, she could
only cling on whatever was standing straight and still next to her, and in this case, it was
Billies arm. The blonde did not move it.
Whoa, that aint pretty, spoke the same brazen voice from earlier. Through the small slits of
her parted eyelids, she could see a mans shadow removing a shirt off his lean form, and he
soon came close to wrap it around the Sitka. It was a plain brown vest made out of
smoothened calfskin, and the leather smelled of his sweat and sand. Turning it backwards,
Billie and he forced Shits arms through the sleeve holes, adjusted the back side over her chest
and stomach, and then tied the flaps on her hips with a piece of rope.
In the end, the Sitka was exhausted, aching and sporting an ill-fitting garb in lieu of proper
dress, but she was halfway decent. And this could be said without being presumptuous; she
looked better in this state than she did in weeks.
The man, who the Sitka later recognized as a Xexarian by the tiger markings on his skin, put
one of her arms around his shoulders and held her up by the waist. Billies arm fell out of her
desperate grasp, and she could only look at Aaron, eyes aflame and gawking.
You okay? He asked and failed to receive a reply. Taking her silence as confirmation, he
turned to the bottleblonde with an undercut. Is this who you meant?
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I figured your ragtag group of misfits needed a slave, she shrugged and pocketed her hands
in her flax trousers. And this ones different. Talks to animals and shit. She helped me heal
my chimera you dont find that in your average whore. She took a step forward and
grabbed the Sitkas wrist, lifting it up proudly despite her howls of protest. A finger went over
the blackened, dirtied creases carved on her wrist. A triangle and a half-moon. See this? This
is the mark of the Wanted. Best warriors in the war and the best whores in the palace. The
fucking palace, Aaron! Course the warrior part didnt help them much.
The Wanted? The mans eyes were alight. No way He looked to the Sitka, who had lost
interest in the Xexarian and was now looking at him as some dog droppings on the street. His
almonds returned to the tax collector. Do you think she mightve been the one who cut
Smees eye out?
Billie shrugged with one shoulder. Its possible. And what better Outcast could your group
have, ah? I was going to return her into the palace, but after seeing what she could do and
after witnessing her resolve bitch tried to escape five times since I took her in a day ago
the only person I wouldve sold her to with a clear conscience was you.
She proffered a flattened palm, fingers curling inwards periodically. Accent on sold. I dont
run a fucking charity.
The smile on the Xexarians face vanished, and so did his initial interest in the Sitkan slave.
What if my group doesnt need another member?
You seeing double or something? Your group is tiny and as I recall, its only getting
smaller every day since the attack on the Senate. Youre getting boring, not doing anything
anymore.
Aarons jaw dropped as he released the Sitka from his grasp, thankful that she was finally able
to stand on both feet. As he spoke to Billie, the Sitka shot dirty looks at by-passers and
mothers who protected and covered her children, hiding them from the wolf woman. Shit
bared her teeth at those who glared, growling under her breath. Aarons arguing was lost in
the noise of her hatred towards the Macros.
I am doing something! He still insisted. Billie bit at a fingernail absentmindedly, wondering
when the twerp would run out of breath. Were a force of justice! Were a force to be
reckoned with!
No, you are a force to be reckoned with. Youre a petty thief with diplomatic immunity who
cant be touched. Your group is a gaggle of starving morons. If I were you, Id start buying
members. It beats living on former glory and having momma come to the rescue.
She meant Stella. He resented the nickname she had for her, but couldnt go against it.
Fighting about that felt out of place, even for him. One of his eyebrows went up, only slightly,
as his eyes scanned the hunched, bony, wiry-haired wolf woman. Whats her name?

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Shit, Billie replied, and almost burst out laughing at Aarons expression. A match and a
cigarette appeared out of her pocket, and the rolled stick of nicotine came up into her mouth.
Bullshit, Aaron said as the blonde lit the red match head against the hard side of her
calloused palm. She waved the sting away.
No, just Shit. The end of her cigarette lit up as embers started to fall to her boots. Smoke
billowed out of her nostrils, like a raging bulls. You dont have to call her that though you
never had a problem with Pions name.
A lump of hot coal flipped inside the Xexarians gut. She was right about the mans name; a
wicked play on words which was wasted on her, himself and Archer. Yet the sieve-mouthed
Zeer never could have protested it, so Pion he stayed. Whats more, Aaron thought as he
rummaged the coin purse attached to the hem of his pants, if he could have bought an
enigmatic runners freedom, he could have done the same for an able-bodied, hot-headed
warrior, Sitkan or not.
Ponderingly, he posed a question to the negotiator. How much do you want for her?
Six gold pieces, she replied.
I have four.
And I have a hairy mole on my ass but you dont see me mentioning it. Her arms folded. I
dont care how much money you have, I care about the established price. You either give me
the gold, she ticked a thumb to the Sitka, or Shits going back to turning tricks. Or she
might be hanged for attempt of escape. But thats up to Silas, not us.
The Xexarian opened his mouth, walking deeper into the shadows as he saw some marketgoers look his way. The last thing he needed was to be recognized, especially in such an
incriminating position. Those who did business with Billie were rarely seen in good light, and
he was about to trade with her a second time.
Yet what choice did he have? Being unable to help the poor Sitka to her freedom, or any
semblance of it, went against everything he preached to the huddled masses as a child
mouthpiece of King Pasha. By the Gods, he regretted those days, but some of the ideology he
bullshitted stayed graphed into his mind and soul. This meant helping those less fortunate,
doing everything in and beyond ones means to do so. These moral choices were never the
least uncomfortable ones. Morality came with a price, and this time it was the price of gold.
What he was about to do was shameful and embarrassing, but it was much more honorable
than leaving the slave for the rapists and flies.
His ego had taken a significant hit that day.
He looked around and then, satisfied that there were no Guards, no curious children and
nothing but some wine barrels and clothes on a line nearby, the man sighed and clapped three
times into the burning magnesia sky.
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Billie cackled, the cigarette dancing on her lips. Once again, the golden boy would need to
call for momma in a time of need.
In need of the loose change in her purse, no less.

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Chapter VII: We Do Not Spare

Archer had three predetermined positions inside the Outcasts headquarters. His most
prominent one was at the top of the barren sequoia that masqueraded their hideout; perched
like a hawk and clutching his rifle, pointing it at any bird, game, friend or foe alike. If he was
not on his battle position, he would stay inside and tend to himself; his mind, soul and body.
Whether it was reading a new novel, ranting about The Penultimate Xexarian, or scrubbing
down the grime from his body three times in a day, the man liked to keep cleaner and
somewhat saner than the rest. The gratuitous amounts of soap helped the former. Gods,
miracles, and Gisele Lipchitz rich, rummy voice helped the latter.
The third location Archer dwelled in was the small shelf, right behind Rikers workbench.
This was where the group kept their phonograph.
Somewhere amidst the giant crates, toolboxes and working projects sat a small Callahanian
record player, courtesy of Maggie it was the one thing she brought to the Aura Kingdom
after Riker and she fled from their homeland.
A product of Roux Industrials, the Callahanian leading technological conglomerate, the
gramophone was reminiscent of an ornamented black sewing machine. A small golden horn
opposite of the needle, set above the valve and softwood handle used to wind up the machine.
Its decorations were impeccable; gilded crests and flowers spread over the sides and the hard
box base, an almost factory-fresh shine which never faded, no matter how long the record
player stayed out of use. A small thumb coiled with black string and placed at its top made the
construction a touch more darling than it already was. The decorative thread never tangled,
the paint never cracked, the mechanism never slowed, and only once did the needle break
mid-song and needed to be replaced. The new needle was improvised; carved out of a bullets
casing and in perfect working order. The only true casualty of the incident was a slashed
record which could never play again.
As a whole, the Outcasts kept around a dozen small records, no bigger than a curled-up fist.
Each held two songs, one on each side, etched inside the small sheets of rubber and plastic in
perfect concentric circles. Riker could have explained the entire process behind making one,
but to Maggie, those records were nothing short of magic. Magic, as she understood, went
hand-in-hand with science and engineering. Even though Riker strongly disagreed, he kept
quiet when she went on about it; combining Mana and turbo boosters, mixing ether and
instruments.
She was going on about it again that day, happily banging away at the hull of her Phoenix
cannon, promising that the only thing needed to conduct Mana into a tube was a strong
vacuum and some of Stellas light to stabilize the flow. Riker kept mentioning high-voltage
electricity conductors, all while he avoided looking at Maggies newest shiner. Last night,
while she was trading aluminum scraps for copper pipes at the market, some market goers
caught sight of her Sheeban features, and followed their instinct to beat her half to death.
They threw a few decent punches before feeling the wrath of the two laser guns she held in
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the holsters at her hip. Needless to say, those individuals would not be harassing half-breeds
any time soon. Even though she made it out well, Riker kicked himself for staying to work on
her weapon, rather than tagging along, if only to blow those bastards to bits.
Are you sure youre alright? He asked, still using his mechanical arm to tighten the energy
generator to its circular base. It looks painful
Maggie sighed, rubbing at her purple eye. I said its fine! It opened up. I can see again. Can
you please stop fretting? She tilted the welding mask back over her pasty visage, and sparks
of orange and red soon started to flicker over her protective fireproof suit.
I just feel awful it happened at all. Riker propped up his glasses with his human index
finger, pensively looking away. He ignored Archers clattering behind him, as the marksman
adjusted a new record under the pin. Im sorry I wasnt there.
The redhead frowned, her work coming to an abrupt stop. With a sigh that was more
annoyance than sympathy, she propped up the mask with her thumb. Rikey, its not your
fault. Its my fault, Im the freak. She set the metal barrier on the floor beside her, getting off
her knees. I shouldnt have gone out where they coulda seen me. I brought it on myself.
Rikers bemused retort was interrupted in its tracks as Archers arms shot up in partexcitement, part-exasperation.
Finally! He cried out, and the room was filled with the warm static akin to crackling fire.
The small needle bounced against the smooth black surface of the record. Shame this thing
started working so soon. I usually love standing here and twisting the knob for hours on end.
Classic. Few things are quite as fulfilling. His voice lifted up from its sardonic monotone and
returned to his serious, agitated monotone. I swear to the Gods, this thing, he turned and
ticked a thumb at the gramophone, is going more and more to shit every day.
The cyborg ended his work, rolling his dark eyes. Maybe it wouldnt take so long to turn on
if you didnt insist on tugging at the handle with your primate hands, you snow-eating
sasquatch
Hey!Gisele Lipchitzs rum-drenched voice broke through the piano and brass, and her
shout made Riker knock down a couple of screwdrivers from his work area. The Callahanian
woman lilted, Lets bring this party up a notch, shall we? You wanna dance? You wanna
live? Well lets put some swing into this joint. Tony! Take me to the bridge!
Her voice was gravel and aged whisky, travelling smoothly through the needle and across the
steel-scented laboratory air. As Maggie peeled off her scarlet hazmat suit, exposing the very
few sweat-drenched patches of clothing she sported under it, a new smile swept over her
features. She loved this song, for its rhythm and melody, which made her want to transcend
her earthly form and move to another plane of reality, where people sung instead of talking
and dancing weightlessly all night was the norm.

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Archer leaned next to the record player, savoring Giseles voice and not exactly caring for the
frantic instruments behind it. The Macro-born cyborg crossed his arms over his chest, not
exactly understanding the records appeal in any form. Gisele was a commonplace chanteuse
a white woman trying too hard to imitate a black voice. The music was brash and too fast
for his taste. However, if it made Maggie break out into dance, in the midst of their cramped
and stuffy work area, Riker had next to no problem with listening along.
Sighing in contentment, he leaned on a large metal cabinet behind him. His eyes were fixated
on his girlfriends joyful shuffle.
I see you dancin in the moonlight,
I see your feet move.
I see you drinkin in the daytime,
just to keep your cool.
Well darlin you can dance as much you wanna
you can drink yourself to death.
But none of that will getcha man, girl.
Getcha man right outta my bed.
Because Im the one he needs,
Im the one he dreams about.
Hell always wonder what we could have had
And youll just bawl your eyes out.
Rums a mighty potion
But it only brings you to tears.
Because while Im the woman of his dreams.
Your name falls deaf on his ears.
I see you dancin in the moonlight
It was an obtuse hymn dedicated to and glorifying the home wrecker. Needless to say, the
family-oriented Riker found zero pleasure in listening to it, but he adored watching how
Maggie danced to it. Her arms bent up at the elbows, her feet circling around the apparatuses
awkwardly, all while trying not to knock something over or break another invention. Her
smile was the pure picture of bliss, and her teeth shone in the neon light. And while her
cherry-red curls bounced with every jolt of her head, Riker fought every instinct to run up to
her and twirl her in the air.
Maggie danced in her own little world, like nobody could see her. Unfortunately, people
could see her, and to some, she looked like a twat.
What a Gods-damned idiot, Archer said after breaking out of the daze that Giseles voice
put him in. His icy-grays darted to the side and saw the Macros iron fist clench.
One day, Archer, he spoke with a fond smile, Im going to marry that idiot.
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Archer rolled his eyes. Ya know, sometimes you act intolerable. And sometimes, you act like
the worst, desperate, lovelorn little bi
Watch your tongue, Riker interrupted, putting his mechanical fist next to Archers nose,
twisting the panels and dials until it resembled the hollow barrel of a gun. Im a fairly good
shot from two inches away, he warned, still looking at Maggie.
Normally Archer hated next to everything about himself, though at the time, he was partial to
the skin on his face. Biting his tongue, he moved away and listened to Giseles quick tune in
peace. Or, as much peace as Maggies squall allowed it.
RIKEY! She called out, waving. Come dance with me!
He shook his head to politely dismiss her, but after she grabbed his human arm and pulled it
with enough force to tear his shoulder from its socket, he realized that he had no choice. They
moved to the centre of the room where Riker grabbed Maggies arm to twist her on her heel,
then proceeding to do a lumbering trundle as he tried to keep up with his inamorata, who was
admittedly lighter on her feet. While they danced, his robotic arm hung limp on the side of his
body, refusing to even move. It was a strange, uncomfortable dance, which Archer couldnt
even bear to look at.
The marksman pulled his cloak over his eyes and left the couple to their whatever that was.
Well you know he told me all your troubles,
and I feel for your woes girl, I do.
And he told me how much you love him,
And how you give him the blues.
But his compassions over now.
Go on and pack your bags.
Hes splitting his riches with me,
and youre going back to your rags.
Because Im the one he needs
The large sliding portmanteau opened up and ushered in the image of a frenzied dark Zeer,
who was running across the laboratory much better than a man should after being shot in the
foot two days prior. Pion sped up and split through the dancing duo, who cried out in protest.
The albino stopped next to Archer and stood until the marksman took note of his presence, all
while shaking with a nervous, excited energy which was in all frankness terrifying to watch.
Oh, Archer lifted up the fur lining of his hood. Youre back early. Whats the deal?
Pion swung his arms to the exit, tilted his head and clapped. Archers mouth dropped at the
news.

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Holy shit, he did a double take, clutching the desk behind him like a sailor on a sinking shit
clutched a mast. You serious?! His hands slammed against the counter, knocking over
whatever wasnt bolted or glued to the surface.
Pion nodded twice.
Whats going on? Maggie asked, mouth skewed in confusion.
Archer quickly translated Pions gesture. Stella and Archer returned with an outsider who
might be a Syth Wanted who gouged out Smees eye! Aaron bought it from a slave seller for
five
The Zeer brought up his hand and accompanied it with a lifted thumb.
Six gold pieces, Archer corrected himself quickly, which he stole from some mermaid it
was mermaid, right mate? Right a mermaid in Lake Oyaha. Pion nodded twice again. The
translator pointed at the door with unexpected urgency. And theyre out there right now!
What, the mermaid too?
No, not the sodding mermaid, genius. The tone he replied with implied that Riker, who
posed the question, was no genius in any way, shape, or form. Normally, he would have added
another insult to the repartee, but there was no time for that now. Not when a Syth was nearby.
Strapping the rifle more securely on his back, Archer sped up through the clutter, hitting the
Phoenix cannons hull hard with his fist. Come on, theres no time to waste! The sliding
doors slammed shut as he exited. Maggie and Riker shot each other a glance before following
suit, all but jumping over the mess their inventions left behind them. When the two of them
were outside, Pion started to make way towards the doors, only once looking at the record
player.
The needle bounced and shook, nearing the end of the song.
My voice is what he listens to,
my smile is what he sees.
And if you think you can get those looks o his back,
you better think twice.
Hes only got his eyes for me!
Because Im the one he needs
Im the one he dreams about
Pions white brow furrowed as he shot the record a dirty look. And then, with the speed of a
fired arrow, he fled from the laboratory and into the sun.
/***/

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As soon as she set foot inside the bounds of the groups headquarters, she came face-to-face
with the strangest, most disgusting and vile freaks Brimstone has ever had the misfortune of
seeing.
The Xexarian and his white, goat-eared companion seemed to be the most common-looking
creatures in the world after she was greeted with the gaggle of misfits that welcomed her.
Individually, it consisted of an unshaved Karaktaian with a sniper rifle clutched in his arms, a
dwarfish bug-eyed redhead, a ginger albino with a sewn mouth similar to a sifter, and, if the
sight wasnt already too gruesome for words, a Macro with a metal arm and black crow-like
implants wedged deeply under his dry skin.
And yet she was the true freak among them. She was the one whose name they tittered over.
She was the one restrained by the Xexarian when she tried to pounce at an old pervert who
taunted her for her exposing garb. By Hell and beyond, she was the one who needed to clutch
at her leather wrap, constantly covering her breech. The Xexarians height was unimpressive,
and the notion that his vest could be used as a full dress by a person a head taller than him
came as ludicrous to the Sitka.
She bared her teeth and tugged her arm out of the mans clutch. Such disrespect for a daughter
of war had she had her spear with her she would have struck them all in the heart and ran
like the free wind. Except her weapon was not with her; Billie took to destroying it.
Moments after her price was paid, and the Sheeba slowly began to create a blue column the
three would step into, the slave driver took out the beaded spear, exclaiming loudly that it was
Shits possession, and was promised to her after her freedom was paid. This was, of course,
provided she behaved herself.
Sadly, the Sitka was wildly rude, at least by the bottle blondes standards.
The lance broke over the womans knee and she was crushing it with the soles of her combat
boots long after the three were transported into the Barren Lands. She could have rammed her
fist into the Sitkas chest and ripped out her heart, yet it could have hardly hurt as much.
She would miss that damned weapon, and would miss it dearly.
The checkered-eyed bug was propping up on her toes to take a better look.
Ooooh She gaped, amazed. So tall!
The Sitka swished her head on both sides, trying to discover the source of the high noise.
When she finally looked down at the cherry-haired mutant, her mouth warped in disgust for
the girls shortness. It was a height most commonly seen in halflings and imps, and the most
disturbing sight to see on a human, be it a half-blooded human or not. Her revulsion went
unnoticed by the galling small fry.
Shes almost taller than Stella! Pointing at the Dryad, she looked over her shoulder to her
gargantuan boyfriend. Riker was easily the tallest in the group, and this made her smile.

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Im guessing Billie charged a gold piece per foot of height, huh? Aaron joked, looking at
approval from his matron. Stella was focused on something else, her mind wandering.
By the Gods, what has happened to your eye? She asked, pointing at the plum that formed
under Maggies orb. The redhead drew some air through her teeth and covered the engorged
shiner with her palm.
Thats nothing. You shoulda seen the other guys. Her brow furrowed. Ill just need to steer
clear of the town for the next couple weeks or so.
I swear to the Gods, Riker promised, crushing his human fist into his robotic palm, If I
find those whove done that to you, Im going to skin them alive.
Maggie chuckled. You dont even know what they looked like!
How hard can it be to find them? All I need to look for is a group of ruffians who look beaten
within an inch of their lives. Thats how you left them, correct?
As fascinating as your conversation is, Archer interrupted, rising up his arm, can we please
return to the matter that theres a fucking Syth slave right on our doorstep? Literally, just
standing there. Am I the only one whos seeing this? I dont think I am!
Sitka, Stella corrected patiently. Please refer to her as such. In your defense, its an easy
mistake. Syth is used for objects. In our vernacular, their individuals are called Sitkan if born
male, or Sitka if born female.
Archer corrugated his brow and looked at Shits honey-colored orbs, expelling pure rage. I
know what I said.
Shit snarled from the corner of her mouth.
Her jaw was grabbed by a cold robotic hand, turning it to the side to inspect the wolf womans
features. His bulky, maladroit tubes which served as a forefinger and thumb kept her chin in a
strong yet careful grip, as his deep brown eyes scrutinized her features behind the thin glass of
his glasses. Look as much as you want, she thought as he parted her lips to examine the teeth.
If you start feeling around, I will not hesitate to bite your hand off.
Fascinating, he said in a mild daze, edging to see the small olivegreen spirals swirling at
the side of her neck. She shares the same bone structure and markings as the last Sitkan
monarch. Their lineage is spectacular in terms of producing advanced fighters. Could she be
from one of the Motoki tribes in the west? He looked to Stella, and then promptly moved his
hand away as the Sitka snapped her teeth at it. Instead of providing an answer, the ancient
shook her head and stepped in front of him, a look of irritation on her visage.
Would you kindly stop talking through her? If you are this fascinated with her culture you
should simply ask her yourself.

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Her checkered orbs stayed on him until he backed away, behind his paramour who was still
awestruck with the newcomer, and barely resisting her urge to reach out and touch her thick
curls.
As the couple watched from a safe proximity, and Stella made certain that neither the Zeer,
the Xexarian or the Karaktaian would approach her a second time, the elder sage moved one
strand of platinum hair behind her ear and began to speak slowly, in a strange tribal tongue
which came off to the others as a childs fictitious language. A new light glazed over the
young Sitkas gems, as this rhetoric has been the first sentence of her missed Syth vernacular.
Kiero ishtina kah bezobirnost amiki meya. Onee kas neeka vidye jemon a tu uzhivoh. Her
speaking was slow and strained, and her poor grammar made it obvious that the woman never
used the language in communication. Her heart and mind were in the right place, and the
Sitka listened to the Dryad speak with respect. This would be the only time she ever respected
a person which had not shared her blood and clan. Kivo eym notor assim ke maymun, ken
onyee ponash etwa drzhanye ey. Okarina Stella Forrester. Je amla me Stella don.
A moment after she was finished with her speech, the Sitka replied, in a brash and solemn
tone; Keyo to. Nodding, she glanced at Archer one last time. His rifle was now in his arms,
a gloved index finger polishing the trigger. En ocheki merc.
Tell her shes free.
The small group looked at Aaron, whose hands were pocketed in the deep pockets of his
trousers. He was toeing a line in the dirt with an air of upmost nonchalance. His mouth
stretched into a cocky half-grin. Tell her she aint a slave anymore and that, uh she can
stay with us if she wants to. Ya know. If she finds a way to be useful
Over my dead bleedin body! Archer protested but was pulled to the side by Pion. The
sharpshooter looked at his mate, then at his rifle, and then continued to glare at the freed
slave.
He was completely oblivious to the Dryads judgmental glower. The man never cared about
that albino bitchs opinion. So what if she looked at him like he was garbage? He had not
spent seven years huddled in a trench just so he could accept some runaway as if her kind had
not murdered their King. This group this entire damn group had gone mad simply by
considering it. His hands grabbed at his weapon, a temple twitching. If Pion hadnt held him
by the forearm, he would have long ended the winded discussion between the Syth and
Sheeba. All he would have needed was a bullet and a clear view.
I speak Syth too, yknow he said to the Zeer beside him. And then, with the vileness of a
rattlesnake he hissed out Kayarra vntar.
Burn the marked ones. This was a chant recited by the Karaktaian sniping units centered
alongside Laranaika. It was purely luck that the Sitka had not heard him; she would have
gutted him like a rainbow trout. Her kind never took too kindly to implications of the mass

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genocide of her people. After those two words it became painfully obvious to both Pion and
Stella that the two would need to be kept far, far away from each other.
Having forgotten the Syth proper for released, the Dryad rubbed at her temple before
resigning her efforts and asking, defeated, if the Sitka spoke the common tongue in the
slightest.
With her nostrils flared and her hands planted on her hips to secure her rising dress, she
answered in a curt, stoic tone which resonated deeply through their ears. Better than you
deserve.
Stellas sigh was not of relief. May I ask for your name?
My name is something given to those I see are worthy of my company. To those who I trust,
and them alone. She hadnt had a name in twelve years. And as she looked behind her, at the
gawking redhead, the out-of-it thief, the one-armed Macro and the two degenerates trying not
to stare, it was evident that she could go on longer without one. If you call me a Sitka, or a
Sitkan warrior not a Syth, a whore, a slave or Shit I might respond.
Any of those names are better than you could hope for, Archer thought cruelly.
Aaron flung up his arms after perceiving Stellas small nod, and this was his cue to lead his
motley crew back into their wooden hull. He brushed past his matron and gave her an assuring
tap on the shoulder, which was both an act of admiration and a promise to repay the four
hundred dekatacks he was indebted with. There would be no way he could ever accumulate it
on legal terms. The money was lost, and she was unsurprised.
Stella attempted again, after Archer had finally been pulled into the hideout, his eyes piercing
through the doors and into the Sitkas soul.
Not a name, then just your hands.
This followup left the Sitka understandably puzzled.
The Dryads fingers were slim and sharp, having no fingernails and only smooth, polished
skin. From below, they lightly touched the palms of the Sitkas cold, calloused ones. Her
touch lingered until the savage gave a nod in approval, and then the Sheeba cupped her hands
in hers, eyes soft like a mothers. With a feathery voice, she gave her formal apology, as the
hot afternoon sun died down and the gray overcast huddled over the heavy sky.
Your life is not worth a fraction of what we gave to that woman which held you. I can only
gravely say that we came to the aid too late, and that you never deserved your fate. But this is
the point where your life changes, she promised, and the Sitka believed. The company here
may not be what you are accustomed to, but you will have shelter until you grow stronger and
become able to fight as you once did; a noble daughter of war.
Stella lifted up her hands and pressed the Sitkas fingers onto her uncovered forehead; the
dirtied fingernails touched the circlet which surrounded her scalp. Her eyelids dropped, and
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the last sentence was spoken like a prayer. On behalf of my kind, my dependent, and all the
Outcasts here with us today, I sincerely apologize for your past, and hope that your future
Would be cemented with glory, I know, the Sitkas hands moved and fell to her sides. I
have last heard such a speech at a Laranaikan earth temple, yet the words still chime like
clock tower bells in my mind. The fury melted from her face and made room for a blank,
emotionless gaze. I appreciate whoever took the time to learn it, outside of my Sitkan
brethren.
A corner of Stellas lips curved upwards. It is my duty to know Brimstones customs. I teach
them to my pupils every day.
A teacher, the Sitka realized. She knew there was a reason this woman was with the Outcasts,
as they so proudly called themselves. Whats more, she might have been the most outlandish
one of all. Yet what could she have done at the time? She couldnt have run, not without
weapons or clothing, with a dehydrated throat and a famished stomach. There was no place to
hide in the steppe, and if her weakened legs had brought her into town, she would have been
incarcerated on the spot, simply for walking among the law-abiding Macros. Or worse, a
thought occurred to her as she tugged at her clothing. A free-roaming Sitka was as good of a
bait as any whore, and came much cheaper.
Come, Stella said calmly, as though she had read the womans troubled mind. We must get
you something proper to wear.
Against all good judgment, the Sitka followed the teacher by the Gods, a teacher, of all
things! into the sanctuary. There was only hoping that she would not be forced to reside
there for too long. The birds of prey circling above the steppe squawked and fled as the two
statuesque stunners left their sight, their shriek ending the chapter of the Sitkas vagabond life.
/***/
Her name was Keeyatara Isih, though her preferred moniker was Kee.
She was the self-proclaimed Queen of the Sands and imperatrix of the strand in the Kawala
Lax desert. The woman was also the supreme regent of a small monarchy which was a part of
Aurus protectorate for the past twenty years. The colony was named Arida, and she spoke for
the Aridians that day. The ruler manifested inside the Kings throne room in her royal garb,
shrouded in the color of her territory; a smooth, sandy dye.
She had a sharp triangular face and a chin which could have drawn blood, had an impertinent
and patronizing fool slid a finger to caress it. Her bronzed skin was stretched tightly over
sharp bones; beautiful silk the color of molten caramel. Everything concerning her was sharp;
from her black bobbed hair to the piercing almond eyes enhanced with eyeliner to further
magnify their penetrative stare. Whoever had her amber orbs fall on them must have felt the
sting of a hundred knives. The monarch could have brought an elephant to its knees with a
sneer. Her lips were full and painted with the color of burgundy; a tincture of wine and a
desert cougars blood. Gold adorned her neck, fingers and forearms, and two large spheres
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hung from her ears. Metal snakes were coiled around her slender arms. Every inch of her skin,
every piece of bijoux on her body gave out an air of power and rebellion. Seductive eyes were
watching her King in abhorrence. To further express her disrespect of him, the woman
appeared in his palace wearing scanty black underlinens covered with a translucent,
shimmering veil. The whole of her gave out the air of sex, loathing and dominance, covered
with the illusion of virtually not giving a fuck.
Silas was nowhere in sight when she made her appearance, swirling in her red sand, which
came rarer than saffron or a good King. Some of the grain still seeped across her smooth skin;
falling through her fingers like smoke.
I hope youre still comfortable in your fancy throne, she spoke to the King who rose up,
facing her with civil intolerance. Its a shame you already painted it nice and gold. Youll be
out of it soon enough. Id give you a year at most though if it were up to me, Id finish you
off in days time.
With a creased brow, the King boomed through his chambers, pleased to hear the footsteps of
his newest Elite Guards. What business do you think you have here, Kee?
The caramel-skinned woman shook her head, cackling noncommittally. You gone senile or
something? You know why Im here. Swaying her hips, she slyly walked over to him, as lean
and as shimmering as a desert mirage. I want your damn Syth prison out of my colony. I
want your imperial rule out my colony.
You keep forgetting that I am still King of your people no matter how many acres of land
separate us. No amount of threatening or cajoling could make me change my mind or move
my camps.
His teeth were showing as he marched to face her, and he descended down his flight of stairs
until he reached their base. Kee had an unpleasant, offensive smell to her. Salt water and the
smoke of neon leaves, paired with her saccharine sweat. The King looked daggers, and she
looked unimpressed.
Arida, he reminded, for the hundredth time, will always have a King. Whats a kingdom
without one?
Historically better, she deadpanned, and then ticked her head to a source of a rattling noise.
His new Guards were carrying rifles instead of spears that day. She took a sure, easy step
backwards.
Arida will declare autonomy sooner than youd dare to imagine, she grinned, lifting up her
hand over her head. Remember the motto on my Isih sign and sigil. We do not spare.
The red sand poured out of her palm and enveloped her like a tempest curled around a ship
lost at sea.
And I dont fuck around.

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When the group of three broke inside the domain, all they were greeted with was their raging
King, and a small heap of russet dust on the marble floor. Their weapons were drawn to their
bodies and flattened when they saw the empty room. Wary eyes of the three new Elites
surveyed the area, as though it were haunted by an invisible dark force. Commander Storm
was the first to bring his mountainous height into the throne room, and knelt over the small
sand dune the temptress left behind.
My lord! Zera, a dark-skinned Zeer approached his liege, who was still fuming at the sight.
Are you alright?
His response never came. The Kings arm slashed back and the Elite stumbled backwards. His
following words were humorless, furious even, and directed at Staples who could barely keep
her eyes open.
Where in the unholy hellfire have you been?
The Guard stammered, trying to clear out the drink in her voice. W-we came as fast as we
could have, si
NOT FAST ENOUGH! He stormed over, taking the soldier by the scruff of her neck. Her
teeth gritted, the rum in her veins somehow numbing the pain just enough for it to be
bearable. His teeth were gritted and the man was sweating, exuding pure frustration out of
every pore. You are a Guard, Staples! Not some whore who has the luxury of taking her
time! The back of his hand struck the Guards cheek and she coiled to the side. As she came
to her original position, standing at attention, her hand was firmly pressed on her hissing
cheek. Aurus threw it away.
One more mistake like that, he bellowed, and Ill see you burn in Lorna!
With a corner of her eyes, the Guard watched Zera and Storms inquisitive stares. By the
Gods, a troubling thought came to her. If one were to tell others that she, the highest-ranking
Guard of her troop, was personally scolded and threatened by the King for her incompetence,
they would shun her and make her the object of all further ridicule. Not to mention that he
would absolutely love to constantly remind her that she was unworthy of her position. The
woman used to be a great hope for Brimstone. Now she was a clueless cretin with a love of
drinking and very little else. At least, this is how everybody viewed her, because Heaven
forbid a woman might topple and make the same mistake some general might have been
pardoned for. And, if she failed to appease her lord, she would soon be a charred corpse inside
one of the prison camps. Hot, disgusting bile crept up her throat, and she begged the Gods and
all of her self-control to suppress it. Her knuckles became white.
Your majesty?
The sycophants silvery tone came from the other end of the room. A Zeers head was peering
out of it; the fine whiskers and a neatly-trimmed beard. Aurus was still burning with rage,
even as he looked to his advisor.

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A moment, if I may?
Staples took in a deep breath while the Kings eyes were off her frame. Her body trembled
and pulsed; wily hands ticking and itching for a swig of rum. She had her flask tucked inside
her uniform. If she were to reach into her belt and take the container with the King paying no
mind
Aurus voice was flat, but still resonated well through the house of gold. A moment for
whom?
For your tax collector, Silas replied, his monochrome eyes shining in the light. He expected
no particular response, but even he was caught by surprise as the King spoke, in a tone
perfectly still and cold as ice;
You handle her. I have more important matters to attend to.
With the ominous note, his eyes returned to the Elite, who only watched him in terror as the
two other Guards attempted not to stare. Her eyes spoke of fear and her body was on the brink
of collapsing. Damn myself, she thought. Damn myself and damn my rum and damn Kee and
damn my slow feet and damn my
As you wish, sire.
The impact of Staples gangly limbs against the cold hard Ground was muted by the shutting
door.
Poor thing, Silas thought as he ran his hands across his black and purple robes. Kee always
made Aurus rabid. He hated the woman, so did his King, and so did everybody in the court.
Still, little could be done by such a brazen would-be-Queen with complete access to the
palace. As he heard the soft, muffled apologies from the other end of the broad door, Silas
sighed and returned to dealing with another brazen young lady.
Staples would be fine, he assured himself. She was the Kings flesh and blood, after all. What
he was doing to her was nothing in comparison to what he would have done to the Queen of
the Sands, had he been able to get his hands on her.
Kees been coming round lately, huh?
Billie stood in her leather, arms crossed over her chest. Silas gave a small, wry smile, and
replied as courteously as he could.
She has been troublesome lately, most likely in light of Niktas new expansion over her
territory. But Im sure he will handle it well on his own.
Billie scoffed, rolling a tongue over her front teeth. Hell handle it by fucking the brains
outta that poor girl over there, I bet. Her long blonde hair flew like the waves as she shook
her head. With the next sentence, her hands moved to her narrow hips. If you ask me, all he
and Kee need to do is fuck and get the tension out. And all this bullshitll be over.
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Silas eyes narrowed further in distaste. My lady, please dont be so crass. The King would
never do something so vile as to violate a young girl.
I never thought the King would nearly exterminate a whole race in a decades time, either.
Her lips pursed as her lean fingers scratched her undercut. Yet here we all are. She
shrugged.
This woman used to be the compliant lieutenant general; of this Silas reminded himself and
summoned her to approach him with a flick of his index finger. Billies bark was far worse
than her bite, and whatever insult she muttered did not matter. She was still faithful to him,
still willing to die like a dog if need be. The woman was a hypocritical freedom fighter; out of
the court and out of uniform, but still firmly pressed under the Kings thumb. Her title never
left her, and neither did her beliefs. She could still do whatever the King or his Hand ordered
her to. In times like these, those people were the most trusted. They spoke in all honesty of
how much the system broke them, but at the end of the day, they would still play by its rules.
Under that leather, imitation gold and foolhardy attitude laid a surefooted army general. Silas
only needed to dig deep and extract her.
Will she be alright? Billie asked, and then noticed that Silas eyes were fixed on everything
but her, or the tortured soldier. Staples, she recalled her name. Does he do this a lot?
Every time Keeyatara pays a visit, he answered with his hands muffed inside his long, wide
sleeves. You oughtnt worry. Onika Staples is a hardened warrior, numbed by the Guards
generous supply of alcohol. If anybody can take a beating like a true stoic, its her.
Nice to see the King can take on the nations greatest fighter when she isnt allowed to hit
back, Billie spoke with a grin. She sped along the parchments and portraits on either side of
the corridor, trying to recognize the ancient writing and cryptic calligraphy that tangled the
area like intricate vines. Rounded, faded lines of prophesies were nearly illegible with age.
These were the words of the original Gods, rendered unrecognizable by human negligence.
And yet they were coveted and sacred, now that they could not have been helped.
There was irony in that, but Billie never cared much for speculating long enough to find it.
Tie the Kings hands, she suggested, but with rope instead of some code. Maybe then the
two would be on equal grounds. The thought passed her mind and then, in recognition of her
own stupidity, she smacked her head with her palm. What am I saying? This is the Aura
Kingdom were talking about. There is no equality.
Equality is for the dead and the Xexarians, Silas agreed, in his own enigmatic way. Of
course now, the Xexarians equaled with the dead. He made a turn to the left and Billie
followed, strolling as though she was out for a walk on a nice day. Silas speech continued,
You of all people should take pleasure in that. If all were equal in wealth, rights and taxes,
you would be out of employment.
Id get around. We Macros are resourceful.

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The Zeer lifted up a thin eyebrow, smiling at the tax collector once they were out of the busy
palace main. He had lead her into a secluded spot, darker than rest by its lack of windows and
candles. A sly smile came over him; not a typically malicious one, but rather a smile of a
lender reminding a borrower of some long-promised favor.
You are most resourceful, my dear. This is why I feel like you will best be suited for this
assignment I am to give you.
Blinking twice, Billie spread a smirk over her features. Her arms flew open and her fingers
curled, summoning the impending proposal. Shoot. Im up for anything.
Do you still have the pots of hellfire used for the invasion of Korana?
Billies smile vanished as soon as it came, her dark eyebrows knotting in sudden loathing.
Something was picked; a dark fear that she buried and so nobody would touch it. And now it
was exposed, picked at and picked apart. The Macro turned on her heel, trying to speed into
the light.
Not that, she said sternly, with the voice of a general. Never again.
Even though she caught a few steps, the woman was brought to a halt by a seething sensation
in her shoulder when Silas pressed his fingers into it. Something dementia, despair, malice
and anguish flew into her skin like wine and drowned all sensation she had from her arm to
her neck, paralyzing it and burning until she fell on her knees. She fell on all fours and panted,
feeling every drop of blood return into her flesh, and this burned stronger than any flame she
cast upon the houses of the young, the bedridden, the widowed and the wounded Syth. The
grinding of gritted teeth muffled the Zeers footsteps.
The Hand approached her and helped her up on her feet, this time forcing their eyes to meet.
His voice was slow and steady; the tone of a man with nothing to lose. He looked truly happy
like this, confronting a woman whose most prized possessions he held in his deadly grip.
This is not for you to decide, Billie. This was a Kings order. The residents of the ghetto have
failed to pay their taxes for the third consecutive month, and some have even barricaded their
homes in fear of repossession.
The saliva from Billies hot mouth felt like a nail in Silas black eye. Fuck his orders! And
fuck you too! Theres nothing more to take from them, you bled them dry !
They bled themselves dry, he interrupted, wiping off the spit with his sleeve. It was an
overreaction he predicted before he even offered the deal. We have given them enough
warnings to surrender their properties in peace. Now all we can do is take them, or else we let
the bingedrinking Sevis fighter scum win.
Thats extortion!
Thats law! He said as he pushed her off his frame. She staggered back with her hand still
on her shoulder, but as she made her ground, she stared at him harder and more furiously than
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ever before. Its the Kings law, as well. And you are going to implement it, or else we
destroy Donovans Damasquan contraband.
On this note, the tax collectors eyes widened and her knees grew weak. The stakes have been
set; this was no matter of gain, it was a matter of preventing loss. A shiver coursed her flesh.
You cant do that, you piece of shit! She needs it to live! And all those people, she flung out
an arm to one of the walls, all those people made their lives in the ghetto. They have
nowhere to go! Thats their dead end. Thats where bankruptcy got them. What good will half
a dozen boarded hovels do you when youre already walking on gold?! Her foot stomped,
but the expected booming echo merely issued a tired clap, and her protest fell on a limp note.
Her heart was beating hard in her throat; her vision became blurry with the thought of losing
Don to some sadistic Hand. Silas took no note of her distress.
We had a settlement. You may be out of the army, but you are still in the Kings command.
Your obedience keeps your half-breed alive. His thin, bony finger with a black nail rose, and
he pointed at the ceiling with an air of calmness. The only people fit to condemn me are the
Gods. Until then, its my King, and my King alone.
Billies breathing was still hard. This time it wasnt through gritted teeth or clenched fists. It
was through her full lips which trembled with the weight of warm, musty air that she panted
out; the sort of breath which was common among those ready to cry with rage. Her eyes were
pooling in raw and salty water; water born out of anger, destructive and treacherous liquid
which made her appear weak. She never allowed it to drip out of her eye. Men like these
thrived from making others weep for mercy. To men like these, she had no obligation, and
neither did her tears.
Instead of breaking, she bit the inside of her cheek and released her shoulder from her warm
grip. Her chin lifted up and she stood, in something Silas recognized as a perfect salute, with
her right hand angled near the corner of her eye.
I will not destroy the lives of my fellow Macros.
Silas gave a low, closed-mouthed chuckle at the retort. No, you wont. Not this fortnight at
the very least; they still have time to change their minds about pinching their coins. Though I
hope few of them will. Nothing makes a better caveat than some burned corpses littering the
streets of protest.
His cape flew behind his back when he turned on his heel and paced across the shadows and
into the light. With a hand brought up into the air, he recited the repercussions to the Macro he
left in the dead end.
Do as you are told, and you and Don will live together for as long as her health allows it. If
you disobey my King, I want you to hold her delicate little hand tonight. I want you to hold it,
caress it, kiss it, and do whatever thing you desire. Make it count, as that one touch will be
your last.

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It was as though the man melted into a pool of mire and made his way into the main hall.
When Billie ran after him, strangulation on her mind, she met a bustling crowd of slaves,
slave owners, lords, ladies, scholars, sages and the proud Staples marching with a new shiner
over her eye. The Zeer was nowhere to be seen or heard; gone like an illusion.
Billies gaze was lost in the throng, imagining what Silas had said to her. About the
agreement, about those contraptions that gave her love enough strength to smile, about the
fires she started before before she cast away her title for her humanity.
A thought lingered as she reached the exit, cradling her aching head in her palm. Would losing
ones mercy be worth preserving ones love? No. No, it wouldnt. One could never love
without mercy. That is why Rowena, goddess of creation, and Morato the God of love were
always depicted together, hand-in-hand, as it always should have been and always would be.
The desert light burned her eyes as she exited, fingers twitching for a cigarette again.
It was at this moment where she made herself wonder; at what point had her obedience to the
King made her disobey the laws of moral Gods? It was a question she preferred to leave
unanswered.

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Chapter VIII: Congregate

The classrooms in Encantadia were few but far superior than any other learning institutions in
the known, explored Brimstone. One lead by the doyenne Forrester was settled within the
bark of an oak; garnished with sloping leaves and etchings on wood, drapes made of spun
silver and desks carved straight into the stump, so that her dozen students could view her
lessons from above, seated on the apertures. The area was an oval, similar to a coliseum.
Sound travelled through it well, each whisper clear and sharp on everyones ears at once. Only
Stella could have spoken during her lessons, and all of her students watched in awe,
enchantment, or in Lucretias instance, tedium.
Fissures on the walls allowed the sunlight to enter with its flaxen shine, though the most light
was produced by the Sheebas own hands, spinning as they painted portraits, maps and events
of the events in Brimstones history. The woman was absolutely in love with the tales she
narrated, all in their original form, staying true to the times vernacular. She knew the name of
General Scarrs destrier. Her play of shadow and light could paint every rhinestone on
Princess Amelias coronation gown. History brought narratives which made a heart ache and
the mind wonder, as history was the greatest storyteller at any given time. Who could have
stayed impartial to its events and details, especially when vocalized by the wisest sage in
Encantadia? Who could have stayed unimpressed by tales of the great Defender, a Sitkan
warlord, especially after Stella had proudly spoken of the womans undertakings with a new
light in her eyes?
It has been said, Stella interrupted her lesson to bring up the snippet, that this battle was
fought for five continuous days, and that the Defender had lead it all while carrying her infant
son on her back. However, and I confirmed this yesterday after personally speaking with a
descendent of hers, the woman had no child on her person. Her son was in her village, with
her ailing husband.
Questions bombarded her from her students, especially the oh-so-eager-to-impress Pickering
Green. They all needed to know more about this descendant, who the Sheeba met a day ago.
All excluding Lucretia, who failed to take notes and only stared blankly at the intricate
woodwork, twisting a lock of hair into her palm. Stella took note of her impassive mien,
though she turned no attention to it.
It was only after Pickerings umpteenth question was answered, after the lessons were
finished for the morning, and after the premiers daughter descended from her seat that the
Sheeba came to her and reminded of her indifference.
You have been quiet today, she said, blocking the exit. More so than you usually are. Has
there been a problem?
Lucretia averted her eyes and spoke, in her flat tone of voice, I thought you werent
supposed to teach us about the Syth.

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Sitkans, Stella corrected. The agreement she had with the girls father long ago still rung in
her mind, and she sighed it away. I can understand how controversial teaching about our
alleged enemies might be to some. This does not mean they were never a part of Brimstones
history, or that their accomplishments should be overlooked and undervalued. Her expression
shifted only slightly, from polished to goaded. You could tell your father much the same.
I dont need to, Lucretia said with her hands pressed on her hips. Her pale orange frock
swayed with the cocky motion. He hates you enough as it is. The Sevvy is still in your hands,
and one of you is getting permanently banished from Saga by this time tomorrow. I just wish
there was no chance for you to stay.
The young Sheeba turned and made a beeline for the exit, quick footsteps echoing around the
walls. The older Dryads hand grazed her shoulder and she winced with an indignant look in
her eyes.
I am aware that you have some tense feelings about me, Stella spoke calmly as the girl
spewed fire out of her eyes. And I understand you dislike some aspects of my history. But it
is my duty to tutor you, so it is your duty to
Your duty? The young Sheeba laughed. You dont have a duty! Youre just a high-andmighty schoolmarm, its Aaron that has any real duty to his people. Hes the one who is
supposed to fulfill the prophesy! Youre just getting in his way!
Stella contained her composed expression, yet a pulsating vein in the back of her neck begged
to burst out and yell. I am in his way? And your father is not? The man who wished to drown
the child in a river after he has been first brought into Saga, the man who would have killed
the Last Xexarian had I not been there to stop him was never getting in his way? Have his
riches muddled with your reason, child, or are fire manipulators minds lacking in general?
The schoolmarm nodded solemnly at the short pest, though her respect was tongueincheek
at best.
Lucretia was still speaking, this time in a low monotone, rendered spoiled and childish by her
demeanor. Why dont you let him go and do what he wants? You treat him like a baby, and
then expect us to believe youre guiding him. You arent guiding anyone! Youre an
obstruction, youre useless, and I can only hope my father exiles both of you you and the
Sevvy! Gods only know what a puss-filled Macro like he could be doing here! Father will
send both of you flying, and if he doesnt, she said, already at the exit and ready to phase
through the tree bark. Her head turned and crossed the Sheebas eyes again; unwavering blue
tones against vicious orange ones.
If he doesnt, Lucretia spoke after a pause, I hope you become smart enough to put
yourself out of your misery.
The girl passed through the wall, a buzzing noise filling the room as her body slid. Stella was
left alone in her class; her glasses slowly sliding down the bridge of her nose, the last words
the young Dryad spoke still echoing in her mind. She pushed up her glasses and smiled. If
Plamen and Thorne were to fight, she wondered, which one would produce the better
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arguments against her? What would even define better? The idea was too ridiculous for her to
take it seriously, and it was waved away with a shake of her head. Silly girl. I was never in
misery. Not even at my worst, coldest and most starving. When I was imprisoned and burned
by tangerine-skinned preachers, I was at my proudest. You and your darling daddy need to try
harder if you wish to intimidate me.
There was, however, one thing that Lucretia was right about. She needed to get Fafnir Scion
out of the goblin establishment. As she collected her books and quills from her mahogany
desk, she wondered where on earth one could settle a man his size, in his recovering
condition. Surely nowhere in town. The Guards were still looking for him; posters plastered
everywhere around town. The only people completely clueless were the Outcasts, as few of
them made rounds about the palace and marketplace. Even Raem has paused his regular
bazaar thieving and pick-pocketing ever since he discovered Pira-Pira.
Stella could not tell if she appreciated the idea of him philandering with a gold-harboring
recluse, never mind a lady of the lake. Then again, his excursions were the sole aspect of his
life she had no control over. Once he was in that cave, leaving his mortal form and
transcending out into an unknown sphere, she was powerless to come to his aid or nag, as
he so delicately put it one day. She wished that she could view the fabulous sights he must
have seen, but in the end, her wishes died in reality just as they were born in dreams and
imagination. But this was no time, she reminded herself, to think of Raems journeys. There
was another man in need of her, and he wallowed in fear and ache as she held her class.
When the papers were finally shuffled inside of her hands, it became much too clear where
she was taking the Sevis fighter. She sighed, sincerely hoping that the Sitka would not mind
having to look at another Macro while in the Outcasts. Riker, otherwise the only pureblooded
Macro, was never much of a disturbance. Not personally as he was physically, at the very
least. Seeing a bona fide fighter might have stirred up controversy. Stella could only hope that
the Sitkas self-control was improving along with her corporal condition. After her classroom
was in order, she headed towards the natural sunlight, off into the undergrowth and towards
Meecrows estate. Her nimble fingers pressed her sore temple as she went.
/***/
It took some time until the mermaid became accustomed to his advances, and as of late, she
began making some of her own. As soon as he materialized into the great blue unknown
(already prepared for the lack of oxygen underwater), she torpedoed and grabbed him by the
shoulders, greeting him with the sharpest kiss any landwalker ever experienced. This made
his head light, and if he hadnt known the true sensation already, he would have thought he
was drowning again.
Whawow he managed, still struggling to speak through the watery sound barrier. What
was that for?
Pira-Piras eyes grew dark as she exposed her pointed needle-like teeth. I havve decided I
dont hate you. No thats a wwrong way of putting it. I loathe you, but dont wwant to
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dismember you yet. This counts as affection in the wwaters I hail from. Noww come, she
ticked her head to her den, locks of blue and green hair bouncing and swirling in the tides.
You must see the rest of my precious gold. Hands to yourself, airbreather. But you can
wwatch howwever you wwish. Her long, claw-like nails scraped his olive skin as she yanked
him through the drink, swimming like some snake, body coiling around the algae and rock
sediments while Aaron tried to keep up. At moments like these, he remembered that Alistair
and Freya never truly appreciated him coming into the mergirls lair. Alistair chided in his
own, haughty baritone. Freya crept deep into his mind and buried her thoughts; Aaron, I know
this is the place, but Im not sure thats the lass. You can still leave. You can still look
somewhere else if ya want. But right then, swimming with some creature he only knew from
childrens stories, pilfering any gold that was not bolted to the ground and exploring the
grandest lake in all of Brimstone, he couldnt bring himself to listen to their wellmeaning
warnings.
Besides, he thought as they made it out of the water and into the sunken temple, what could
possibly go wrong?
Evverything, Pira-Pira spoke, shrinking under the weight of the damp air around them.
Evverything here is my babies. Do not touch my babies. Do not breathe hard on my babies.
Nevver even stare too long at my babies, as they deserve to be seen by gems far more
precious than your eyes. Just look quickly, she released Aarons arm and crawled over the
side of the walls. Look and see, but dont remember.
She disappeared behind a column and Aaron strolled casually into the goldfilled pit that
illuminated his way. He pried some gold coins wedged into the cracks in the walls and placed
them in his pockets, more out of reflex than out of mischief. After he took out one near a
wrecked column, a small stream of cold water began spurting out of the gap, and he was
forced to return his find to its original position. This was the first time he willingly left a tack
in its place after attempting to procure it. Soon enough, the soles of his feet were walking on
golden ground, and the ignored coin was forgotten in an instant.
A golden sunlight filtered through the snapped pillars, the water surrounding the temple
echoing like a sirens calling. It was mellifluent and sweet; a stark contrast to the lifeless mass
his bare feet threaded, and the grim goblin statuettes on the walls. They laughed, cried and
bellowed silently; their eyes bloody rubies and their mouths gaping pits filled with seaweed,
both dried and sopping. Their pungent, fat little bodies guarded Pira-Piras finds, always
watchful of other peoples goods, even so, with their souls trapped in stone and emerald.
There must have been sixty of them, spread along the perimeter of the dome in a circle. Upon
the sight of them, Aaron scoffed, insulted by having to look at those foul creatures.
He and the goblins had a history, a none-too-short and none-too-pleasant one, which he
seldom shared. Suffice to say that he had many prejudice against their kind; so much that the
sight of them made him want to storm outside, into the cold waters that made his hair and
clothes move like the ghosts of San. It was the prospect of pilferage which kept him on his
feet and alert. This and Pira-Piras hissing tones, which washed against his ears with the sound
of the crashing waves made him hang about.
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Pira-Pira slithered across the walls and mossy paneling. Triangular boards, pressed against the
walls which held windows. The mergirls own design, Aaron presumed. Crass and simple,
but efficient against getting water on the more precious goods, like leathers and silk. I
plundered this from a merchants galley the captain nevver saww the oncoming of a
serpent, and I havve nevver seen such wellkept wwares. I havve gowns in the back and
ancient books; charts and tales galore. I havve nevver learned much of land-wwalker
scripture, though I knoww some finer books are well-wworth. The more I obtain, the less for
you air-breathers there is. My money is for myself and myself alone.
Some money, Aaron scoffed, examining a sharp and pointed golden crown of an old Queen,
if you arent willing to spend it on anything.
Pira-Pira looked behind her, scandalized. Her hands were pressed firmly against the dome,
and her teal hair fell in streams, dangling and twisting. SPEND IT?! Aaron could not look at
her well from a straight angle. In a blob of ink, she disappeared and materialized behind the
Xexarian, grabbing his shoulders with her talons.
Spending it means nothing to me. Wwhat I desire is gold. Wwhat I dream of is money.
Putting pressure on the mans shoulder blades, she twisted him around and pressed his nose
against hers. The scent of salt and vinegar left her pores, and the Xexarian didnt know what
to make of it. Her hands were cupping his cheeks, and he put his hands over her, oddly
delicate ones. Is there anything you want more in life? Anything besides the money you
have?
Yes! She squealed. Money I dont havve! Moneys men have procured for centuries and
lost it in a wwave of tragedy. Their money tastes the sweetest. Her violet, snake-like tongue
brushed against three rows of black teeth, pointed as needles and crisscross like a broken
fence. Wwhat money do you possess? Wwhat money? What wwealth and fortune?
Aaron winced inwardly at the question. As he constructed a proper answer in his mind, he
removed her claws from his face. Various words spun around his head, and he couldnt swat
them away fast enough. Finally, as he lowered her hands to the line of his waist, he gave his
half-smirk and said, rather proudly;
I think my reputation exceeds my means. Im kind of a big deal around the land a prophet,
a Savior, the Last Xexarian basic stuff, really. Nobody in Brimstone can touch me not
even the King and Im free to do whatever I want. I have my own troop of freedom fighters,
all experts in their field. Were heroes in our own merit, the best of the worst, if thats
anything impressive. Soon I intend to overthrow the tyrant King. Some day, if the Gods are
good. He coyly looked over his shoulder as he rolled them back. Its really nothing. I dont
like to brag about it.
Pira-Pira looked at him silently, her pitch black eyes alert at first, and now dim with boredom.
So, youre dirt-poor? Her hands retracted from his, like the touch of his palms meant certain
death. A vagabond poor as filth? Is that what youre saying?
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Pira he begged but was stopped by her grip, curling her arms against his neck. Her eyes
were soft again, and instead of hissing, she giggled as darkly as she could have.
This is alright. You may not possess many things precious. But you are precious to the
wworld above, and by extension, of great vvalue to me.
Aaron pocketed a small gemstone from her hair as they kissed. She failed to notice either
this or the stone was but a polished pebble.
It was strange, it must be said, to osculate under the inquisitive goblin eyes. Their chucked
out tongues were lashes on Aarons skin, and the drops fell from the dome and on the clanging
gold coins they stood on. He had heard stories as a child, of material Gods who lived on
mountains of money. Admittedly, this all had its festive shimmer and galore, and yet, after just
a few minutes sealed with no company but greed, a man would start to fidget, cold and
lonesome, in need of a voice much friendlier than a hoarders.
This is why he greeted Freyas unearthly apparition with a warm welcome.
Her light, portly arms seemed to take him by the shoulders. Unlike Pira-Piras feral touch,
hers was a grasp of understanding; an action performed many times before, and as a result, it
was never unexpected.
Bloke, Id hate to interrupt yer snoggin but theres something important at the base.
Can it wait? Aaron sent a mental thought, his eyes still closed. In case you havent noticed,
Im in the middle of something.
No, it cant. Stella has released Fafnir and hes familiarizing with yer group.
Aaron cocked up an eyebrow and looked to the source of the noise, which happened to be
everywhere at once. Who?
Wwho are you talkin to?
No one. Aaron leaned further into the kiss until he needed to lift up a leg to keep his
balance. He emitted another thought as he ignored the mermaid scratching his back. Who?
Fafnir Scion.
The tigermarked man said nothing at the time, though his silence was attributed to
ignorance, rather than him becoming too involved with Pira-Pira to talk. Freyas floating,
colorful apparition smacked a hand to her forehead and groaned.
Fafnir! Freya repeated impatiently. FAF! NIR! The Sevvy we saved from that crowd the
thief! Big bloke, ya know. Burly. Tattoo on his chest. She stopped for a moment, picking
another hallmark trait to jog her hopeless best friends memory. Great arse.
Aarons eyes finally widened and he dropped Pira-Pira out of his arms. He had been dipping
her at the time, and she fell on her back in a heap of coin when Aaron excitedly shouted, OH!
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Fafnation! Right! followed by him spiraling out of sight in his trademark gossamer of air.
Freya was almost shocked by how quickly a mention of a backside could get him off, that is
to say, make him leave.
Shocked by his sudden departure, Pira-Pira flung a couple of gold pieces at the empty space
he had been standing on seconds prior. Then she promptly leapt up to grab her valuables
before they hit the ground, murmuring assurances as they pooled on her palms. No Xexarian
would cause her to hurt her babies. No Xexarian. Ever.
While she petted her coinage as they were loyal pets, the kleptomaniac was forgotten almost
entirely.
/***/
and this entire engine is held together by lightning essence? Fafnir asked as he crouched
in front of the Phoenix cannon Maggie had been diligent to complete. He had little to no
knowledge of weapons, gadgets or anything involving mechanics, but he was familiar to
lightning essence used in bolting. His thirst for knowledge which he harbored as a young
child was sprouting again; perhaps he saw that he was in no danger, as his new acquaintances
greeted him with great fairness, and most importantly of all, without asking many questions.
Out of immediate threat, the large Macro could familiarize himself with other matters, such as
Stellas associates and their respective projects. The Phoenix was the first one to grab his
attention (given its massive size), and the half-breed was more than ready to give her own
explanation.
Mm-hmm! I needed something to bind Sheeban ether with the dark substance needed to
create a propulsive charge, but I couldnt keep it steady on its own since magic cant be held
in one place without some guy manipulating it. And thats really hard to do inside a weapon.
So I thought, she emerged from the hull and propped up her goggles on her hair, what is the
one power that is found in both technology and casting? She shut the small entrance she
came out of, flinging her arms out triumphantly. Elemental magic! Riker helped me figure it
out!
We, uh, the cyborg stammered, tone oddly defensive while his arms crossed. We were
doing secondary calibrations on the mechanism of the Phoenix internal watch to keep track
of energy fluctuation. Behind his glasses, his eyes flickered at the scoffing Karaktaian.
Calibrating, Archer repeated flatly, handing Pion a finished book which he promptly
opened. Thats a first. It was called fucking, last time I checked.
Thorne, please, Stella breathed out as Fafnir came up to her again, finding safety in the
shadow of the person he knew the best. The white-skinned Sheeba contrasted greatly with the
Macro, and quite soon, Maggie and Riker were dismissed as the odd couple in the room. The
sage attempted to reason, This conversation does not require you to participate.

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Lay off, Forrester. Look, all Im saying is that tomatohead there, he ticked a thumb at
Maggie, oblivious to the ire in Rikers eye, is head-over-heels in love with her project. And
as we say in Karaktau, head-over-heels put er heels over er head.
Disgusting.
I avent coined the expression, prig.
Stellas brow furrowed but was quickly ironed out people were nothing to become frustrated
over. After almost six hundred years, Stella had surely encountered a couple of pricks in her
life. To be fair, however, Archer wasnt as much of a prick as he was an absolute cactus.
So! Fafnir interrupted, clapping his hands together to derail the impending argument. The
cannon! Thats an ambitious project. Does it work? Stella was surprised at his reconciliation
attempt, and the bored marksman simply pulled down the fur trimming of his hood and
attempted to ignore the idiots around him.
Its not done yet, Maggie replied as if it was obvious, dusting off her gloved hands. But it
hasnt set on fire during the past twenty hours. Thats a record!
It actually is, Riker agreed, his voice equal parts resignation and pride. Pride because he
was legitimately happy for his girlfriends achievements, and bitterness due to the fact that the
only way he was of any help was when he gave her inspiration or Eureka moments during,
erm, heels-over-heading. The sudden throwback to Archers bluntness made the mechanics
cheeks flush, and he was almost grateful for Aarons intrusive appearance.
The mechanical door swept apart, and in came a sweaty, dusty, panting Xexarian. Im back!
He jumped in the middle of the room, knocking over the few minor appliances he ollied over.
Youre welcome, he concluded his arrival; hands on tilted hips. His big entrance would
have been more spectacular if it werent for the drills and hammers he knocked over
drumming on the floor.
It did not take long for Riker to release a loud groan at the aerokinetic. For the fifteenth time,
Kronos! This confined, cramped space is no place for your ostentation!
Aaron frankly did not know what ostentation was. Uhh, Im pretty sure its no place for
your ugly face either, so I suggest you shut it. Aaron snapped his fingers and turned to the
cannon being made, mouth gaping wide as he started whispering muffled expressions of awe.
Fafnir, who was standing stock still beside the matron, looked absolutely amused by the
whole dysfunctional display. Between the dark Zeer reading copious amounts of books, the
napping Karaktaian, the chiding Sheeba, the zealous mixed breed, the flamboyant Xexarian
and the half-machine quietly sulking in the corner, Fafnir had trouble believing that this team
was anything worthwhile. Not that seeing Aaron for the first time set any grounds for getting
ones hopes up. Still, he truly wished to see some competent people, at least. These simpletons
had trouble pronouncing the mans name, and watched him as some starry-eyed children who

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watched him fight in the circle inside the ghetto he lived in. It brought out some sympathy
from the man, but no trust, and far less respect.
That is the most beautiful thing Ive ever seen, Aaron exclaimed, running his hands through
his thick head of greasy hair. Maggie chuckled to herself, swaying on her heels with her arms
tucked behind her back. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye.
Just wait until you see it finished. Itll blow your mind literally, if you end up at the wrong
end of the barrel. But I dont think even youd be that stupid.
A low, impressed whistle rose up and fell from the Xexarians lips. The cannon was
something spectacular by now; painted gold and red with sashes of impenetrable Callahanian
steel, a small dome for the rider to pilot it which looked like the apex of some ancient temple
with its intricate details Rikers persnickety taste for aesthetics must have led to the design,
a boarded hull, small enough to be underestimated yet large enough to prove as a legitimate
threat, and all that paired with a legendary engine and the artillery fit to flatten the mountains
if applied correctly. It was a fine specimen, and Maggies most beloved creation to date. She
looked at it like a mother watched a young, overachieving child. The cannon still had a long
way ahead before it could have been used in proper testing, but it had done so much for her by
now that she couldnt have been prouder.
Aaron knew little about weaponry, but he did know that the building of one would go a lot
faster had the engineer had some help. Riker! He snapped and pointed at the hull. Dont
just stand there, help her out!
It wasnt that Riker didnt want to be of assistance in some way. He simply didnt know how
to. Elemental magic was something he never worked with, and even if he had, he would have
been absolutely lost in Maggies nonsensical schematics. Aaron had to shove a wrench in his
hands for him to even consider approaching the weapon, and once he did, he stood next to
Maggie like some student awaiting the masters orders. Having no directions to give, Maggie
returned to taking apart the hull one piece at a time, leaving Riker in charge of wiping off the
boards after she was finished with them. No self-respecting mechanic would find pride in that
menial task.
Arent you supposed to be up on lookout? Aaron asked Archer, pointing up at the low
ceiling. Youre little help moping around here. Same goes for you, Pion. Shouldnt you two
be scouting the area?
Archer answered, stretching his arms out but otherwise not moving from his seat. Yeah, well,
we wanted to but something came up and we realized we dont bleedin care.
Pion made a small motion with his hand, shaking it to and fro before stretching out his
fingers. He then returned to the contents of his book, leaving his friend to automatically
translate what the Zeer tried to say.
Archer sighed. Hell be off after he reads that one chapter. Apparently its good.

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Pion nodded vigorously, and the stitch where his mouth should have been curved upwards on
both sides. It was an unsettling sight which produced a noise akin to ripping paper.
Shuddering, the Xexarian decided against trying to force his team to act like a team, and
turned to the only two people acting as they should.
Almost relieved to see Stella, and pleasantly surprised to see Fafnir walking and well, Aaron
clapped and stepped over some rusted tools scattering the floor. Hey, Fafnaticon, Aaron
sauntered to the Macro. Long time no see. Hows your arm? And chest. And head. And well,
everything.
Better, Fafnir assured, thankful that the man could have a halfway decent conversation with
him. I have you to thank for that. You and your guardians tribble milk.
Aaron threw back his hand. Aw, dont sweat it. Pretty sure somebody woulda done the same
for me, too. You were being chased, what was I spposed to do? And all it took was a quick
teleportation.
Speaking of dispersing into another plane of reality, Stella spoke, standing in front of the
two, You have been to the mer-persons lair, is this true?
Aaron opened his mouth.
Excellent. She nodded. You must return to Encantadia so we can document what you have
seen and heard.
Aaron closed his mouth. Stella took him by the wrist and sent him out through a portal, before
he could form a word of protest. Fafnir watched the nowfamiliar sight, though the familiarity
did not stop his eyebrows from shooting up.
I apologize, Stella said to Fafnir as she created her own separate rift, but this is the only
way I can get him to document his finds. They are of top priority, and must be written down
while his memory is still fresh. Stay for a while longer, Fafnir Scion. Meet the team. We will
return shortly.
Help me, Aaron mouthed, dreading the looming despair that came with formal
documentation. Fafnir gave a half-smile and waved them out.
On that unimpressive note, a flash of lightning overtook the room and gave it a cyan glow
before scattering like bullets in a war; sending book pages, blueprints and anything light and
unbolted flying. Riker cursed, his expression starting with not and ending with again. In
between were a few words Fafnir had never heard said before, let alone by a taciturn scholarly
mechanic with a rifle for a limb.
So what gives? Maggie blinked with her heavy Sheeban eyes, drowning in dark circles
under them and milky from lack of sleep. These Eureka moments were a gift from a God, but
they took a toll on her sleeping and eating schedule, and it clearly showed on her face. Does
this mean youre joining our team? Because we could always use new members! Her voice

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went up a tone as she said this, excited at the prospect. Riker, Archer, and the ginger albino
whose name Fafnir didnt catch did not enthuse about him as much.
Laughing in a way which might have been considered derisive, Fafnir quickly cleared his
throat and shook his head. N-no. No, Im not. I only need a place to stay until I can return
home.
Archer gave a shit-eating wry smile, eyes closed under his hood. Another useless freeloader.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
Fafnir moved back his head, puzzled at how much the word another was stressed. Rikers
words pulled him out of his train of thought, and he was surprised at the mechanics bluntness
when it came to describing his team.
I cannot exactly blame you for being hesitant and pussyfooting Maggie, stop giggling, its
a perfectly unfunny word.
Spoilsport. She banged a hammer against a wedged lever on the side of the shell. Riker bit
the inside of his cheek, forcefully wiping down the polished side of the titanium board he
handled. His mechanical fingers curled around the edges; if he had applied another ounce of
force he would have dented it.
Anyhow, he stopped, perhaps noticing that he was not holding the sheet as much as he was
trying to fold it, I cannot blame you for trying to equivocate your way out of providing us
with an answer. You can simply say that this group is not to your liking. His eyes shot up
from under the frames of his rectangular glasses. A venerable thief such as yourself might
have a problem with this ragtag group of hoodlums.
Fafnir knew that he should have taken that dry venerable thief part as an insult. He also
knew that he had been walking a fine line between freedom and incarceration, and wanted to
keep the number of people he killed down to general Smee alone. Even Archer thought that
the snide remark was out of place, rolling his eyes until he could see into the back of his head.
The short moment of uneasiness lasted for less than a second, though it did give Fafnir insight
on the team dynamic. Tightly knit, though through gritted teeth.
I dont mind, Faf, Maggie interrupted. Though he had been grateful that somebody was
already calling him by name, he wasnt keen on having it shortened as a nickname. She
continued without skipping a beat, Ive been in ragtag groups doing things of questionable
legality my whole life. I went from the servants boiler rooms into iron workshops into
terrorist organizations into resistance fronts. I started in the outcasts, went into another group
of outcasts, then into yet another group of outcasts and finally into the Outcasts. Heh. Some
people call it ironic, but I think its just my destiny."
That aint ironic, replied Archer, unprovoked. He studied the tips of his gloved fingers after
he dragged them across a counter to check for dust.A police Guard arrested for misconduct is
ironic. Yours is simply bad judgment. Comes with being a flaky tart with a robot fetish.

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Alright, that does it! Riker shot up, throwing away the metal and tools, twisting the plates of
his arms until he was pointing a rifle straight at Archers head. Maggie was kneeling near the
Phoenix cannon, looking up at him with bored eyes. One more word. Make my day. Say one
more word and your head goes right off!
Riker, sit down.
The mechanic looked at his girlfriend, still at attention. He called you !
I heard what he called me. Ive heard worse from my half-sisters chambermaid. I dont need
you to defend my honor, Rikey, I need you to calibrate the Phoenix hard drive. Sit. Down.
His chocolate eyes flickered from Maggies to Archers. The sharpshooter tittered to himself,
occasionally glancing at Pion who watched the display in mild amusement. The cyborgs
mouth contorted into a grimace, begging for Maggie to let him let him do what, exactly?
Kill a man? In retrospect, his impulsiveness might have been unfounded. It still did not stop
him from wanting to do something anything!
But he tried again, fruitlessly. but
Siddown! Maggie commanded, pulling him by his belt until he fell down on his knees
beside her. It was at this point that Fafnir decided that he had seen enough of the laboratory,
and decided to survey the area. Surely there was some person who he had missed. There was
no chance that these of all people could be the mighty Outcasts who attacked the Senate all
those years back. Not these children.
Coughing lightly into his chest, he pointed at the door with some offhand excuse that he was
going to get some fresh air. The Outcasts thought nothing of it at the time, except for Maggie
waving as she told him to hurry back, and Archer deciding that fresh air was far too overrated.
Fafnir pinned that to his general sardonic nature. He had only known the man for five
minutes, and he was more than certain that he would prove to be an irritation. Yet so many
former Karaktaian soldiers were, and this insight did not come as a surprise. Rolling back his
shoulders, the battler crossed the chaotic floor of the laboratory before he reached the exit; a
sliding door which lead to a spiral staircase, completely shrouded in damp, wooden darkness.
After the mechanical door closed behind the man, Riker gave a furtive glance behind him,
finally speaking to Maggie again.
So are we going to tell him we know about him killing Smee?
Maggie, for once letting go of her blowtorch she attempted to kick start, looked up to the neon
lights on the ceiling in contemplation. Mmmm nope. She adjusted the strap of her
goggles on the back of her head, smiling impishly. I think seeing a murderer walk on
eggshells around us is kinda fun.
Riker nodded in agreement, high-fiving her before they went back to work.

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It was a good thing this conversation took place several feet underground; as Fafnir would
have surely escaped the premises with his tail between his legs had he heard it.
When he emerged to the surface, Fafnir was all but blinded by the white sunlight filtering
through the dense clouds. Crows squawked and circled over the row of barren sequoias, the
vultures they were. And they all scattered like a dusty haze; panicked screeches escaping their
iron beaks as copper soldiers launched into the sky. Three rose up at once, all clad in
lampooned Guard regalia and with gaping holes for their eyes. Fafnir could see them coming;
hurling towards the ground where they crushed into smithereens. An arm there, a head there.
The battler shielded his neck with his palms, running from the bombardment. The noise of
grunting and metal shattering made the ground twitch, and the howling voices in Fafnirs head
rose up, screaming for him to return inside.
They found you! Run! Run from the black feathers!
A handful of crows slowly descended to peck at a soldiers broken finger; cold and listless,
with straps of rubber for joints. Their wings took flight and flapped madly just before they
were crushed by another marionette, thrown from an impressive height. After two more drops,
Fafnir noticed that this rain of metal bodies was carefully calculated; each expressionless
skeleton falling in intervals.
Gathering all the courage he could find in his poisoned soul, the man ran further into the field
to look up to the crown of the tree. It took time for his eyes to adjust to the light, and soon he
saw just what he expected to witness. A line of dummies, all made to look like the Elite
Guards, were shot up into the air from a contraption most resembling a selfwinding
slingshot. One of Rikers inventions, Fafnir supposed. Maggie only cared for creating
weapons, and even though the machine was by no means impressive, it ran smoothly like any
contrivance should.
The image he found surprising was the person balancing atop the branches, jumping from
bough to bough and dipping to collide with the targets with precise, ferocious accuracy.
Punches crashed like lightning; kicks shattered the bodies in mid-air, and what were once
accurate imitations turned to raining scrap metal. Fafnir avoided the debris, almost performing
a dance on the scorching steppe ground.
The fighting figure stopped at one moment, during a pause while the system gathered more
practice targets to fire at the trainee. Clad in a simple armor consisting of copper armguards
and a breastplate strapped with leather belts, the fighters body was bandaged and held by
strings of sturdy rope to tighten the muscles while still providing great mobility. Her shorts
were made of leather and cut high up on her hefty thighs; all slabs of muscle as hard as
concrete. Her cinnamon body was scattered with freckles and spiral olive-green paintbrush
stains, characteristic of her kind. With feathers in her thick hair and a glower forming on her
lips, she looked like a berserker before a great victory.
" a Sitka?" Fafnir asked nobody, shielding his eyes from the sun.

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Silhoueted in front of him, the Sitka dug her heels inside the scaly bark, looking into the
distance with her eyes filled with contempt and repulse. Brimstone was something impure that
needed to be cleansed, and she was the beacon of light that frowned at the mayhem. Her
striking ambers stayed on one spot, her muscles tightened as she stood, her hair shifted in the
wind and her skin was outglowing the light. Her ebony curls moved like waves even though
Fafnir could feel no gust of wind. Some form of heavenly light shone around her jagged
bones, the markings on her skin, the many scars and scrapes she earned during her life which
she wore like premium armor. She resembled the kind of warrior one could only read about in
books about people most majestic. Looking at those people was said to blind the undeserving.
" a goddess," he corrected himself, aghast.

His voice of regard made her ears perk, and before long, she dove through the branches and
landed on all fours, speeding towards the Macro until she grabbed him by the arms, boring her
eyes into his soul. He took her forearm and stared at how fresh sweat made the skin on her
biceps look like she was crafted out of gold.

What in the Defenders name are you doing here? She asked steadily, her voice resonant as
that of ancient deities. Are you in this clan?

Fafnirs mouth went dry, and suddenly his booming baritone sounded meek and high in
comparison. N-no. No, Im not. I dont... I dont think Lady Forrester mentioned anything
about my arrival. Has she?

The Sitkas brow became ridged, and she soon smoothened it as she recalled some
conversation she had with the Sheeba during her medical examination. She released his arm,
and the man felt exactly how much of his blood flow she halted as the plasma came surging
back into his fingers. She turned on her heel to look away from him, staring long and hard at
the dummies falling towards her.

Stella told me about your arrival, she stated, leaving him to understand what exactly made a
person worthy of calling the Lady of Light by her birth name. Stifling a cry through gritted
teeth, she kicked a copper soldier right in the spine, making a backwards flip before landing
on her foot. She hissed, suddenly aware of how much her strength had left her during her
months of starvation. As the wreckage fell around her, she turned to the Macro and spoke

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through the rain of limbs, But seeing how you act during my training, I have decided to make
nothing of it.

Fafnirs head tilted to the side, bushy eyebrows meeting above his thick nose. I think that if
you have gotten to know me better, you would find that I am an exceptional battler. And
former Sevis champion, if that is anything to earn somebody bragging rights.

It isnt.

It took her a couple of seconds during which she punched the heads off two hurling targets to
explain her reasoning to the bewildered Fafnir. I have seen Sevis matches. You are stiff and
inflexible. If you want to truly live in a free for all, you must be hard as a rock, and swift as
river rapids. You may be strong, but even I can see that your spirit is frail. She stood up,
giving the battler enough time to make out the cuts and spirals on her back; runes of mould
imprinted on the flesh of every Sitkan who hailed from the infamous Laranaika tribe. The
womans hands cupped her hipbones, finely filled by better nutrition and a rigorous training
regimen. But fortunately for greenhorns, the ways of a fighter can be taught. That is, if you
have the gall.

Those coming from Laranaika were known for two things in Brimstone history; one was
producing perfect barbarians. The other was wildlyspread regicide. A warrior goddess with
her imperfect form, taunting him with her blood, sweat and vitriol... it was exactly the vision
he had whenever he pictured a Laranaikan fighter before him, all the way down to the crystal
light shining her features; the wide chin and long kickers legs. Suddenly, he was burning for
a name, to simply know the name of this woman, the one who he could ever hope to respect in
this environment.

Who... he struggled to form a question, later settling for the most banal variant. Who are
you?

The Sitka judged him behind her golden eyes.

That is for me to know, Fafnir Scion, the Sitka said to him, looking from behind her olive
marked back, and for you to prove worthy of knowing.
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Her ambers moved up to see another practice dummy plunging from a spring, wielding a
dagger in one hand. Its face was emotionless, though the split second of the Sitkas rage made
the puppet look like it was screaming in agony upon contact.
Perhaps, Fafnir thought as the woman jumped and socked the targets neck with her foot and
pinned it to the ground, there was hope for this inept battalion after all.
/***/
Fifteen days, twenty-three hours and fifty-three minutes she allowed the poor to collect their
coins.
Every day she came to do her rounds, banging on doors and instilling fear in the hearts of
men, clad in leather and cigarette smoke, as some flaxen-haired bringer of despair. And yet,
behind the impatient hand making the comehither motion, stood the palm of a just and noble
saint. At least, this is how she viewed herself. Behind her glare and the cigarette dangling in
her bony fingers was a track of hope and a desperate plea; please spare any money you can,
anything. Please give now in coin or wares. Please let the love of my life live. Please save
yourselves. Please, I beg of you, dont make me repeat the past.
Please.
But pleas hadnt filled her bag with money, and she frequently returned to her employer
emptyhanded. On the thirteenth day, she issued a warning to those in debt. On the fourteenth
day, she was issued a warning by the Kings Hand, saying to prepare for Operation Hellfire,
named by the chemicals she accumulated during the war.
And on the sixteenth night, the dawning of the sixteenth morning, the tax collector was lying
in bed and twirling her fiances raven hair, looking into the distance where Dons bluebirds
flew. It was time for her to choose the fate of the people in Brimstone. Should she cast away
her beliefs and abandon her home; the very slums she was born and educated in, she could
still live a long life with her beloved, and make Don her bride and fulfill her dying wish. And
if mercy prevailed to her selfish need for happiness, she would be considered a guardian angel
to those paupers in destitute estates. But she would lose her soul mate for good, in the Kings
clutches. Her life would be at stake, and the King could simply summon one of his new Elites
to finish the deed.
Doing nothing meant losing everything. Obeying the King brought on no reward; only shame
and the looming curse of living with the hundreds of disgraced souls plaguing her
consciousness for the rest of her life.
It was The Last War again, and she stood as a Commander atop the yellow brick walls in
Lorna, watching over the sentenced bodies she needed to burn on a growing pyre.
The souls of the Syth she could have handled howling in her thoughts. But these were people
she needed to intimidate. Her friends or at least, those she could have considered her
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friends, had she stopped taking orders sooner and instead joined the rogues as her brothers
and sister have what little good their bravado brought on them, once they reached
Laranaika. Those in uniform were kept away from danger. Those opposing were tricked into
the front lines to scourge and die.
And that night, facing the final minutes before midnight, out of uniform and gripping her
lovers hair like a lifeline, her old philosophy dug deeper and deeper into her soul. With
flaring nostrils she leaned over to her sleeping beau. The pressure in her head made her feel
like her nose would start to bleed.
Don? Her voice was hoarse and heavy. Don? Are She shifted in her seat as she heard
Dons limbs move under the thin covers. She had always been a light sleeper; too light of a
sleeper in Billies opinion. The bottle blonde swallowed hard and asked; Are you
content?
Mm?
I mean, Billie restarted, fingers twitching for a smoke, do you really think youre fine like
this? Living with me, I mean. With your machines She looked up to the tank of
aquamarine liquid; making the dark room look like some striped whale from the uncharted
waters. With your medicine, tied here. Are you are you content with living like that?
Billie, pick a God.
Drawing the lapels of her leather jacket over her chest, the tax collectors fingers tightened.
Her darklypainted lips twitched. Huh?
Pick a God, Donovan repeated herself, turning on her back. Her voice was silent, though
much more alert than it was seconds prior. Any God.
I Looking to the side, Billie wiped her moist lips with her wrist. I dont know
Calvin? The name of her patron guardian was the quickest to escape her lips. Her patron was
the God of tricksters and thieves, the one her father prayed to every night and ended up being
the last living member of her family after the war ended. Two years ago, he died of the pox;
months after his larynx was cut out and his lips couldnt pray no longer. Billie never thought
much of his death; a dead bandit was a dead bandit, mutual blood notwithstanding. Calvin,
she returned to her suggestion before allowing her mind to wander into a dark place. Is that
alright?
Its fine, Donovan assured and smiled. And then, groaning with tension, she turned on her
hip to face her lover; her deep voids meeting Billies warm brown pools. What in Calvins
name are you talking about?
Billies shoulders hunched and a low, steady sigh escaped her rounded lips. Don I got
called by the Hand today.
Again? Donovans weak hands gripped her thin pillow. Billie nodded at it, averting her
eyes.
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He said she took a deep breath, that we need to take invasive action. Against the people
in Kix County.
Oh by the Gods, he doesnt really think youre going to go through with his inhumane
Hellfire scheme? She blew some air out of her narrow nostrils, looking up with a smile.
Billie smiled as well, though it was not out of humor. That crazy bastard doesnt he
remember how dangerous that is? Does he really think war tactics work on the home front?
Hmph. Billie picked at a cuticle on her thumb, which she had attempted to bite off earlier.
Hellfire was last used against the Syth, Billie mused. At least, this is how much Don knew
about the operation which even had a name, as of late. In truth, the tax collector had used the
alchemical substance a number of times, with varying results. But these were family houses in
question; households living on small change for weeks on end, and she needed to intimidate
these poor people into paying their tax. What Silas had in mind was a grand exaction scheme
which borderlined on mass eviction if used correctly, or a mass murder, if something went
awry.
And when it came with Hellfire acting in denselypopulated areas, too many things could go
amiss for one person to use it liberally.
Billies throat constricted, and a swallow of saliva went down like sand. Thats his plan,
anyway.
Donovan sighed into her pillow. Well, Im glad you wont stoop so low. I mean, Im
marrying a woman with scruples, arent I?
Avoiding the answer, the blonde looked over Dons shoulder and through the clear window.
The sky was a brilliant opal, glowing green and blue and purple as the moonlight cast its
gleam. It was a calming sight; unspectacular and yet fascinating enough to take her mind off
the thoughts that crept around the back of her head. That she was a monster. And a liar. And
whatever she did in the following hours could peg her as a bornagain killer, as well.
Billie? Don asked for a third time, still lacking an answer. Her brow corrugated with worry.
Billie, whats going on?
She always had flair when it came to letting Billie know that she went out of bounds with her
cryptic nature. The silent, pensive thug act hardly ever fooled the half-Zeer. Seeing her
fiance for what she truly was a damaged servant to her King who acted like no strings
attached her to the system, made Donovan cautious and calculating, scanning each minor
movement and curve. Billies mannerisms have often hid a secret, and it did not take long for
the purple-skinned woman to read it in those chocolate orbs. The truth was hiding behind her
pillow talk, behind her trying to look away into the expanding moon outside of the window.
And soon, after seeing her lovers aura practically painted black with her trying to hold back
the information, Donovan moved back with a single word on her mind.
No.

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The tax collector was no genius, but it never took one to decipher Dons horrified expression.
Dead eyes came alive with fear. Her chapped lips parted, like preparing for a scream. Her
thin, razor-like fingernails clutched the white bed sheets. Even as she said that word, her voice
was shaking; and continued to shake more after Billie attempted to retaliate.
Donovan, you dont
I understand, Dons body flew back and tangled itself into the tubes surrounding her arms.
I understand too well. Even as she struggled to unhook herself from the contraption, her
eyes sliced through Billies impassive mien. But you cant do that, Billie! We talked about
this! We agreed
No, you agreed! The tax collector stood up, lowering one foot on the floor as she pulled up
her boot over the other. Just like you agree to everything. Meanwhile Im trying to keep us
safe and sound all the way out here and keep you alive! If I need to do this, I fucking will!
Those are your friends, Bill! Another needle slowly came out of Dons vein. A drop of jet
black blood squirted over her tight skin, though the sensation which came was no pain she
wasnt used to. Those are your friends out there, and their families!
Great friends they were when I needed a home after the war, she spoke flatly, meanwhile
putting on her other boot and lacing it tightly. I have no friends! I have a job, and those
people had a monetary obligation! They had their chance to pay they all did! But they chose
to act like stubborn children instead. It ends here!
You cant! The people of Kix have a right to protest!
And they abused it! Billie tugged at her leather jacket, stepping over her bed. Now Im
taking it away!
Donovans hands turned to steel when she gripped Billies forearm, but even her stark will
was thwarted as the Macro jerked her shoulder and sped across the room. The soles of her
heavy army boots stomped over the wooden floors, and soon enough they exited into the
flurry of bluebirds trying to fly in through the opened door. As their smooth feathers scattered
across the double bed, Donovan tried to make her iron legs cooperate. She clutched the rails
around the walls; reaching for her crutches in a frenzy.
Wilhelmina! Donovan called out after she put her weight on the two white canes. Her feet
fell on the ground and she hissed, dragging her toes over the cracks in the boards. I wont let
you go!
Billie looked through the window of the living space to see the room again; the heavy keys of
her chimeras sty feeling like an anvil in her palm. She opened the door to step outside just as
Don appeared behind a post. A cane swung to the side and before either of them could react,
Dons body fell like a sack of bones.
She crashed and cracked, lying still as a stone from the shock. Billie flinched as she turned
around; the doorknob escaping her reach until she saw her lovers eyes. They were alive
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disappointed, furious, heartbroken but still alive through the mess, and this was enough for
Billie to swallow hard and escape their home. She knew that seeing Dons tears would make
her stay and lose her. She couldnt allow that. Even if saving her day after day meant having
her cry her eyes out as soon as she took off, she couldnt allow that. Damn Silas. Damn the
King. Damn the door for slamming so loud.
Trying to dispel the image of the fallen Don helplessly trying to reach her crutch, Billie ran
into the old barn. It was painted gray and was as large as the small home she built for herself;
all wood and sawdust and barely enough for a dog to live inside, let alone a legendary beast.
And yet, Hippogriff never complained, and bode his days chewing on lamb skins and licking
the salt from the white stone he slept on. The smell of his humans smoke made his nostrils
flare in alarm. His tattered wings spread and he growled in a low, guttural timbre. His head
shook as Billie blew some smoke into the darkness of his abode and apologized for her
intrusion by slowly stroking his neck. His human was worried he sensed this, as she usually
petted his ears when she was in any sort of fine mood. To comfort her, his eyelids fluttered as
he licked the side of her face. Once again, she tasted of tar and smoke, though there was a
new salty quality to her cheek which he didnt recognize.
Billie gave a reserved, closedmouthed smile as she reached around his head and embraced
the creatures head.
Last time, Griff, she promised, and the words finally made sense on her tongue. Last time
and then Mommas coming home. Itll be just me and Don and you, baby. Just us and no
bullshit involved.
Hippogriffs green scaled tail flogged the air behind him, and settled against the small rise of
his back. Something inside his throat rumbled when he accepted his humans kiss on the
mane, and he looked behind his back after she sauntered, with all her pretend-confidence, to a
locked cabinet where she held her wares.
Hellfire was a deep red substance capable of burning for days on end, never doused away with
water and instead left to burn out in the sand. Its licks lasted for hours, perhaps even days, and
fed on everything from stone to leather, thriving on human skin. It was used by grave diggers
to dispose of flesh and bone, or warlords who attempted to hide their sides body count.
Whatever reason Silas kept saying that Hellfire was the correct way to purify poverty was
completely lost on the tax collectors who obeyed him. And yet, Billies business had her
trapped, and this meant dealing with the late payers in ways some handled the dead. The
maroon liquid was customarily contained in small, long-snouted bottles of ivory, of which
Billie had six.
She took two of them, knowing of the damage each drop made. One drop meant one dancing
flame, and it took a fool to think she would need anything more. And yet she stuffed both
bottles into her jacket before she climbed atop the chimeras back and galloped into town.
Reason was not on her mind, and perhaps this would explain why she left her weapons
cabinet unlocked. She would tend to it later, after the score was settled and the houses were
drenched with the pyromancers potion, known by the unprivileged Macros as chimera blood.
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Her beasts healed legs and strong hooves broke the ground they trudged, and the unholy
noise they made felt like music to Billie, compared to the white noise in her head.
Her business went as planned as she landed inside the county borders. She stepped off her
chimera and distributed the drops of Hellfire over the boarded homes. One bottle she threw
away in a rage, and became furious when it reached some roof and started to trickle along it
like a rapid. That house would be the first to burn once the dawn sun heated the bile. She had
done no favors to those living inside. Perhaps, she thought with a wistful sigh, this is what
came to those who believed change could happen through passive resistance. The rest of the
bottle was evenly spread over the hovels; one drop on every corner. What the ground didnt
take would be caught aflame by the first rays of sunlight. It would be the new day which
killed, not the hand that dispersed the potion.
A drop at a time, on every wall, trickled carefully as not to get the stuff of fire on her skin.
The ordeal lasted for an hour, though only because after every home, Billie needed to stop and
clutch her stomach, forcing back the vomit that built up inside. Its the last time, she promised
herself. One last time to sin. The last time to damn some unfortunate soul and the last time her
evil deeds would disrupt her sleep. And after all this she would pray away her shame and
guilt, spend every day with her beautiful guardian if need be. Her name would be clear in the
eyes of the Gods after this was over. This she truly believed.
However, this was no time for lamenting and delivering empty vows to be forgotten at
daybreak. Furious at herself and her employer alike, she smashed the final ivory urn on the
ground and saddled her chimera. She rode into the setting moon, over the wind that blew dust
and grime into her face.
She might have stayed calm and composed as she carried out her task. It was an old trick of
the trade; performing business with contempt when the only contempt one could feel was for
herself. And yet, when she entered her humble home and saw Don, the most embittered
expression on her loves tear-stained face, Billie could no longer fight the building emotions.
She bit down hard on her fist and fell on her knees, holding her Don as a mother would hold
her fallen soldier son.
Why are you still doing this? Don asked in a monotone, through Billies blubbering. The
blonde was apologizing into her neck, her tears as cold as ice once they reached Dons skin. I
thought youd stop.
I love you, she muttered incomprehensibly. The most feared slave-seller and the most
ruthless of generals continued sobbing like a young babe and holding her invalid sweetheart
for mental support.
Whos crippled now?
This evil thought crossed Dons mind after Billie wailed on: I need you here. I cant be
alone, not again. Not after I tried so hard to keep you here, not now. Ive put too many things
on the line, Ive burned too many bridges. I cant live if you end up hating me Im sorry,
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Don. Im ashamed, Im ashamed of everything, but Ive been doing it all for you! Only you. I
love you!
Love, Don allowed her eyes to close as the lack of energy finally allowed her to sleep, is
not an excuse.
The blonde nodded; choking on a sob she was still too proud to release.
The two of them greeted the burning morning far away from the flames. They clutched each
other while they slept and dreamt their troubled dreams. It was peculiar, how two of the most
broken people in the universe could find each other. And then become so, so very scared of
losing themselves.

Chapter IX: Hellfire

Archer Thorne had a blackened thumbnail since he was a young boy of nine. Nobody could
see it, due to the dark gloves he sported in any heat or cold, but the minor trigger-related
injury caused him to carry an at times painful reminder of how impulsive he used to be. This
is why lining his shots was slow but effective; aligned perfectly and prepared to kill. His
strikes were nothing short of perfect; his form was something even the best sharpshooters of
the last century would envy. As a marksman, the Karaktaian had only two rules. One, never
make mistakes. Two, if you do, leave no witnesses.
Of course, skills as fine as that needed to be sharpened; like knives needed a whetstone. He
lifted his weapon above his head and inspected the wind current against the tip of his tongue;
an old trick from the highlands. The air was dry and the slightest trace of wind streamed
eastward, carrying dust and grime.
Immediately he spat out the filth, regretting the fact that he ever left the pristine purity of
Frost Peaks snowy mountains. The desert air did nothing beneficial to him; the heat made
him sweat, and yet the southern sun could not warm a highlanders heart the way northern
rays would. Resting against a thick branch, he sunk into his thick winter coat which he wore
exclusively for its nostalgia. It smelled of elk fur and Domagojs cigarettes perhaps this was
his mind playing tricks on his memory, as he hadnt smelled either of the two in half a decade.
One shot. One kill. The target this time was a hornets nest one and a half mile yonder an
easy kill, unless Pion interfered.

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The dark Zeer stretched his arms out, straight below the marksman. Above him, Archer could
hear the bones and muscles beneath the runners flesh crack and spring to life.
Four outta seven, Archer warned, his voice ragged after another fit of coughing. A wary
smirk stretched across his barbed cheeks. Whoever loses cleans the latrines.
Pion lifted up a stumpy thumb before returning the hand on his hip. His body swayed in the
slow rhythm of the wind as he scratched the side of his foot against his calf. Cocky, Archer
noticed. The God of sport was awake and observant that morning.
But so was the Goddess of archery.
The gunshot slit the wind like a balisong cut a ripe apple; Pion could hear the air above him
rip like skin.
His feet thundered across the gray soil, drumming to his destination as the bullet whizzed on
its own accord. Jumping over gorges and running through the embankments, the Zeer could
have reached up his hand and caught the bullet, and yet the wily thing zoomed out of his grasp
whenever he tried. The ammo came closer to its target, and even at this distance, Pion could
hear the hornets screeching. Their layered cone hung on one thin twig and almost touched the
ground with its mass, and the bullet ran as fast as streaming rain towards it. Breaking out in
sweat the Zeer sped up as he and the bullet almost collided. Six more feet. Four more feet!
Three feet! Two !
The shell lodged into Pions hand, stock still and still sending out tremors across the Zeers
body before it finally settled and melted before the mans eyes. The lead turned to ink and
dripped through his skin like acid; the dark Mana cloying and as black as death. This was his
lifeblood, Pion reminded himself as dense white vapors steamed up his face. What made you
a monster has made you indestructible.
Seconds later, the wound in the centre of Pions palm returned to it mauve, ashen tone. The
tissue around the gap burned and molded like clay into their original form, leaving no trace of
injury. He turned on his heel, eyes still downcast on his hand, and then lifted up his arm to
signal Archer, who broke out in muffled curses.
Beginners luck! He insisted, already disgusted with the idea of fulfilling the losers part of
the wager. Rolling his stiff shoulders back, the man asked in a slightly calmer tone, still
strident so that the Zeer could hear from all the way down under the cone: How bout seven
outta twelve?
Pion ignored the stinging hornets as he made another hand gesture towards his friend. And
this time, even those unfamiliar with his and Archers intricate sign language could
understand what the dark Zeer meant by lifting up a very specific finger in the air. There
would be no more bullet chasing, as the winner was clearly decided. Archer groaned and
turned his rifle over his back while Pion ran across the steppe again, into the practice targets
Maggie and Riker had occupied for themselves.

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The mechanic came into Pions clear sight, hunched over a small model resembling the bare
bones of a miniature Phoenix cannon. It was pointed at several wooden Guards, though Pion
doubted that the prototype had the necessary fire power to deal any significant damage. Riker
propped up his glasses and turned to Maggie, who was listening intently and sometimes
flicking the cannons barrel with her finger.
Stop that, he said in a stern tone, though his austerity was mellowed by a small smile
threatening to flee his lips. For some reason unbeknownst even to him, Riker waited until
Pion and Archer were inside of their hollow hideout to explain his newest theory. His throat
cleared.
Alright. So your original hypothesis about elemental magic failed to work. Luckily, the
testing was put to an abrupt end before anybody was seriously injured. Again, sorry about
your eyebrow.
Grinning uncomfortably, Maggie smoothened away a bare patch where her left brow used to
reside. The chances of my idea working is fifty-fifty. She shrugged. I can never get used to
those odds.
Well it might not have worked in practice but we are on the right track, concept-wise. You
see, he leaned over the small contraption, one of his mechanical fingers forming into a long,
needle-thin pointing device. Tracing the prototypes skeleton, he gave his insight in a low,
calculated tone of a university professor. What we need to remember that lightning acts as a
solid particle as well as a wave, this is compared to the catalyst ether, I mean which is
plasma. If lightning passes through the slits we placed in the matrix, it is supposed to form
into bars which would heat the ether, which would then be shot into the turret, loaded with
crystallized dark Mana. And it does! Except, well, Riker placed the small rod against the gun
mantle, immediately breaking it off. His expression was unchanged; meaning he expected this
to happen. The interference pattern is too strong for the machine to take, and this causes an
internal blast. This is why all the circuits are shot and burning, and why we cant get more
than four shots at a time. It isnt about melding Mana and ether together as we initially tried.
We have mastered this
Ahum!
Riker swallowed back some of his undeserved pride. Sorry, Magpie. You mastered it.
The redhead beamed. Go on.
Now all we need to do is reduce the pressure building up as the heated and purified
concoction hits the lens. Which we can do with He made a dramatic pause, during which
he took the small beaded wand and pressed hard at the top of the miniature cannon. Two
squareshaped gaps formed as the thin sheets of metal dropped and clanked down into the
vacant box. The mechanic finished his train of thought with a cocksure grin. Rupture discs.
Six of them. They will be discharged after a number of consecutive bursts, thus releasing the
pressure until all six are expelled. At this point, we might as well put our ultimate weapon to
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the test, as the blow would destroy it either way. The Phoenix will have enough energy for
one optimal blast before collapsing entirely, but at least we would make it that far.
Maggie blinked behind her opaque goggles. Thats it?
Thats it. Riker shrugged and let his arms flop to the sides of his body, nonchalant.
With pursed lips, Maggie scrutinized the model and then lifted up her stillexisting eyebrow
to her boyfriend. So your master plan is to put holes into my lifes work as some quickfix
solution, basically. Meaning theres no way the Phoenix would ever work but theres a slight
chance it could fire a few shots before combusting entirely? It could only be functional for a
little while and thats only if we bang some gaps in six random places? Is that what youre
saying?
The Macros smile vanished almost entirely, and he rubbed the back of his neck as the pointed
retracted back into the metal finger. Red in the face, he tried to manufacture a response with
little luck. Well, I er not random, per se
I LOVE IT!
Flinging herself into his arms, she gave him the loudest, sloppiest kiss on the cheek he had
ever felt, and this left him disoriented and wiping his chin with the back of his hand. Maggie
removed herself from him and jumped around the wooden table the model was positioned
over, hugging her frame.
Genius, genius! She insisted in her shrill, excited voice. Pure genius! I knew it! I knew
there was a chance Im in cahoots with you of all people! If one blew off after every three
shots, that gives us she counted on her fingers, her tongue sticking out of her mouth. a
lot! Im not even including the ultimate Mana ray, and then the explosion would cause so
much damage on its own! And the debris! Just imagine the debris, Rikey, its going to be
pandemonium everywhere! Everything about this makes for a legendary weapon of mass
destruction! Mass destruction for the history books! Well be the envy of gunsmiths
everywhere! Well be famous so famous! If we continue working as we did, and if we do it
just as I imagined, maybe we could get it into testing in in weeks! It could be in working
order in a less than a a MONTH! A MONTH! RIKEY, RIKEY, RIKEY, THIS IS THE
BEST DAY OF MY LIFE BY THE GODS IM SO EXCITED KISS ME KISS ME KISS
ME!
Riker did not exactly oblige obeying the command was more along the lines of him not
having other choice. The redhead grabbed him by the sleeves and dipped him down to the
height she normally was after propping up on her toes. The sweet moment was only broken
after they heard a very loud, very surprised grunt coming from the large Macro who was the
last to join their group. It was at this point that the two decided they should return to their
work, as Fafnir and the Sitka were emerged in theirs.
Limbs and fists clashed as Fafnir fell to his side, grunting as he collided with the soil as hard
as ice.
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Stand up, Fafnir Scion, the Sitka commanded, seemingly put off by the champions lack of
dexterity. Her fists were clenched and her head raised to the Gods domain; golden orbs
turning silver in the white light above them. It is said in the tales of my kin; a broken man
will only recover once he had defeated his foe. And so far, I see no trace of progress. Youre
still ailing, and this makes for a poor warrior.
Fafnir spat to the side, turning his head away so the ebony battler couldnt see his spit. It was
his final act of courtesy towards her as a lady, and a worthy opponent. I must warn you, he
spoke as he wiped a trail of dirt from his upper lip, in my life, no man has ever defeated me.
I see no men here. Your boastful forewarning holds no water. She gestured him to stand,
and noiselessly accepted his strikes and punches.
Blocking, twisting and kicking his attacks away, she guided him across the vicinity of their
hideout. The sky seemed to crack open a window for all the gods of strife and battle to see the
impressive clash. Pion emerged from the tree trunk and looked out of the fissures in the bark,
taking in all of their movements, which flew as fluidly as silk in water. Riker and Maggie
lifted their eyes from their schematics and models for once, and Maggie moved her goggles
over her head to observe the Sitkas fearsome technique. All eyes were on the two, and Fafnir
could smell the thrill of battle again; the stench of blood in his mouth, the sound flesh made
colliding against flesh. His glory could never last, and he fell on his back again.
You are strong, the Sitka commented as she grabbed his hand and pulled him to his feet.
But you are slow. Like a mountain slowly cut away by the currents flowing below. A stalwart
stoic is a fine pacifists stance, but I can see fighting spirit in your eyes. You are not akin to
take a beating. Now come! She clapped, and this sounded like thunder on a clear day.
Attack me!
Somewhere between being hit in the arm and having his kick evaded, hot determination began
to stir inside the mans gut. It felt like coals, burning coals containing the stuff of malice and
anger, bile which he hadnt felt coursing through his body since he pushed Smee onto the
horns. He clenched his teeth, and suddenly all was white noise and shimmering scarlet.
Something hot and formidable not unlike bloodlust finally dropped from his eyes and he
could see what he had done. The Sitka lied below him, her shoulders pinned by his heavy,
calloused hands.
One of the surrounding spectators expelled a tremulous gasp. For a second, Fafnir was afraid
to move his stiff arms, unsure of the Sitkas reaction to his blow. Her expression showed no
emotion, perhaps only relief, as something she awaited for a long time finally came and struck
her like a stone.
Good, she deadpanned.
She kneed him in the ribs and turned her body until her weight was pressing him; her nails
digging into the small between his collar bones. The counter couldnt have taken longer than a
second, and Fafnir was staring up in awe again.
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But Im still superior, she declared as law. The Sevis champion could see a smile under her
proud, gleaming eyes.
Only the Gods below knew how this battle could continue, had Stella not appeared at the foot
of their headquarters, clutching her long white gown with bony fingers and spewing madness
as she escaped the flash of cyan. Her pale eyes turned white as the linn of Zephyrs Field; her
ears were rigid and aware of every small noise, twitching as if possessed.
Raem! She called out, running to the two battlers who cleaned themselves from the dirt.
The woman urgently looked and the Macro who shook his head. Has anybody seen my
child? Raem?! Spinning on her heel, she called out his name and ran to the pair of inventors.
Maggie was the first to jump up and run to her, take her by the sinewy arms.
Stel! Stelly, what happened? She asked, propping up on her toes. In seconds, the Outcasts
all gathered around the heavilybreathing matron, watching her vexed and downtrodden form
trembling in the sun. Her snow-white skin shone, almost translucent, and her eyes were glassy
and muddled with some chalky film strongly resembling cataracts.
I I I dont know, she answered, shaking her head at her uselessness. I dont know. I
dont hes lost. I know that much. Hes lost and alone, and scared out of his mind!
Lady Stella, please relax. Take deep breaths. Where did you last see him? Riker asked, in a
voice that came off much calmer than it should have. The fact of the matter was that the
mechanic was equally petrified; since their groups forte and the stoic of Brimstone, the most
revered matron and guardian, trembled and babbled among them like a frightened girl lost in
the woods. It was an awful sight to behold more so for those who knew Stella Forrester
personally.
Even Archers brow ironed out, and he watched the Sheeba with interest, rather than loathing.
He was, he he meditated. But he was brought by a force a flaming I can hear him
calling me but but hes in too much of a distress to say where or maybe I am. Frantically,
her checkered irises shifted around her friends; now akin to formless blobs. Maybe Im at
fault, maybe, maybe Im the one losing my mind while hes scared and helpless maybe maybe
Im
Stelly?
Maggies tanned fingers meshed with Stellas white digits, rubbing against the matrons
knuckles. It was at this moment that Stella realized she was staring at the ground, and looked
up to see the engineers eyes. Uncovered and earnest, they were emeralds of hope and wisdom
settled in spheres and tartan. It were these very eyes which met her for guidance, which asked
her about the Sheeban history and took in every aspect, proudly accepting them. So many
eyes like Maggies were set on her and begged for leadership, and it was without question that
Stella would aid them in this troubling time.
What can we do? Maggie asked in a soft tone.
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This was when Stellas own eyes became brighter again, and her voice silvery and resolute.
Her fingers squeezed around Maggies as she looked around the grounds.
Anything you can. Her eyes returned to hues of gray and powdered blue as chaotic visions
became clear as orange gems in her pupils. I see fire, and I see despair. Screaming. I can
hear that as well. I think I smell copper not blood, only copper. Raemskal is afraid not in
mortal danger, but if I know him well, he soon could be.
In this daze, she listened around for signs of faint clapping, but could only hear cries which
drowned out the torched emotions washing the corners of her childs mind. The cries pounded
against walls houses and crawled into the flames where they crumbled and leaked into oil
and melted skin. Flames outlined homes and the bodies running amok outlined the roads,
slippery with death. In seconds, Stella had determined the source of his signal, and she prayed
to the Gods that she was wrong, just once, just this one time. But the Gods would never give
such abundant mercy.
Something horrible has happened, she concluded after closing her eyes. And then, as she
started crafting another teleportation rift; bright, foamy, and large enough to surround the
entire group and engulf them: The people need our help.
/***/
Ambers coiled like a maidens curls; clawing to the skies that grew red. Kix was dying and
coloring its sand with the colors of slaughter, and the screams of many a poor men trapped
inside bolted, flaming homes. Nails sharp as blades came through the boards; the fingers
charred and blackened with decay. Those who escaped lamented and begged for aid from
anybody with enough air lest to breath; and with superhuman strength, some stayed and
attempted to free the relatives who trapped themselves as means of protest. And then, after a
third strong pull at the barricades, the survivors yielded and left the others for the blazes.
Aaron was with Pira-Pira on that day as well, before a familiar voice put a match to the
crevice of his mind, splitting his head in half: AARON HELP US HELP US PLEASE HELP
US COME BACK! His ears bled as he first heard the pained cries, and as he should, tried to
transport himself to the source. He was dragged through his reality, colors flashing in the
wind; bitter soot covering his skin and expelling dirty light which blinded him, all while the
voices demanded in a cluster: AARON THEYRE RISING THE FLAMES ARE RISING
RISING FLAMES RISING RUN TO US COME TO US QUICK!
A migraine or its closest relative from the depths of Hell clashed in his body, swishing like
a tsunami against a boardwalk and washing away any semblance of calm. By the time he was
dropped into the home of the screams, blood already collected in his throat and his eyes grew
scarlet.
This was when he saw the firestorm; fervid and raging against the pastel of the Aura
Kingdom. It was like all the anger in the world collided into a ball of fire and ash, raining
down on the slums in a bombardment until the people emerged from their homes. They ran
clutching cheeks that seeped down their necks and pulling hair, their feet turning to bone and
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cinder. Clothes were ripped, children were left behind, the voices in his mind thundered as fire
cracked its whips and burst out of windows like hot breath out of a dragons maw. In a
crescendo of annihilation, Aarons ambers widened and his breathing became shallow as the
most disturbing thought came into place.
The pleading tones were an amalgamation of the burned and burning, but the loudest was
Freyas panicked squall. For once in years, the desperation was real. For once, lives were at
stake. Again, souls clung onto him and begged for salvation, sinking into his chest and asking,
through sobs, if this was the Hell they brought onto themselves by disrespecting the sovereign
rule.
Let he who casts away his ruler waste in horror and see their children die, quoted a
pockmarked crone, her breath rank as the death she nearly escaped, as they raise a litter
unworthy of opportunity. Is that us, Aaron? Her eyes met his; youthful ambers full of life and
hollow tearful browns. Is this us?
Her hands might have been charred, but they felt frozen under his palms. Prying her from his
frame, he pushed away those who needed to approach him, sprinting in a haze of
remembrance. There was no way of remembering a day like this, not since he was last in a fire
as a baby. The flames cost him his family and people, his mother protected him with her own
flammable flesh, and he cried for days as he was pinned under her, right until his matron
pulled him out of the debris. He had heard a story of his discovery more times than he could
have counted, yet he never recalled a detail which he hadnt imagined. A sinking, paralyzing,
primal fear remained, and his heart pounded and his hands shook as he ran towards his friend,
wherever she was.
For the first time in his life, Aaron was truly terrified.
It was the worst feeling ever to become acquainted to.
His limbs fell numb to the touch of Stellas fingers, curving around his forearm. Raemskal!
Stella called out, her eyes adjusting to the redness. Her protg twisted as he felt her grip; iron
hot and desperate while she looked around the mayhem.
Serena help us all she whispered, lips barely parting. The other members of the Outcasts
were not as stunned; Fafnir, Riker and Archer were already on the run to rescue those trapped
inside the inferno.
Come on, move! Riker called out, craning his neck. Maggie drew out two large guns,
quickly joining his side. The Sitka stood in place.
Youll run without me, she decided, watching the flames like a belated prophecy, long
foreseen by the tribes soothsayer. The licks of scarlet and blood almost warmed her heart.
The day I help a Macro will be the day I help him to his grave.
Good! Archer called out, his kukri at the ready. Youll stay and burn with the rest of em!

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Kayarra vntar, he wanted to say, but the verbal morsel wedged in his throat, and he bit his
tongue. He took out his passing frustration on the ossified Stella as he sped. Get a move on,
prig!
Maggies two emerald weapons pointed at a building promptly after seeing the last resident
flee from it. Her teeth clenched as she held down the triggers; boots sliding out of her stance
as she struggled to keep up her arms. Two rays of magenta zoomed in the flames and domed
the building. Blotches of crimson and burgundy collected the flames, spinning in a sphere and
flattening them against the shifting walls. Windows shattering, roofs collapsing, wooden
beams howling at the pressure until the ring burst and came back into Maggies weapons in a
forceful push. The impact knocked her off her feet, and Fafnir could only stand in awe and see
the nowflameless hovel; broken and damaged, yet standing still adjacent to the roaring
firestorm.
What was that?! He asked as Stella and Aaron made haste towards the burning buildings.
Maggie jumped up on her feet, breathing heavily through gritted teeth.
Degasification globes, she explained, shoulders hunched after impact. Theyre good
against chimera blood. But unless you want people in there with imploded lungs, I cant use
em unless everyones evacuated.
Something eastward exploded behind them, and more screams came spilling out of the
conflagration. Even the extinguished house started to light up, as the blaze caressed the walls
and slowly built up momentum. Maggie cocked up her guns, ears perking at the sharp hum
they made while recharging.
Ill take care of things here, she promised, you go help Stel and the others! She urged him
to go even as he ran to the rescue, taking the Sitkas hand in his. Maggie fired the rays with
practiced accuracy, arms aching like hell and fingers twitching after the recoil.
But she was still standing and unafraid; the folk she yearned to save no longer saw a halfbreed in their midst, but rather one of Aarons people their Saviors worthy comrade and
this is why she fired the domes and put out the fires until her knuckles cramped and smoke
choked her gullet. There was a soldier behind those mutant eyes of hers, and she needed to
make her presence known.
Being an expert trooper in The Last War, Archer crashed through the homes; knocking down
bolts and barricades like they were nothing. On the opposite side, Riker targeted larger homes,
the ones which held many families under the same roof. Hed blast through the roofs, firing
projectiles from his arm in a cascade as he made an exit for the residents to scurry through,
before their house succumbed to the flames. Young children and those too weak to walk clung
onto his arms and back, then falling on the dusted road like ragdolls, panting and breathing
hard as he surged into another dwelling.
More and more people gathered in the ghetto; soldiers, Elites, beggars, thieves all came to
see the Outcasts again, to aid them in their rescue. Some threw sand over the flames; others
sided with Stella, who stayed in the streets and provided the survivors with water, balms,
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gauze and whatever else they could scavenge. Mostly, however, the rabble wanted to see
Aaron Kronos, the Xexarian jumping over roofs, breaking into houses, screaming for
somebody named Freya with desperate urgency. When he silhouetted over the scarlet sky,
all the other heroes fell into oblivion, and the crowd cheered and jeered in a cluster on
unneeded opinions.
You!
A kings Guard pulled Fafnir by the wrist as he was taking out an elder out of his home. The
Guard cocked a rifle up at his neck, lifting the Sevis fighters chin to better see his features.
Even the weak old man was dismayed as he viewed the armed officer; his reddened hair that
frizzed like sheeps wool, the milky spots strewn over his dark Macro pigment. His stench
was pungent and horrible, all sweat and filth with no substance, like a choking powder spread
over his body. The Sevis fighter crinkled up his nose, fighting his instinct to look away. It was
hard to tell if it was impatience or terror Fafnir felt at the time, as he heaved and shivered all
the same from the smoke.
You murderer! You bastard! I oughtve known youd come back. You sick Sevvys always
return to the scene of ya last murder. Well, Imma have lots-a fun having my first!
A strong womans voice interrupted the man and he turned sharply to the side, his gun still
pressing against Fafnirs Adams apple. The woman who stood behind the two was clad fully
in her gilded Elite regalia; a lions head sewn in her hood in golden thread, the saber in her
right arm sharpened to kill. Having her stand against the red, deafening silence that followed
her, it was as if the spirit of Captain Karalynn of Callahan had been summoned to Aura and
compressed into a squat, strapping body of a young Macro woman. The golden stud on her lip
shone when she spoke to her inferior.
Jocel! She called with a voice like a knifes. Leave him!
Fury on his mien, the man ignored her and dug the cold end in the soft of Fafnirs neck, until
the Macro lowered the pensioner on the ground, until he was lying on his stomach with his
arms over his head. Fafnirs hands rose up slowly, eyes shut tightly as he decided it was time
to accept his comeuppance.
Jocel! The woman warned again, her voice resonating deep through the charred soil.
Its the man who killed Smee! The man shouted back with no respect for her rank. Two
thousand gold pieces he chuckled darkly. Id kill my Ma for that money.
There are good people dying, Jocel! Fellow Macros who depend on us! We made an oath to
them, to protect them! He was helping the very people we surrendered our lives to. Let him
be!
FUCK YOU!
An angry hand gripped the rifle and it fired to the side; scattering the people who chose the
spot to rest. Jocel was ready to attack his superior, raging as the Macro escaped his vision
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 only to discover that the hand which held him back wasnt Staples at all.
Jocels finger retracted from the trigger, and his brow broke out in sweat at the sight. M
m he stammered, lips quivering like tides. Master Kronos! Sir! He saluted him,
dropping his weapon to his hip as he bowed. His voice was tremulous, even strained as he
averted his eyes. Its its an honor, sir Kronos HNNG!
Pulling him up by the scruff of his neck, Aaron stared deeply into the mans pathetic, shifting
eyes. In the deepest voice he could find in himself, Aaron commanded: Never lay a weapon
on my teammate again.
Whimpering as the delicate hairs on his skin began to come off under Aarons grip, the man
furiously shook his head.
Freya Woodchester. She owns a stand at the market, Aaron attempted to jog the idiots
memory. Short-haired, a halfling. Played lute at the last festival. She lives here. You seen
her?!
Thank the Gods for the voice control the Xexarian mastered during the earliest years of his
childhood; otherwise Jocel might have known how desperate he was to locate her, and how
horror came through his pores until his heart felt like exploding. Weakly, the Guard pointed
towards the largest burning building among them a pub which separated the slums from the
common town. Aaron dropped him and then, swiftly as a fired bullet, zoomed through the
concourse.
He had already become accustomed to the flames crawling in his skin by the time he reached
the bar, but the longer he stayed in the din and smog, the less of Freyas pleas he could hear. It
mixed with the chattering outside; with Maggies guns recharging and the homes crashing as
their residents were ushered out. Things were becoming quieter, and silence was an omen to
any true Xexarian.
Shrouding his face in a sphere of air, he looked around the charred remains of stools, the
empty tables, the bottles of firewater which fueled the hellfire which whipped and torched the
curtains and tapestry. Jovial portraits of the hillside and nature were mutated and distorted;
shrunken and blackened with the flaming ire. A thin, diaphoretic film coated his skin. His
limbs stuck to his torso, his feet felt as heavy rocks. FREYA! He shouted, turning on his
heel before noticing a railing leading to the basement. His breathing became fast and he ran
down the stairs which cracked and shifted under his breath. The fire still attacked from all
sides, threatening to engulf him whole.
Freya!
He spotted her at once, limbs outstretched as she laid unconscious, her lacquered lute in one
hand. Immediately his heart leapt in his mouth, and he could taste blood and copper as he
came to take her thick, listless body in his arms. Her head lulled and her eyes parted, glassy
with smoke. When she spoke, only a groan came out. Flesh hot and blistering, her mouth
contorted in pain when he touched it.
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Come on, Freya, he said in a panicked tone, breathing quickly as he hung her over his back.
His heart was throbbing against his lungs, racing to see which organ would collapse first. Yet
even the Gods knew the Xexarian spirit could never be cowed, no matter how their flesh tried
to shatter. Come on Freya, were almost out.
His hands gripped her stunted legs and he hurled forward, through the embers and scarlet
tides. The light died above them; turning to strange, flashing specters. Air was punched out of
his lungs, and though he tried to keep the current swirling around them, the Xexarian watched
with his glassy eyes his very breath pulled from him, through his mouth and nose, spiraling
into oblivion. Inhales went away as powdery wisps of smoke, and no exhale was to be spared.
Pressure cracked his body and he felt as if he would fall. His legs were iron and Freya was a
knapsack stuffed with lead. There was blood in his mouth, smoke in his eyes, acid in his
stomach and his throat burned and let out smoke through gritted teeth.
No, he thought and looked up, seeing nothing but the collision of night and day. No, Maggie
cant be extracting oxygen yet. No. No, not now, please Gods please let me live I cant fail
now, not now I have people to save, I have expectation to live up to.
Please no, Gods!
For the love of all of you.
Heroes cant die in the light!
A blazing, chromatic serpent pressed around his ribs, pushing down as the Xexarian felt as if
his eyes would pop out and burst. Turn it off, Triggs, he pleaded with salt seeping down his
cheeks; his tears smoldering from his skin. Turn off the globes. Let me out. Let us out!
He rammed his head against a wall.
Let us out!
Freya slipped off his back. When he pulled her up, he heard windows shattering.
LET US OUT!
And finally, with his nostrils full of spice and his body heaving in dire need of oxygen, the
man ran back and, fueled by nothing but grit and despair, came crashing down with the brick
and wood.
And then the world exploded.
In the white, slowlysubduing agony which came and washed over him, the man heard
nothing. He saw Stella, outlined before the dying flames. Her moonlit hair was unbrushed and
wild, her eyes red and clouded. Yet she still seemed calm and nurturing after she cupped
Aarons face and looked in his eyes. They were wide and frenzied, searching for a body. The
houses, put out, steamed in the daylight. His teammates surrounded him; their faces
expressing a varying degree of worry. Two Guards an Elite and an officer, came towards the
sleeping halfling girl. The Elite pushed down her chest in urgency while the other held back
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her shoulders, absentmindedly looking at the generals murderer standing beside a runaway
slave. There was chaos in the air. Despair, hatred, relief, shock and fear all congealed in the
hearts of those who lived, and Aaron could see the downtrodden aftermath just out of the
corner of his eye.
But he heard nothing.
No affable coo telling him where to go.
When he stood on his feet and fell in Stellas arms, new tears started to come out even before
the Elite stood up from the bards body.
Onika Staples removed her glasses, swallowing hard as she looked to the Xexarians matron.
Im sorry. Her bright, sober eyes examined the sky. She plays for the Gods now.
Those words reached Aarons ears as if somebody had read a grocery list aloud. His best
friends death deserved pomp and circumstance, wailing masses, screaming in misery and
yet nothing of the sort came. He couldnt even run to her to take her hand one last time. His
legs were cut off where he stood, and his body turned to stone. Stellas arms gripped him, and
once again he was a friendless orphan with some ancient Sheeba trying to console him when
he cried. A child once more, as he shivered in her arms.
Once more, cursing himself for not running fast enough, not being smart enough, not being all
what the others wanted him to be. Once more, another person he deemed worthy of visiting
the Zephyrs Field died an unimposing, human demise. She would become another name on a
tombstone, lost in the thousand fallen men. If he ever wished to call to her for guidance, he
would be greeted by muteness in the void, from which he needed to claw out of on his own. If
he wanted to hear her song, he would need to resort to his memory. And if he ever, ever
wanted to hear her jokes another time, hed hed hear them from somebody else. They
would say they had heard them from some lighthearted songstress who told shaggy dog
stories of teachers and lawyers in between songs.
Nobody would know her name after a time. Perhaps, in time, he would forget her as well. Not
completely, not soon, but there would be a time when he would come across some highly
regarded memento, and spend minutes trying to recall whose gift it was. After that, he would
shrug away the memory and return to his duties.
It was an awful notion, and yet it was all he knew. In several years, his best friend would be
misplaced in memory, along with all those he lost in the war.
The idea of needing to go through all that again paralyzed him with rage.
Aaron? Maggie asked timorously, approaching him as she holstered her weapons. Are
you are you going to be alright?
The Xexarian pulled away from the Sheeba who slowly took a step back as he came to the
half-breed. Nostrils flaring, his fists clenched when he looked at her, fury in his eyes. And yet

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before he could react, he used all of his energy to ask a simple question, in an almost relaxed
manner.
Maggie, he inquired, did put out the pub while I was in there?
The redhead looked behind him with the corner of her eye, at the still-burning, isolated estate.
She wanted to extinguish the licks, but it was Stella who told her that Aaron was inside, and
this is why she kept her weapons tucked. Now, the chimera blood has started to dry, and the
hellfire came down, down into the soot, until it was no longer threatening, but rather a painful
reminder to what occurred. Swallowing hard, the engineer closed her eyes and shook her
head.
Aarons heart flipped.
She suffocated from the vapors, she said in a meek tone. I didnt do anything. After
seeing how the Xexarian turned away, a balled-up fist pressed under his lower lip, she added:
I dont think I pulled the trigger. But I mightve. If you want to blame me for this, you
can.
Maggie, Riker spoke from a distance, too aware of her desired angle. The engineer lifted up
her goggles; bug-eyes watery and heavy. There was honesty in her checkers; a strong but
useless ray of hope.
If its going to be easier for you, you can blame me. My weapons never work and its
nobodys fault but my own. I should have been more careful
Maggie!
Yes, I fired the globes! I drew out all the air! Im sorry Aaron, Im so sorry! You tried to save
her and you were so close but it was all ruined because of me and my
Maggie, stop! You cant blame yourself for this!
Turning, she cried: WELL HE SHOULDNT BLAME HIMSELF EITHER!
Her fighting words were stifled as Aaron put up his hand and screamed ENOUGH!
Suddenly, every degenerate within a mile looked to him, perplexed and wondering if they had
ever heard him shout at the top of his voice like that.
He looked around the field, among the fallen and the burned, the ashes, the debris, the bodies
of the living crying over the dead settled in a row. Thirty wounded, seven dead, and only five
of them were recognized. These people could have lived, had he came sooner, and had he
called for help, and had he run to the right way. If he was any kind of a leader, these tragedies
never would have happened.
With a grim veil of acceptance around him, he announced through a sigh: This is my fault.
Maggie swallowed hard, knowing too well what this would lead to.

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His friends exchanged furtive looks. The Sitka, who had spend the mission hauling Macros
who wanted death on her kind, looked to the Sevis fighter, who these people had tried to
condemn to a lifetime of confinement. A monster of a dark Zeer watched the sharpshooter,
who breathed through a gloved hand as his pierced lung failed to catch a decent breath. A onearmed cyborg came behind the half-breed and put his palms on her shoulders, and then stood
in silence as he awaited further instructions from the man choking back tears.
These people, who Brimstone was set on eradicating, became a buffer zone. The freaks were
silent protectors, all held by the voice of a generation, the echoing tone which struck desire
and hope in the hearts of many. And now, for once, their voice was silent.
Stella was, perhaps, the only one left feeling composed after the entire trial. Raem, she
asked softly, Do you need a moment?
The Xexarian was looking at Freyas body at the time, unsure of how to move his body. In
plays and stories, the hero would always run to his fallen comrades and cradle them in his
arms, weeping and calling out their names to the Gods. But reality had him turn to stone, and
fed him with disappointment and slow, quiet misery.
I just want to go home.
His voice seemed mature, even despite the childish request. His finger extended to the side
and he pointed at the Macro. I want to take him, too. Is that alright?
The lower-ranking Guard attempted to protest at the Xexarian sending off a sought convict,
but he was pulled back by the stoic Elite. He shoved her off but otherwise kept silent,
knowing full well that the Xexarians word had to be obeyed as law. Some day, he promised
himself, Aaron Kronos would not be nearby to protect the killers and crooks. All he needed to
do was live long enough to see it.
Staples reached for her jacket pocket and awarded her work with a drink. The firewater
burned her palate, and she grimaced as she twisted on the cap. We have troops coming to
assess the damage, she spoke to Stella, and the matron listened intently. The Kix county
would like to pay you respect for guarding it.
The Sheeba shook her head, the locks of silver rolling around her bare shoulders. She
smoothened her ears, which were fully relaxed at the time, and laid flat under her hair. I
appreciate your regard, but Im not planning on leaving before paying respects to the dead.
The Elite stopped in her tracks as she put away her drink, and then resumed the brief
exchange by nodding once. Understood, my Lady. She would have smiled, if it were
appropriate. The Sheebas expression remained unchanged as Jocel, the younger Guard with a
face like patchwork, scowled in her direction.
Fafnir was summoned with a turn of Stellas wrist, and he came to the Xexarian. His deep
chocolate eyes stared at the bodies lying on the ground. Pion covered them with thick sheets
brought from the homes of the survivors, and before he covered the last man, Fafnir
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recognized the gapped grin on a young Yaksha Raal. It was not covered by his thick lips, as
they were burned down to a line of black powder on ivory bone.
The Macro closed his eyes and sent away a short prayer to the Gods, in his greatest fans
honor. By the time the warriors lament was complete, Aaron and he came out of the Dryads
cyan light and were standing in the Librarium after phasing through a vortex of deafening
white noise.
The sudden change of location came off as jarring, though not much, as the lack of Forresters
presence made the hollow study dark and demonic; shadows creeping around the pills,
potions and dusted books. Aaron was sitting, hunched in her musing chair, untroubled by the
night. Dimness seemed to soothe him; at the very least, he knew that the blood and flames
were now only images in his head. They burned just the same, but he had escaped them once,
and this is what mattered.
I need to ask you one thing.
Fafnir turned to face him, and felt his throat dry up and shrivel.
He couldnt tell by the lack of proper lighting, but the Xexarian chinned the tips of his fingers
and exhaled deeply, his voice dragged out and rotten.
Did you kill general Smee? Aaron asked calmly. It was the query of a man who had lost a
friend and knew that, by the end of the day, he was bound to lose one more.
There had been a million ways to go about this to go around this and yet Fafnir bit down
hard on the inside of his cheek and nodded. He had accepted death as his fate mere minutes
ago, in the guise of certain death packaged into an overachieving Guard. Now, all he needed
to do was accept truth, before the Savior of Brimstone. This came as much less painful.
Not to Aaron, however, who saw the gesture and ran his fingers through braided hair, sighing
with frustration. His bony, willowy digits slid across printed cheeks and covered his mouth,
pressing hard as feral thoughts ran through his mind. The silence lost meaning after a while,
as both men were trapped in their thoughts which remained especially vocal. It was Aaron
who shook his head and turned it to the stone wall.
Good. You being a petty thief sounded disappointing, anyway. Aaron stretched back in his
chair and averted his watery eyes. His voice held humor in it, but no whimsy. He wiped off
his tears and looked back, unable to form any semblance of an emotion. Living the bare act
of living and outliving all those he loved had left him tired and sick. But not for long, as
Aura loved its deranged devilmaycare rogue, and he needed to return to them. For that
time, though, he would suffer. He would be silent and let his tears flow, until the world
decided that it missed him. Then he would jump out as though nothing was amiss.
His following words were meant as a joke, but rung in Fafnirs ears like cruel irony.
This might make it easier for you to join us, he claimed, and then added, All of us Outcasts
have killed.
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/***/
The red moon rose from the depths of the Aura Kingdoms maw; like tendons its prism
illuminated the sky. It was black from smoke and choked those who came to the ceremony.
Five more people were found dead. Four of those bodies extracted whole, two of them
identifiable.
The Sitka newcomer was sent away as tension grew high between Archer and her, and
between her and the widows and orphans who blamed her for the fire. Stella had sent her
away, and placed her small team to manage the dead. Riker collected names, Pion assembled
bodies the best way he could while Maggie and Archer tended the injured, with Stellas
watchful eye over them.
None of them knew what to do with the halfling, a vagrant with a lute and no home, no
history to return to. She came from the south, and this they knew from her accent. She stole
her first instrument, and this she admitted in a song she performed at a festival. A dreamer, a
pious follower of the original Gods, a firm believer in Zephyrs Field and quite possibly, the
greatest friend Aaron could have asked for.
Stella knew her as a child, the only girl willing to play with her protg when he was still
ostracized as an infant. She came to him and sang songs, taught him how to talk like a ruffian
and run faster than an arrow slit the sky. When they were older, she taught him to steal and
fend for himself. His outlandish, wisecracking sense of comedy came directly from her and
her jests. She laughed after every joke she told, and Aaron loved that laugh of hers, and
mimicked it down to a science. Even at his most rebellious stage, when he wanted nothing to
do with the world, he claimed that Freya was the one person worthy of Zephyrs Field, and if
he had to ability to take her alone he would do so without a doubt on his mind.
To some, a dear friend. To others, a talented rhymist and a budding comedienne. And she
would never see the glory of Heavens Apex; not in the way it was prophesized.
Others were clothed with shrouds of white, but her cloak was burgundy red, to match her lute.
It was lost in the flames but Jocel found a handle and tucked it under her arm, when he
thought nobody was monitoring the dead. It was the sight of this which inspired Stella to
create a vision of her, crafted out of colors and shade, in perfect likeness.
Her short, echoing spirit stood by the families and played the first song the halfling ever wrote
for Aaron and performed it live at one of his rallies. Some survivors recognized the sound;
others even moved their lips to the lyrics. Nobody sang, not even a verse. Her tune was there
to serve as some balm to the ears of those tired of hearing wails and broken promises. Her
notes and pretty twangs brought tears to some, sobs to others, and the Outcasts could only
look at the temple priests send away the departed in reserved dignity as the songstress
crooned.
O where the road forks Ill lay down my strings.
Ill have my head high as I face the good Kings.
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O where, have my people gone, o where can they be?

Whyd they believe in what Deaths herald sees?
O when the sun sets, Ill take off my shoes.
Ill be walking bare oer Zephyrs Fields hues.
And weep for my people who renounced their old lives,
Thinking theres more to dark than its sweetened lies.
Carry on, rally forth,
For the decades gone by.
No need for your misery,
The rapture is nigh.
Ramble on, run along,
And dance through the night.
For all those who couldnt,
who fought our good fight.
Come Kingdom come Ill walk close to my lord.
Evoke the good bards life, the life I adord.
And carry on, for my people, carry on for my rite.
Choosing to stay grounded is food for demise.
He has a Gods heart and a martyrs deep sigh,
Yet his blood is a childs and hes as reckless as I.
Let us pray, all my people, let us pray for his life.
For we chose to live while hes doomed to survive.
Look ahead, keep your head
up, salvation rings true.
The Xexarians destined
to raise us anew.
Remember me, know my people,
Their hardship and strife.
Elysium awaits its kin,
The Zephyr knows of our might.
Carry on, rally forth,
the cavalrys here.
Hear people rejoice,
The grand times inch near.

The vision evaporated in flashes of gold, scarlet and emerald vapors; the gentle smile on the
halflings rounded face imprinted on those who watched her. Even if they wouldnt remember
her name the very next day, they would recall her image, and would look to it in troubling
times. She would be the shimmering energy that moved and encouraged.
And this, Stella hoped, was how she wanted to be remembered.
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Chapter X: The Last Place You Look

It has been days since the fire, and Aurus remained as equally livid as he was when he had
first heard of the tragedy. The news were brought to him by the masses who, following the
Outcasts example, reacted to the arson with pitchforks and outrage. A mishandled peaceful
protest sparked a starburst of riots, most of which targeted the court itself. The Kings
portraits were burned on city squares, buckets of pigs blood were thrown on the Guards and
the palace walls, the people chanted for the Kings uncle and the Hands death, all above a
background of overbearing misery which was trapped in the hearts of the Macros who could
no longer stay silent. Heralds flocked from border to border to spread the news. Rumors of
civil war were starting to sprout. Liberation, revolution! The streets echoed in a blur. Fire for
the burned! In a blink, the nation which wanted to flog a man for a generals killing now stood
united and wished death to everything that generals king represented. Inferno has returned to
the Aura kingdom, and it wasnt brought by a Sitkan, a plague or a God. A mummer foolish
enough to wear a crown has seeded it with his play, and the nation was dead tired of his song
and dance.
Liberation, revolution! The city cried, reddened with detestation. Mornings of the flowing
month rose earlier and night fell only when the rabble was pushed back with bullet shells and
bayonets. And yet this was never enough to keep them down; whether they stood at ease or
waged anarchy on town square, the people always protested in a lions roar, which could not
have been silenced. Fire for the burned!
Furious, Aurus demanded that the uprising be subdued, and a person hanged to be made an
example of. Silas was prepared to spotlight the tax collector, who was eventually tracked
down outside of her home. She had been tending her front garden, and was taken away to be
made an example of. The pet chimera fought to keep its human master, but was put to death
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with a bullet to the eye, and its frame was left for maggots. Her fiance watched her detainer
through a window; her visage concealed by an optical mask. The half-breed pressed a hand on
the glass while Billies heels left tracks in the browned soil.
The tax collectors chocolate eyes turned to water when they found her, but her body gave no
clue of sadness. The only emotion she felt was rage; from the white in her knuckles to the yell
in her throat as she pounced at the Elites, the massive, thick-skinned Storm and the swift, lithe
Zera. It was Zeras powers of Mana manipulation which brought her down to her knees.
Those deceitful pigs always handled people in ways of the cruelest Gods, and Billie shouted
unforgivable oaths and swears at his kind while her body cracked under the cloying darkness.
The Macro cursed and yelped incoherent encouragements to Donovan as they dragged her
away from her shelter, threw her in a carriage and steered into the palace walls. It took them
hours to push through the mob surrounding the court, and the blonde panned her eyes over
those pressed against her carriage; tired and rebellious, in demand of answers which she
couldnt provide. The cart jumped over the bodies it crossed, and the turbulence made its
passengers ill. And yet she sat there, with her tied hands over her knees and waited, burying
her forehead into the walls of her case and praying to whichever God would listen. She prayed
as her head concussed against the windows, and kept on reaching to Calvin until Storm
pushed her on the side and ordered her to keep silent.
It was at this moment when she remembered that the Gods no longer listened. Throughout the
rest of the ride, she bit down hard on her tongue. Blood trickled down her bottom teeth by the
time the Elites pushed her out to face the Kings mercy.
She was thrown in front of Aurus, under his risen throne of gold, ivory and false glory. There
she heaved and croaked through a dry throat, on her knees and tasting blood on her tongue.
Swearing colorfully, first in pain and then in detestation, she jumped up on her feet and
ignored the rifles pointed at her head. Proudly, boldly, she spilled her thoughts fermented by
the uncried tears of resentment, her words making the Guards flinch as she spat and spewed.
Her muscles twitched and her eyes shone with euphoria. If she would die be killed for
obeying orders, by a hand which assigned her orders she would die like the unsung heroes
of the Last War; those who protested it. On her feet, defiant and moronic, fighting a tyranny
through the tenacious prose of a beating heart.
It was as if the King had brought a fraction of the ongoing revolution within his castle walls,
and he was none too pleased with it.
You bastard! You heartless bastard! Those were families you had destroyed, you pile of shit!
Those were husbands and wives and children and babies you made me kill! Your family came
from the ghetto, your grandfathers bride and her daughter! But it doesnt matter unless shes
wearing your regalia! Nothing matters outside your four cushy walls! Youd kill your own
child to establish your power! To look better on your tall throne! Well you still look like an
ass, and youre still a disgrace! She pointed a black nail at Staples, the Guard wearing her
clothofgold regalia at the Kings side. Look at that girl! Look at your niece, Aurus, look at
the blue on her chin! What King does that to his people?! To the people sworn to protect him!
You owe that girl your fucking life! That girl should be in your spot! You should be bowing
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down and kissing her Gods-damned muddy feet! But youd rather burn her home to the
fucking ground!
Onika hadnt moved despite her uncles lingering gaze on her form. Her fingers twitched
around her trigger set at the ready, and she awaited the mans orders. The young woman
hadnt even dared to sweat in her hot uniform, and felt a boulder fall from her chest as the
kneeling Silas took over the allegation.
Empty words from a feeble mind, sire, he insisted as his eyes turned monochrome, black as
jet and stained with oil. It comes with a sensation of guilt, and hers has reason behind it. Rest
assured that her incompetence does not warrant your strategy as a failure.
Billie spat on the floor and her shoulders jerked like spikes. Strategy?! Her eyes screamed
of revulsion. What strategy?! You suffocated them! You left them to the worms because you
cared so little for their lives! You had me pick between the life of my wife and the life of some
infant whose mother couldnt pay her fucking dues! If Aaron Kronos hadnt been there to
draw attention, this wouldve been swept under the rug like so many extortions so many
genocides before and thats disgusting. She stressed the word through her teeth, every inch
of her body tightening and sending anger to fuel her bound wrists.
The ropes dug sores on her skin, and her knees felt weak from the Mana, yet she stood and
stood defiantly for those who fell; those she killed under a mad Kings command. Forgive me,
Donovan, she thought with shadows in her eyes. Love is not an excuse. Love is never an
excuse. It is no motive, no virtue, no force to use as manipulation. I have been stupid, so
stupid, and now both of us will pay the price. All because of some demon who can only rule
from his throne. All because of the demons he lodged in me.
Well then.
She took a deep breath and remembered who she was; a wildling tamer, a general, a fool in
love, a slaver, a fighter, an expert in combat and an alchemist of terror. None of these labeled
her as a coward, much less a fatalist.
A corner of her upper lip trembled into a smile. You were always disgusting.
The rope on her wrists snapped and so did the bounds around her feet. Acrid discharge
dripped inside her boot and she could feel the stinging, infectious pain of her chimera. And
with a swipe like some flash of lightning, she took out a shining machete out of some hidden
holster in her pants, and she waved it at the king hard enough to press its tip against his nose.
Her nostrils flared at the sight of red coming down the tip. Three rifles and twice as many
spears were on her frame, Kaaba roared and bared his fangs, and Silas made his stance and
charged the violet orbs of malice inside his bony palms.
Aurus hadnt moved, eyes coming down on her. He smirked.
I take it this means you resign.

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Kaaba couldnt have made those eyes as she did them; all feral fury and dried by the desire to
kill. Compared to her at the time, even the most ferocious beasts looked like timid housecats,
and the flaxen-haired tiger scooted away from his masters attacker. Aurus lethargically put up
a hand, and one by one, all of his Guards lowered their weapons and stepped away. The last to
return to their place as observers were Staples and Silas, who glanced at the King one final
time before he nodded them away. The skin of his nose grazed the knifes honed blade.
It was at this moment when Billie took away her weapon and stepped back, admiring the
Kings stained features. Her eyes were alert and went over the Hand who wrung his hands and
dispelled the Mana. Then she looked at the Elite who pressed her rifle hard against the rise of
her chest, as a child clutched a security blanket. It was then when the former tax collector
placed her weapon down to the level of her hip, still vigilant though not as imminently
menacing.
Aurus, she spoke in a factual tone, we both know Im a dangerous woman. Look at me.
Gesturing at her shorn head, leather attire and dark smears over her eyes and mouth, she came
closer to proving her argument. Nobodyll see this and believe that Im some stable person.
Im a freak and damn proud of it by now. Your system ruined all thats good and holy for
me, and Im not going to say I miss being harmless. I dont. I love to make people fear me and
think Im offputting. It does wonders in my line of work, which didnt need to include
murder or fireraising. But it did.
Her head dropped down to her chest, and then shot up as she heard a rifle click in her
direction. The King gave the Guard a look of warning before allowing her to continue.
I dont know why you needed me to do that so badly or why I agreed. But theres no
denying why you handpicked me to go through with it, out of all your collectors Im the
only fucking one insane enough to consider it.
This was when her weapon came down to her thigh completely, and she cocked up her chin.
Her pose was nonchalant, amiable almost, if it werent for the discomfort that followed her
into the space. Yet there was pride and posture in her standing, and there was no denying that
this woman was once out in the battlegrounds, living by orders, turning rifles and firing at
whoever she needed to fire at, be it wrong or right by some code of humane conduct. The
longer the Kings company watched her, the more she began to deconstruct into a specter of
regulation, and her words sounded no brasher than the softspoken Silas by the time she
reached the end of her proposal.
The people out there need a body to hang, and you need a scapegoat to take the blame. I got
a reputation outside of the palace; those who love my work as general hate me for my work as
a publican, and those who hate my military career hate me twice as much. Yet they all fear
me, and bolt their doors when they think I might come and take their wares. If you hang me,
my lord, she added emphasis to the title and expected to see a shift on his face, of which
there was none, you will not only get some monster the townsfolk can spit on and poke, but
youll also send out a message. No matter how ineffective your rule might seem, you still hold
the power to take down and destroy the most feared, most grotesque, most contemptible
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person in all-a Brimstone. And you could do that, but Ill only hand over my life under one
condition.
Staples looked at the woman with judging eyes, looking at the traces of honor she showed.
Vile and hated, perhaps, but this woman was no fool, and certainly no reckless cretin she
painted herself to be. In a way, she reminded Onika of a very distant, very unnerving version
of herself in a couple of years, when rules would become weary and going by the book would
cause her physical pain. There was a hint of something funny in watching her surrender her
life, but it was mostly saddening. How degrading it had to be, Onika mused, for a decorated
general to be pitied by a greenhorn in a clean uniform.
Billie could sense the air of sympathy around her, and tried not to gag.
And what, pray tell, Silas interrupted her suggestion, would this condition be?
With her heart feeling numb, she looked at her King with the eyes of a lost child. Please take
care of my fiance. She loves to live, to feed her bluebirds and look through the window. She
loves our garden, and she loves the world, though it treated her like garbage. Every morning
she sings to the sun like it isnt killing her. And every night she sorts her medicine with a
smile, even if it does nothing beside prolong her pain. If theres any person worthy of life, its
her. Shes just just angelic. Theres no better word for it. Ive met lunatics in my life
before, who believed they were angels and swore by it. It was a sad thing to hear, and I never
believed any of em. I knew angelic virtues too well, and I learned them from her. Everything.
I was never a good person not even a halfway decent person but knowing her made me
it made me whole. And knowing her was the closest thing to heaven and Ill be fine if you kill
me. I got more than I deserved from my life. But Im only surrendering it if you let her have
hers.
That was the first tear she allowed to roll over her cheek. It fell on the ground and mixed with
the Kings blood, rolling from tempered steel. It burned through scarlet like acid and left
misty, mottled pools.
You had my dignity, my life, my morals, my fucking sanity back then, and now you can have
my death. Let her have whatever she has left, keep her safe. Ive given you enough money to
cover her cost of living. She has a home of her own. She has her pets and books and
maybe Licking her dry lips, she bowed her head down and smiled to the pooling droplets
falling from her lashes. Maybe, my lord, if you allow me to see her before my execution,
shell also have her wedding.
The throne room fell so silent that the Guards could hear the fourth and last teardrop falling
on marble. All eyes were on Aurus, all but Billies chocolate orbs. Kaaba licked his whiskers
in anticipation and Silas knelt beside the throne, awaiting the reply. The good King took his
time and contemplatively scratched under his chin.
A fair request, he declared and propped up his hands on the vermillion padding of his
armrests. His tendons tightened as he forced himself off and walked down the stairs, calm and
poised, with the grace of a God. He marched to the blonde and exuded an air of magnificence,
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to which the Guards responded to by kneeling; some in a panic, some with practiced elegance.
Silas eyes switched from black to white, filling up with cataracts until he could see nothing
but the soft, orange glow of the dome. His Kings footfalls boomed like dropped bombs.
With the grip of a caring father, Aurus took the crying woman by her shoulders. They were
tense with anger and regret, and her eyes, though misty, were still emptied of misery, and
instead held impatience brushed with hope.
Eyes on me, general.
Wary at first and resentful later, her gems flickered on his frame and looked up, taking in
nothing but comfort and understanding. He seemed odd, glowing with this light, almost as his
benevolent uncle Pasha had risen and taken his place, and now held her like family. The sound
of her pulsing blood faded from her ears, and she listened to his tone, deep but warm, like it
was dipped in some honey.
I can feel how much this life troubles you, despite you appearing to be so apt in it. You have
a lions heart and a mind of a freedom fighter, and it must be severely disillusioning that you
are on this side, speaking of containment strategies when your character belongs with the mob
rule. But never completely; as you still have compassion and honor instilled in your heart,
unlike those savage animals. There is bravery in your soul, general, and it runs deeper than
your bravado. Placing a palm on her chin he brushed away a salty trail on her cheek with his
thumb. You have pride and empathy which I have not found in many, and doubt I will. For
this, I admire you greatly.
He made a pause, during which he took the side of her cheek harder and put his other hand on
her shorn head. This is why taking your life will give me no pleasure. His fingers tightened,
and his digits filled with a sudden hotness that came down through her scalp. But this is what
you deserve for ever thinking that you can give me conditions.
It would have taken her a second to grab her machete and slice off his growl, but she hadnt
the time. Already she was on fire; scorched and bloody and screaming, feeling the
concentration of a thousand bottles of the pyromancers potion come into her skin and bone.
They turned to dust right under his touch and her eyeballs boiled inside her skull, seeping
down. Locks of hair fell, blackened, over her legs and the salt in her tears turned to powder.
Her skin revealed blistering tissue just before he dropped her down, like a sack of ash and
bone held together by leather bounds. Her jowls were outstretched and combining with all the
bones in her face, having no nose or cheeks or chin, she was only a set of teeth with a pair of
hands that held a knife, whose hilt was magmatic and hardening.
After the killing, the King turned with his claw-like paws clenching the air; fire roaring inside
him. He pointed at the body, or what remained of it, and spewed flames from his iron eyes.
If anybody even so much as tries to meddle in my affairs, that is what youre getting! No last
meals! No last requests! No fucking mercy from me! Youll have a quick death, and only if
youre damn lucky!
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Kaaba hid behind Silas, who looked as though he was blinded by the sudden flash of heat, and
tried to regain his vision. Staples had a hand pressed on the Kings throne, feeling loose on her
feet. Some guard wielding a spear threw up at the sight, and the reek of vomit collided
horribly with burnt hair and skin. Aurus marched to his throne, pointing at the Guards and
spewing commands.
You! Take her body to the gallows and tie a noose around her ankles! You! Go find her home
and take away the Damasquan instruments! I want them pulverized into dust, every last piece!
Even if you have to claw the half-breeds carcass off of them, I want them obliterated!
Understood?! Move! Get those fucking protestors out of my town! Drown them in the lake if
you have to! Make Kix an example! Make all who died an example! This is my Kingdom,
they are my people, and I am their law! I cater to nobody!
His guards ran haphazardly across the marble, taking away bones and skin; whatever they
could grab that wouldnt run through their fingers. Others came into the square, and Staples
cocked up her rifle and darted to the palace walls to secure them from the savages. She was
greeted with revulsion and risen fists, and the saccharine scent of doom.
These are my people! Aurus cried as his Elites fired bullets at the men carrying pigs blood.
This is my rule! He continued as Billies body was strung and falling in the air, like an
upturned marionette.
Im the one wearing the crown! The public screamed and watched in horror as the air of
revolution turned into the redness of chaos, and the rebels went back into their homes to
escape the rain of arms.
Im the alpha and the omega! Saddled on camelback, two of the Guards set off to find
Billies house in the barren steppe, ready to kill a dying half-breed.
I am their Heaven! I am their Hell! I am all they need to believe in!
And there, somewhere in the pandemonium of whinnying horses, screaming schoolmarms,
liberations gone awry and charred corpses hanging above the heads of the oppressed, Onika
Staples begged them to cease their fruitless battle and go back, return to their lives, before she
was forced to take them away with a bullet. Her rifle was cold and shook in her hands, and
she needed to drink dear Gods, she needed to drink and the people came close and the
barricades came closer, as did stones and blood and fire and stench and death and
I am their existence!
Firing her first real bullet, she saw some old woman topple over her child, bleeding into her
calloused arms. The Guard fell on her knees, gasping for air as the mob backed away in terror,
dropping pitchforks like they were ridden with a cancer. Onikas lungs collapsed after she
tried to scream out her anguish. All she heard was white noise, muffled cries, and her Kings
sure tone as he resonated from the sanctity of his seat;
I am their God.
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/***/
Stella had murdered five hundred years ago, when she raised her hand on a despotic
Callahanian who had tried to flog her best friend. She hadnt been even a century old at the
time; still a minor by Sheeban standards. As she later addressed the homicide, she named it
selfdefense with bad publicity, and refused to give further insight.
Maggie and Riker admitted to killing countless Guards who tried to stop them from entering
the Aura Kingdom, and Maggies own part of the story had an even higher body count; a
weapon she created in her homeland had gone off and killed all the workers in a metal shop
where she found employment. The detonation took away Rikers arm and a good part of his
torso. The mixed-breed never could have talked about this without crying, and her boyfriend
usually slinked away and paced as she told the tale, expression conflicted and grim.
Archer was a soldier, Fafnir was a Sevvy, and the former slave girl was an escapee with a
vengeance; the three of them racked up an impressive number of souls they reaped. Fafnir
regretted his past deeply while the other two fed off the bloody glory.
Lastly, even though Pion couldnt have said this directly, the Outcasts decided that he had also
killed. The ad hominem conclusions came from the fact that no man could have been born so
vile and remain sane enough never to take a life.
Finally, after the events of the Zsetva month inferno, the advocate of peace could have called
himself a murderer as well.
Weeks after the protests were smothered and the people put to silence, Aaron still remembered
the flames and Freyas frantic screaming. Her limbs were heavy on him after he hoisted her,
but became lighter than ether as he sprinted. The licks of scarlet trailed his legs and took out
the air from his lungs. Stumpy fingers curled around his neck and clung like an anchor as he
tried to ram out of the building. Death and fear stuffed his body, taking out the stuff of life and
yet he still called her name still begged her to hang on him and survive. Day by day,
memories of the fateful day stacked and crumbled, like a hill made of glass shards, but the
memories of the sweet halfling went off in ashes. Her smoky southern drawl and horse-like
laughter banged in his ear for too long until one day he tried to recall the exact pitch and
realized he couldnt have. Her melodies went awry. Magical, lambent eyes were clouded and
dim. Little by little, her features and gait abandoned him entirely; small recollections of her
existence that meant the world to him once were now dust in a cold breeze. The gruesome
realization that he would never experience her song and dance again crashed harder than any
kick in the throat. Freya was no more, and he personally contributed to the fact.
It was enough to drive some men to drink, but it drove Aaron to meditation.
Each day, without coercion, he went off into the dragons cave and summoned his grandfather
with dead eyes and no spirit left in him, and then escaped to the void in search of a cure. The
will to track down the Scroll, or any trace of his destinys soothsaying, burned strong and
stubborn. Armed with incense and determination, choking back the guilt and doubt, she
summoned visions of holy temples and sanctities left and right. Without his guide, his mind
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went as it came, and the lustrous colors and images disappeared into the moss on the cave
walls, and he emerged, again, and faced his disapproving elder.
The young Xexarian attempted to escape for the fourth time during the session. He prayed to
the spirits of his forebears and the original Gods who walked the strands of Brimstone, but
with the results he brought, he might as well have worshipped the false idols wearing cap and
bells or a crown. Sweat came down his brow and he cast it off with one swift sweep, and he
still listened to his grandfathers ghost.
You waste too much effort on trying to recall that corpulent swine you called a friend,
Dedal spoke in the extinct Xexarian tongue. Forget. Look ahead. The peoples of Brimstone
look on you for their future, and little good you will do to them if you keep dwindling with
melancholy.
Labored with magical exertion, the messiah took quick but shallow breaths to bring in his
energy. The aromatic smoke for his grandfathers pipe suffocated him, to the point where
inhaling became excruciatingly painful, and he needed to press down a hand on his pounding
heart. The blood in his body came alive, due to spite and not youthful vigor. He spoke with
cotton lining the back of his throat; strained and softly. I I know.
Concentrate on the location. Hear the noise. Smell the reek of times long passed. Taste the
cobblestone walked over by the Kings. See where you must go. Concentrate. Bar dacis. Be
everything. Bar dacis! Sink into the pit of your abyss and suck out your birthright. You of all
people can walk into the hearts and minds of beasts and men. Of all people, you should never
have the luxury of being worthless!
Im not! Aaron cried out in the haze, still lost. I wont be.
Something displayed like a cheap play in front of Aarons eyes flickered and turned to licks of
fire. A ship. A wave. And then the wooden construction collapsed. The grandson gritted his
teeth and pounded a fist against his crossed legs. The stone he sat on was cold and hard.
Bruised, his hands side dully ached.
You would be a disgrace to your kin, had they lived to see your collapse.
Aaron barely looked away from his crossed limbs. I know, he assured, hissing while flexing
his fingers. His skin was tight and felt like ripping. I know.
Why cant somebody tell me what to focus on?
The image of Brimstone in a textbook as a stone with jagged spikes at the bottom, floating
through space. Like clotted texture of the night, the chasms of the sea broke the hovering
rock. A galley sailed through the blue. Another ship. It broke and presented a barrack in the
countryside. Five Karaktaian soldiers shared a flask of cold firewater to keep warm.
Somewhere else, a bard tuned his instrument in a field, unaware of the hailstorm Damasks
missiles cast overhead. Zeers marching to the Defenders motley army. Protestors burning
flags and sigils from Aura to Tosh. Suddenly a memory of Stella came before the Xexarians
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eyes. She who used colors and light to tell fantastic stories concerning the lives of
revolutionaries. And then, amidst the scattered frames, he distinguished Freyas small, content
smile. It fled like everything else quickly and aflame.
By the Gods, I need you so much right now.
After long, painful searching, the man began to cry. At least, the sensation seemed like crying.
His eyes were wetted and small drops of salt hovered overhead, too heavy for him to pick up.
Soon, more and more water came, crawling in through his nostrils and landing in the depths
of his hollow lungs. With his eyes closed, the man felt his silky, braided hair flow with the
smooth current. The fabric of his clothes shifted with the flow. Liquid started to take over his
body and fill it up like he was nothing but deflated skin. Gripping tightly over his lungs, the
pressure made him feel like he was suffocating; dying in the heat and smoke like those who
he couldnt have rescued. Perhaps this was his penance. Slow, painful, excruciating
smothering, as he waited for some divine force to come and rescue him.
The difference between him and those victims was that he damn well knew how to save
himself. The man was a hero, damn it. Heroes were never killed by their own despondency.
It was for this reason alone that he choose to breathe. He opened his eyes and cupped his
mouth, bringing in sweet oxygen that his body craved. Soon, his eyes adjusted to the
shimmering glow of the underwater territory. He understood that he was in Lake Oyaha, yet
again. Pira-Pira was nearby. This filled him with more dread than excitement.
So this was final, he thought. The one time he managed to transport to another location, and it
was the same spot he had visited at least a dozen times in the last month. If the air supply had
allowed him, he would have sighed.
All right.
Mustering more resolve, he lunged forward, carving an opening through the water for his
body to slide through. His body was languid and heavy.
Lets make the most of this.
Even at his most devastated, the man always counted on his devil-may-care optimism to bring
him to great things. Even if he had to force it. Even if he had to feign it until it was real.
Thus he swam, eyes wide and searching, through the algae and into the pressure of the deep
end. With his larynx clenched and his eyes red with either smoke or salt, he forced himself to
the limits of his body and came down, down into the lair where he would be met by the mer
creature, to the temple of gold. He was licked by the tongues of kelp and watched the
glimmering scales rush in a gust around him, spreading as a dusty cloud. Every strong row
brought him closer to the sunken passage. Already he could see the varying hues of coral
which made the treasury look aflame. Despite the bubble of air, he held his breath while the
skin on his legs grazed against the rough grains of green temple stones. The sounds of silent
waters left his ears and he was in the pocket of air, standing atop the coinage and feeling the
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cold metal sink between his toes. For a reason, he always found himself making a beeline
towards the hideout where the mermaid kept her most precious belongings. What this reason
might have been was a matter still undisclosed. Yet lo, the sirens song of its gold and gems
never failed to beckon the kleptomaniacs heart.
To think Aaron once thought the striking mermaid was the person who brought him back
even he had to chuckle to himself, aimlessly wandering the sloping mountains.
A shadow came over the ceiling and ran; the pitterpatter echoing like the creature had eight
hooves.
The Xexarian looked up, but only saw those wretched goblin statuettes. Hello? His ear
tilted to the original source which now only emitted faint drops of water against wood. Pira?
Are y-you there?
A cold stream zipped through his ears and snarled somewhere in the distance. The creatures
long claws crept alongside his neck and then retracted, leaving him to turn and stumble over
the uneven surface. Aarons stomach flipped and his palms, now buried in the jewels, began to
perspire.
Pira, Im not in the mood. His throat was dry. His knees wobbled when he stood up. If you
wanna play your silly games, then fine. Be like that. But I went through a lot this month, and
Im not gonna stand here and pretend to be intimidated by you. So, he crossed his arms and
looked ahead, trying to make sense of the shadow that was swallowed by a crack in the wall,
if you really need somebody to scare, I suggest you try the turtles. Gods know they cant run
from you. And please, if youre planning on acting anywhere near normal I suggest
He was stopped mid-track by a soapy black drop falling on his shoulder. Instinctively he put
his fingers on it and swiped away the oily residue with disgust. Watching the pliant threads
crawl around his fingertips, he turned on his heel and looked above.
you start now? He looked at Pira-Piras form stretched out over the ceiling. She was
growling at him; tar-like saliva dripping from her black gums. Her eyes were red as embers;
her nails clawed at the walls of her temple. It sounded like drawing a knife against a
whetstone. And then she folded her arms over her chest like a cape and fell over him.
Stopping short of sinking her rows of needle teeth into his eyeballs, she screeched and carried
the sound of a million tortured souls trapped in the perils of Hell.
THHHHHHHHHHHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEF!!! She sank her claws into his flesh hard
enough to draw blood, and he could have sworn on his dead mothers name that the woman
struck out a burned serpents tongue out of her gruesome maw. THIEF! Spitting, she
continued to call him out as he scurried back, clutching the wounded shoulder as he felt the
red stuff warm the inside of his hand. Pilferer! Lurcher! Freak degenerate! Revvoltin,
deceivvin land wwalker! Pitiful breather! Miserable shit! YOU PUSS OF CANCER YOU
SICKENING BEAST!

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Gold and stones flew like a hurricane and almost knocked the Xexarian from his calloused
feet had he not the dexterity of running on air. Pira-Piras outstretched arms and her warbled,
demonic intonation made the air rock like tides inside the dome, and foundation stone
crumbled beneath her godlike fury.
Aaron blinked twice at her. Hhi, sweetie, I
DONT YOU DARE SWWEETIE ME! Twisting into a smoky mirage she came up behind
him and snapped her teeth right by his ear. As he ran she dropped on her hands and crawled
across the gold, her vineentangled legs dragging like a wet blanket across the hills. I knoww
wwhat youve done, knavve. I know youve taken my precious wwares
A nervous laugh escaped the man who tried not to look terrified as he walked backwards from
the crawler. The ground shifted and crumbled below him; Pira-Piras snakelike eyes struck
him like bullets with every step. Whaha ahm, what wares? I didnt, I Id never
LLLLLLLIAR! The lacy folds on her skin expanded like a leather collar around her neck.
Her teeth separated and out came her wicked tongue again, lapping the air just before she
leapt and crashed into her gold where Aaron stood seconds before. Liar and thief! And killer
too! In an attempt to locate Aaron again, her head twisted by a semi-circle and the rest of her
body followed shortly. You stole my gem! My beautiful diamond! My prized possession!
And my coin all my coin! Wwhat havve you to gain from my diamond, Kronos?! My
jewels! All you evver wwanted was to pilfer! To think I let you touch me wwith your filthy
thievvin hands!
Ccalm down, what are you even talking abou ?
Could she have been talking about that one diamond he picked up the last time he came? He
had found a gemstone the size of his fist, too clear and heavy to be a genuine mineral.
Keeping it in his hand as he shifted into the flames of Kix county, he allowed the rock to fall
out of his hands and then he he
His mind was blank. Albeit he knew nothing of the stones fate, he knew that it would never
again fall in Pira-Piras hands. She knew this too, and looked ready to kill and die for her
fortune.
Oh that diamond. A node formed in Aarons throat and he tried to swallow it throughout
his half-baked apology. Ah, erm, alright. Im well first of all, he pressed his palms
together and shifted his fingers at her, first of all, Im very, very sorry.
Pira-Piras skin ruptured in eight places, and out of each stretched out an oiled neck and a
reptilian frame, screaming along the main humanoid head of a mer-creature. All were
embellished with three rows of curved, dripping teeth and snouts skilled enough to smell a
drop of blood in ten miles. The eyes watched, all enraged, with the dead, vengeful gleam of a
python. Scales grew over her cerulean body and formed stones and shields as she expanded;
her hands formed into talons and claws below her and sank into the hills of greed. Her coiled
tail shot and leaned against the side of the dome and the hydras heads pressed over the copper
191

ceiling, all watching the Xexarian treble and salivating their disgusting black bile. In seconds
there stood a formidable monster thrice the Xexarians size, and hopping mad.
Aaron was never a clever man. But even he knew that in situations like these, the best course
of action was to immediately fucking RUN!
His feet turned to air currents and he hovered over the gilded plates which turned to wet stone
over his feet. Thrashing his arms to quicken his pace, he pounced from the temple ring and
through the opening, already feeling his limbs fall into the lake water. The hydra was stopped
by the tight round entrance but managed to thrash herself out of the dome. Her heads
screeched and her reptile tail hit the surrounding columns until they cracked and collapsed
like broken glass. With claws sharp as a Karaktaian cold she pulled herself out, breaking free,
swimming to the Xexarian who kicked his legs to gain momentum. The man swam down, into
the kelp and stones and the abyss, which gaped below him and looked ready to swallow him
whole. The lake appeared to be steaming. The fish floated belly-up in their plasma when the
hydra clawed them away. Soon the blue was striped with trails of red which Aaron seemed to
lead, as he sped away from his death.
He found sanctuary beneath a tilted stone into which he could have hidden. Lungs tightening
and expanding painfully, fingers coiling around the debris and sand, he felt the pressure weigh
down and knew that the hiding lace could kill him as well, air or no air. A land-walker was
never used to these depths, and as he sat and waited for the danger to pass, he felt his head lull
light. There was no more vigor in his soul. No more fight in his spirit. And to be sure, he
couldnt even move through the blockade. The back of his head leaned over the thick, chalky
sediment and he subsided further into himself, to crumple into a ball and fit better into the
small crevice.
Little luck did this do him, as Pira-Piras tail enwrapped his torso and attempted to pull him
up. His forehead struck a sharp end and began to bleed. Another pull; but this time he craned
his head out and clung to the edge with all the strength of his fingers. His legs floated up and
he was losing feeling in his feet. The tail dragged him up, yanking him, clutching his insides
that shifted and scrambled under his ribcage. If he could have screamed, he would have. The
noises he made appeared as static through foam. All the blood he had left was centered in his
hands which still desperately clutched.
Please no, he thought as he saw a glimpse of the afterlife. Darkness. Silence. That was all.
The tendons in his limbs and the blue veins running below his wrists went rigid like porcelain.
I cant die. Not now. Not like this. I cant be killed by a monster. Not by a sea-creature.
Heroes werent
Heroes couldnt
But then again, he was never a hero to start with.
Alistair Stella somebody
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His nostrils were full of his blood, and his eyes closed as his lips parted. He tasted salt and
copper; the stuff of life. What he heard was a scrambling noise, paired with the hydras
screeching which sounded melodic; sweet and soothing. Before long, the grip in his fingers
vanished and he seemed to cling on pure impulse. The halves of his body were beginning to
split.
In the quiet, he felt at peace. And then, he started to dream.
He saw a light; soft and iridescent, blending and hurrying with the stream through scarlet and
green. It emitted a noise not music or a whisper or any omen but simple noise often heard
while thinking of temples. Polyphony, composed to the Gods. Voices were brandished with
the ailments of the past and sounding like they were hand-made by Rowena herself. They
exuded silenced valor and patience of saints, the goodness of mothers, the kindness of allies,
and the superiority of monarchs. It was a humbling noise sung in an ancient tongue, with a
prevailing voice which sang into eternity, like the songstress had met the Gods personally, and
knew when the world would be at end.
Her intonation was beautiful, and brought a smile to Aarons dying mien. And then, just as he
drew his breath for the last time, he heard some familiarity in it.
And boldly he will swim
And bravely he will drown.
His limbs turn to blood and steel,
In the drink, go down
His lashes fluttered and he watched the light; now morphed into a rotund maid of dark skin
and pilose feet.
Her short hair was neatly trimmed and curled over her features, and she twirled it with her
fingers as she alternated between brittle strums of her lute. She looked dry and composed,
relaxed in the stone, and Aaron watched her upsidedown as he looked below the edge he was
clinging on to. Meeting his gaze, her white aura straightened her polka-dotted dress and
waved, smiling blithely. All the holiness of the music of the dead concentrated in her throat;
Aaron heard heaven in her southern coo.
Evenin, lad. Good seein ya. How ya been?
The voice was clear enough to hear through the anguish, and yet it sounded distant and faint.
He tried to respond as she squinted and scrutinized him, furrowing her brow. Only confusion
and foam escaped his lips. Shaking her head, she looked at the creature whose tail was still
patiently sawing the Xexarian in half.
You jus gonnae accept that, lad? She shook her head and grabbed her lute by the neck,
proffering it through the cave opening. Its end struck right between Aarons wrists, and his
nose was pressing down on the strings which played in accord.

193

Here, lad. She winked at him. Take it. S no use for me, m afraid. But if you find a use fer
it, good on ya!
The man continued to hang, wondering if he was still dreaming, or if the Gods have truly
given his life away and allowed him to see the departed. Weakly, he grasped the tip of the
instrument until it lay comfortably in his palm.
Freya He swallowed a node in his throat, and the effort made him dizzy. Im sorry. Im so
very sorry. I should have ran faster. I should have should have
S alright, mate. The halfling saluted him. Im alright.
Freyas image vanished in smoke and his body was pulled up like a stone in a slingshot. He
travelled through red and fear and agony again, brought up to the beasts heads. The lute was
no longer a lute in his grasp, but rather a tube carved out of quartz which felt heavy in his
strained hand. Yet it was natural to hold, almost like a bat, and as he came to the creatures
gaping jowls he struck it with all the force he still had. He hit three monstrous heads and the
human one. The others yakked and snapped their teeth but he finally felt the tail unfurl around
him. There was air in his lungs again. His movements were fast, furious, and he jumped out
into the surface, where the water was light and clear and luminescent from the rays of sun.
By the Gods Im alive! The melody he had heard moments before curved into some stream of
encouragement. Im alive Im alive Im a survivor and Im so close to home and Im alive and
Im not worthless and Im no fool Im alive Im alive Im so alive this is amazing!
It was the first time since the fire that his exhilaration wasnt an act.
He managed through the whipping tail and snapping jaws, all kicks and strikes and flings until
the monster finally decided that it wasnt used to the shallow waters. She retreated, cursing
him in the names of all heathen Gods. Holding the opaque ocher pipe that made his hands turn
sandy and orange, he propelled himself up and leapt, out of the blue and into the thin air of the
woods. Oxygen hit him like a hurricane. He gasped in ecstasy, as he heard the birds, and then
he flipped away his tangled braids. Blood clotted and ran over his face as he swam fast to the
surface, and his fingers felt like they would detach from his body with every stroke. Finally he
made it to the solid dry ground, and crawled over grass, blessing every blade and speck of dirt
when he rolled on his back and looked up. The sun filtered through the tree leaves. The birds
he recognized them as swallows flew without a care and carried sunlight on their raven
tail feathers. The lakes surface was pristine and light; none would be the wiser that a
horrifying sea beast dwelled in its nadir.
This, Aaron believed, was the most dramatic break-up in recorded history. How many men
could say that their former paramour was a mythical entity? Then again, how many men
would actually brag about a thing like that?
Perhaps next time he would need to form a better apology about pilfering her goods.

194

His organs were almost sliced in two, and he still wiped the red that slid down to his brow,
and yet he smiled warmly and allowed the sun to bake his wet limbs. He breathed deeply,
taking in the world of Brimstone and its magic, which he vowed to unify. Soon, he would
need to find a good place to connect himself with Dedals mind waves, and return to the cave
in Saga. For now though, he decided to appreciate the human realm; all the beauty its nature
provided.
He stretched out his arm above his head and looked up into the sky, spotted with clouds and
sparrows. Thanks, Freya, he said upon realizing that he was seconds away from never
seeing a sight like that. Thank you for everything.
Had he allowed himself to rest for another moment, his mind would become too much at ease
for him to notice the tube he brought up above. Yet he was inclined to feel the heavy weight in
his hand, and he picked it up above it to examine it. It seemed lighter than before; the stone
was hollowed out and actually thin. He sat up teeth grinding as his torso shifted and rolled
the case in his hands. An almost invisible hairline fracture was spread over one end; almost
forming a full circle. Curiously, he struck a fingernail in it and traced it. Small particles
shifted and landed beneath the white, but nothing of import was discovered.
Not until he removed the nail.
The top of the case promptly fell on his lap, hollow and polished on the inside, thick enough
to carry a roll of
His heart leapt into his mouth.
As he stared down into the case to view what the container held, he wondered how long it
would take Brimstone to erect a statue in his honor. It was a jesting thought at first, and after
he actually viewed the article, his legs cut off and he could only stare blankly at the yellowed
page and faded ink, only stupefied profanities running through his head.
/***/
Lucretia had gotten into yet another argument with her tutor, this time concerning the poor life
choices made by those who aspired to be teachers. It was an ugly spiel which Pickering had
put an end to, taking his matrons side. Quite soon, class was dismissed and the young Sheeba
only stood in the classroom and looked around the trees branching into her desk on the wall.
Her desk was seated at the very top, and a little bit to the left, so she could see and hear all
presentations. Artificial light shone out of the round windows settled in the tree trunks, falling
perfectly on the auditorium where the matron gave her lectures. Sometimes when Plamens
daughter leaned to the side of her desk, the sun would block out Forrester completely, and let
her enjoy the lesson in peace without having to look at the light manipulator.
She wished that the matron could have ignored her that day, but she decided to spend a lesson
talking about some stupid subject the rights of multi-liners (which was simply a nicer way
of saying half-breeds). The subject was demology a study of the peoples in Brimstone. It
was by no means the study of the peoples and their bastards of impure blood. Half-breeds had
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no rights to speak of. Whats more, there were no half-breeds in Encantadia as a whole. Yet
Stella insisted that there were; that each Sheeba with a different set of skills came from
separate bloodlines, and that faeries with multiple abilities were multi-liners by default.
It was by far the most moronic thing Lucretia had heard from her tutor, and she had heard a
lot of eye-rolling nonsense from the former premier.
By that flawed logic, Lucretia was a half-breed as well. Having the ability to control fire as
well as performing teleportation, she should have been signed off as one, despite being the
purest in her ancestral line. Even Stella had teleportation and light to control (during her
lecture she explained that telekinesis, telepathy and all other teles were among the most
common dual abilities) and, technically, this made her mixed as well. Of all the nonsense she
spewed on the daily, this had to be the most ignorant claim she had made in her whole
teaching career. Lucretia decided, right as she collected her books and prepared to exit her
classroom, that she would go and tell her father about the incompetent Dryad and demand that
he exile her again. That would teach her to compare the premiers daughter to an impure subcaste.
Her long, tangerine dress flew around her ankles while she phased out of the trunk and came
out into the green hues of her woodland home. She decided to walk home, seeing that being in
the flaming sun relaxed her after a long day of useless studies.
Half-breed. Hmph.
She lifted up her nose and was ready to head home before she was pushed aside by a gaggle
of excited younger Dryads. Sorry Lucy! One shouted back after they knocked out the
scrolls and hardbacks from her forearms. Fuming, the tangerine-skinned Sheeba bent over to
pick up her belongings, only to be pushed aside by a curmudgeonly couple debating on
whatever they were going to see.
Bet you they made it up.
Quiet, Harris, well see em soon enough.
Excuse me! Lucretia called out in faux-politeness. Some of us are walking here.
A water Dryad, the pale-blue older man, turned to her and ticked a thumb behind his ear.
Wrong side, girlie. Kronos is that-a way. His old wife tugged on the sleeve of his tunic,
pressuring him to pick up his stride. He groaned but followed, hand-in-hand with her as she
hopped on her feet.
Lucretia lifted up an eyebrow. Kronos?
As in, Aaron Kronos?
As in the last Xexarian, the Son of the Wind, Ruler of the Free People, bringer of hope and
plenty, Savior of Brimstone, the peoples rebel, Damasks pardoner, Child of the Unfortunate,
son of ashes, speaker of the world, man of ether and smoke?
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Aaron Kronos, dreamboat supreme?

My love? She said, oblivious to the rabble of millennial women behind her. Stopping short
of elbowing one of them in the nose, she left her belongings behind and followed the
streaming crowd, which hadnt pushed this densely since the last festival. Picking up the sides
of her dress, she sped along and pushed from the crowds, ready to see Aaron Kronos. As she
passed, the others moved and glowered at her.
It came as no secret that the premiers young daughter was absolutely infatuated with the
Xexarian most young women were. Lucretia knew how to recite his old speeches he gave
during the war. She owned a signed copy of his autobiography, and read it even after her
father had outlawed human works in Saga. No matter what she thought of Stella, she adored
her student, even to a sick degree where she found herself imagining a life with him, living in
some luxurious tree trunk with three children and Stella Forrester as their obsequious servant.
It was a silly dream to have, since he was so much more mature at his age. Despite being forty
years his senior, by the time she was on his current level of development, he would be either a
hundred years old or dead. Dreaded thing, Dryad aging it terminated many blooming
romances. Even if by some miracle they managed to build a family, their children would be
the loathed half-breeds. Beautiful, talented and magical for being his, but they would be
mixed all the same. This is why she only allowed herself to gaze at him from afar and adore
him, quietly, as a follower and aficionada.
Her heart almost cracked in half when she saw him standing beside the fretting Stella, all
mottled and bruised beyond recognition. He had lost so much weight with worry. His
forehead was oozing bile. Long, luxurious hair matted with sand and filth and Gods-knowwhat-else. And in his arms, he held an aging piece of paper, which the Dryads tried to grab
and hold. Pickering Green pushed them all back, allowing his tutor to take the paper in her
gloved hands.
Damn that Pickering. The poor bastard never knew his luck. Being Stellas brown-nosing
favorite, he was even able to converse with the last Xexarian. Lucretia stood on the tips of her
toes as she watched her beloved; his battered face and his crooked grin made her weak in the
knees. She gave a dreamy sigh, and then shot a dirty look at a few peers who dared do the
same.
The Sheebas gathered in a semi-circle around Stellas Librarium, and watched her with
hitched breaths as she took out a leather rod from the rolled document and slowly, carefully
lifted it. It fell long and hung just above her ankles; its brown and tattered corners curling
upwards again.
Her eyes turned gray and calculating while she analyzed every paragraph, every word, the
writing and the words translated into the superior language of old. She looked below, she
looked around, and she even gazed at the corners. With every second she spent viewing the
words, her eyebrows lifted and her eyes grew pristine and pure, wonderful, like pools of
cobalt that shifted over the checkered irises of her eyes. Her ears perked up as if she had heard
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a noise. Pickering watched his matron with his lips retracted into his mouth. He stood
hunched and trembling, as a startled doe, too excited and curious to make a noise.
As she read, and while the audience anticipated the proclamation, Aaron hooked his thumbs in
his belt and leaned back, nodding to himself.
This was when Stella lowered the document and looked to the crowd. Her voice was heavy, as
though she failed to believe her conclusion, and had no evidence to doubt it, either.
The saliva in her throat felt like a chokehold on her neck.
This this is the Eleventh Scroll.
Aaron Kronos seemed like a demi-God just out of a bloody coup at the time; radiant among
the lionizing common folk.
Pickering Green turned on his heel, whispered something, and giggled madly before flat-out
fainting in front of the dazed spectators.
Chaos ensued a second after, and the swift curious feet almost trampled him on the ground.
Hands grabbing, voices rising, lungs expanding until everyone was screaming in unison,
mayhem was everywhere at once. Lucretia tried to come up to the Xexarian, caring little for
the Scroll, but she was pushed back by mightier, lovelier Sheebas who wanted to admire him
closer. She followed Pickering to the ground, and so did others who couldnt move above the
crashing tides of rabble. Those caring only for the Field, and others with no stars in their eyes
tried gripping the document out of Forresters fingers, though nobody knew what it meant.
None could tell the language, none could read the lines. Yet they all suspected what followed.
The age-old prophecy was fulfilling itself, and they could thank the most ambivalently
immature man in all the known realms.
Gods only knew what the future brought on, but every babe and all the elders present could
proudly say that they witnessed the making of it.

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Chapter XI: Fools Gold

One month before Kronos expedition

It was at the tender age of twelve that the mans father had pulled him aside and told him, in
an austere and cold way only natural to his roughened kind; This is a world where men are
driven with greed and power. Never allow stupid tales of honor to cloud your mind. You work
for the King now, and this is the highest honor that can be bestowed on a man of your repute.
Dont dare to try and claim anything more this is the fate brought to you by the Gods, and
no man can make himself a knight if he was born in the muck of pigs.
This happened before his first day of training as a Guard. It was the last time the man held any
contact with his family.
Quyen, of house Jocel, was known as a remarkably ugly child who grew into a revolting
young man. He was born with red hair that curled into tight knots which could have never
been tamed, if his nursemaid had not doused his hair in acid to make it compliant and faded.
Hair as hair could have been overlooked if it werent for his vitiligo that covered his features
like motley clothing on a fool, and made him the laughing stock in his homestead. With his
bucked teeth and unnerving iron eyes, the man repelled any potential friends and swore never
to even have them. He delved into the world of politics of which his father cynically told, and
imagined himself being with those who took his familys wealth; sharing ale with them and
discussing business over a small mountain of collected tax money.
The Jocels, once proud and known for their fabric and leather, had fallen on their knees under
the weight of economic collapse, and made due with whatever they grew on their cattle farm.
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Waylon Wesson Thorne, known as the fabled Bucket Knight, also lived on a farm and was
said to have ridden a cow to battle in lieu of a charger. Perhaps this also inspired the youngest
Jocel child, who understood at an early age that a boy like him could not charge into
government affairs unless he was serving those who could. He decided to become a Guard
and he did, after half a decade of sweat and hardship at the training grounds, and then over a
decade more spent marching, arresting, assassinating and acting upon whatever the King
personally ordered. Compared to guarding the cattle at home, this work seemed like living in
the lap of luxury, and he wanted more of it.
He climbed the ranks, toadying and trying his hardest to appease his employer, and not
necessarily the set of laws and ethics he swore to serve. Reaching the coveted rank of Elite, he
dreamed of the day he would don the golden sash and hood, and then finally return to his
stead as a pockmarked and heinous farm boy who accomplished more than any Jocel who
ever lived among livestock.
In his life he had learned that men went through life lying and cheating, and women did the
same through laying and philandering. There were notable exceptions which proved the rule,
however. Taryn Equinheart was notorious because of her luck. Karma Rose cheated her way
into the Callahanian congress in card games. Dominic Delacroix was a man whore, pure and
simple. Jeannette Chaput hid away her husbands riches and underhandedly quadrupled them
before fleeing to some neutral field during the war and all of this was just what occurred in
the Hilles constitutional monarchy. The Aura Kingdom gave countless more examples, and
they all came down to a science; there was no success with people who wanted to stay candid
and moral. Of this he was sure.
This was when he met Onika Staples.
She was a girl a woman, in fact exactly one year his junior. When she first came to the
training grounds with her emaciated frame, heavy bottle-cap spectacles and a thick bead
lodged in her lower lip, the trainees began to make bets on how long it would take her to
surrender her weapons or die mid-battle. Unsupervised training sessions between zealous
would-be legends brought the highest mortality rate among developing guards. Yet she beat
them all and wore her calluses like trophies, never cowed, never flinching as older and more
experienced fighters attempted to strike her. The King was on her mind as she battled and
climbed the ranks at a rapid speed; enough for her to graduate before the rest of her division.
At the ceremony, mockingly named graduation by the superiors who trained them, she stood
in line and saluted next to Jocel, who almost misspoke his oath as he watched her in wonder.
They took their uniforms and spears together, and were paired in missions and scouting
operations, common for freshly-graduated cadets. Having the ill luck of starting and finishing
their training during the extermination of the Syth, they partook in gathering the refugees and
runaways across the vast desert of Kawala Lax. The dynamic duo consisted of an idealist with
a firm set of morals and a cynic who only knew the long-written rule of revolving power; that
one had to take it from somebody else in order to obtain it. Dynamic as they were, the two
barely made a functional couple. There was apprehension between them, as both deserved the
Elite title most in the world, and would trample anybody who dared to think otherwise. Onika
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tried to earn it with a spotless record and Jocel attempted to satisfy the higher-ups through
flattery and underhanded tattling, where he exposed some of the rival Guards weaknesses. It
wasnt long that the two polarizing teens formed an aversion towards each other. Their
conversations sounded curt, their interactions varied from abrasive to violent, and yet they
could not be parted. Jocel was still in awe with her, wondering how a woman as decent as her
could have been promoted at an equal rate as he was. He saw the answer in her eyes, burning
with resolve and beautiful, threatening yet merciful, cutthroat but forgiving. Staples existence
denounced everything his family had ever claimed to be true, and he silently resented her for
that.
Staples had her vice too; the alcohol she consumed to dim the voice of inadequacy which
plagued her mind. It was understandable that she turned to the drink at such a young age, as
none of her parents lived to see the end of the war. The accusations of nepotism never helped
her either; even if she was the Kings blood, she never once allowed herself to advance just
because of him. Trying to explain this to the cadets she left behind, however, was like
speaking to rabid wolves. Firewater or brandy made the world quiet, and peace was all she
desired. Her corruptive liquor pushed her into Jocels arms once, during a fired quarrel over
the Kings favoritism, and behold, this was how the ugly farm boy had lain with the righteous
warrior.
So began their circle of adoration and hate; he detested her for bettering him as a rival, and yet
he longed for her like dreamers fawned over their idols. He was her repeated drunken mistake,
no more and no less. If she had been inferior to him in any aspect, she would have been the
love of his life. Their frequent, hateful groupings have made something clear in the spotted
mans mind; he lived in a land where one could be a deceitful rat or the Kings good niece,
and it would make little difference with progress. If those two could surreptitiously share a
bed, there was virtually no difference between them. Ranks were void of meaning; power was
a subjective term. There was such a thing as glory among thieves, and even the kindest of
saints could be painted as devils and have their names tarnished.
This proved to be true multiple times.
Even on that day, Onika was at the palace, attempting to stifle a roaring revolution one bullet
at a time. Jocel had ridden with a fellow Guard to the Barren Lands, in order to find the
departed tax collectors crippled fiance and neutralize her.
Onika was given a mission to haunt her. His was a task actually worthy of him.
The sun burned hard over Jocel and his comrade. It shined, white and iron and merciless, as if
it condemned them for leaving the home where their families fought for a better life. Wiping
his brow, Jocel took to drinking lukewarm water from his leather flash, then tilting it to let his
camel drink. His name was Eliot, and he moved slower in these fields than in the Aura
Kingdom, possibly due to the hard soil he was unaccustomed to. An old camel, his long flaxen
fur had began to tear and thin in small parts, leaving small clumps if somebody guided him by
the hair and not by the reins. Jocel had ridden this fine beast enough times to know what he
needed and what he was capable of. The man riding in front of him, on his Rosie, was new to
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the animal and cursed under his breath each time it bucked or kicked under him. She craned
her head and asked for water or for him to loosen his bands, but the man caught no sign of
suffering, and instead pushed the animal forward. It was through no fault of his, however. Any
man trying to stay on a kicking beast would never mind whether it was comfortable or not.
Keep calm, you shit! He commanded and struck the animals side with a riding crop.
Leather snapped against skin and this made Eliot wince. Jocel stroked his neck until he moved
again, keeping up with the bored Macro riding Rosie.
Of course she was in pain. He insisted on shoving the rein peg as deep as he could into her
nose. It took Jocel barely ten minutes of riding to notice this. This was never brought up in
conversation.
Calvin Cunningham, despite the unfortunate name, was Jocels friend and partner on the off
occasion when Staples was unable to participate in the given tasks. He was a good fighter and
a better critic, so his offhand remarks never allowed him to grow through the ranks as fast as
his cohorts did. The man never cared for titles, explaining that he had merely adopted the
position of a Guard after his brother had passed away, in an attempt to keep the spirit of
fortification alive in his family. Only the part about his dead sibling was true. The man
infiltrated the ranks for the sole purpose of seducing as many trainees as possible. He was a
man who favored honor-bound, muscular athletes to the common malnourished kind of
woman one normally found in the city. There was no shame in admitting this.
Upon looking at his features, nobody could say that he wasnt a striking man. His skin was
caramel and molasses without a blemish on it; glowing in the rays of sun and reflecting
whatever light his thick black curls hadnt drunk as their own. Fine, almost kinglike attributes
made him appear refined, like a young prince rather than some high-ranking sentinel. The
kempt stubbled chin made him appear cultured and mature as some well-taught scholar, and
his tailored clothes only added to the aesthetic. Proud of never scraping himself in battle, he
allowed himself to wear certain items the regulars avoided; silk neckties, velvet riding gloves
and expensive leather jackets which scarcely represented appropriate uniform. The man never
cared for Guard protocol; he only used his standing to discuss the state of the world, as seen
by a monarchs servant. Propping up his thickly-framed black glasses, he talked about Macro
issues for hours on end, losing himself in the deep and honeyed sound of his own voice.
Jocel never knew what to think of him. On one hand, Calvin shared his ideology on power
rotation, and survival of the craftiest. On the other hand, this was a man he was taught to
avoid and distrust. To further complicate things, his was the name Onika once cried out, while
she and the farm boy were
Rosie bellowed out a horrifying guttural noise and stood on her hind legs. In a moment, Jocel
thought that she would fall on her back and crush his colleague. Gently kicking the side of
Eliots leg, he sped up and grabbed one of her binds, making quiet noises before she relaxed
and walked normally again.

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There, Jocel said as Calvin composed himself. The redhead gave him a strange look as he
started to ride in front. Dont pull on the leather too hard.
Calvin nodded once and chuckled, shoulders jerking up slightly. You really are part Thorne.
Is it possible you have Karaktaian blood in you?
Gods, I hope not, Jocel deadpanned. A second later, he watched the sky and recited, in a low
and telltale tone: The day I have Karaktaian blood in me is the day I drink it from their
skulls.
The handsome Guard lifted an eyebrow, impressed. Dark. I like that. Clearing his throat, the
man came up on the stabile Rosie, wanting to continue his rant. Now, where was I?
Though dark, it was not quite as original as Calvin might have thought. It was a direct quote
from Kayakus Kindred Carcass, a poem written decades ago, during the last Dryad peace
treaty. He would never admit he quoted poetry, as he knew that old money hated feeling
uneducated compared to some yokel who shouldnt have been able to tell the difference
between his head and his elbow. Besides, he faintly remembered Kayaku being a Syth poet,
and he was ashamed to know his work, no matter how popular it might have been in its time.
The man posed a question, and was growing irritated by the delayed reaction.
Something bout Macros in Callahan. Jocel muttered. He had no idea, but knew that the
would-be-philosopher could find a way to pull out a conversation from that. Calvin spoke as
Jocel surveyed the area, iron eyes falling on bare trees and russet dirt.
Do you know how many Macros we had in our eight Guards that worked for the King? He
placed a palm on his hip, steering the camel with the fingers of one hand. Five. I have never
seen a Zeer or a Callahanian walking about in Aura, and yet somehow, we had one of the
latter in our troupe, and two of the former. We know that Kith is only here because he is far
too incompetent to be where he belongs.
Callahan dont have room for Guards no-more, Jocel said in a bored tone. Theyre neutral
now. He scoffed. They took all the gold we had to spare, and then disappeared in the hills.
Theres no room for wars and no room for sentinels or foot soldiers. S all captains of industry
now.
Even so, I dont think we have ever sent them one of our Guards. Or one of our
industrialists, for that matter. If you go to Callahan, I guarantee you everybody there is whiter
than cream. Birch as well. Gravel Pit, too. Dont get me started on Karaktau if you see
anybody with dark skin there, its probably gangrene. But were the ones who need to mix
with other peoples. Were the ones who take their worst among our best because, apparently,
he rolled his eyes quite bitterly, there is no such thing as a Macro rank that is respectable.
Meanwhile, we can declare war on them right away and take all they have except they dont
have anything to take. Still, somehow, we are the lesser monarchy, and we have the worse
combatants accordingly. We can battle and win for as long as we want, but in the end we are
nothing but a hodgepodge of good fighters and Callahanians who are with us simply for the
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sake of being Callahanians. Do you know how much sir Kith contributes to us? Is it really
possible that we simply cannot live without Lady Dess? I would not be surprised if I woke up
tomorrow and saw a white King on our throne.
Hmph.
And thats not even all.
Of course it wasnt.
Every time I saw some of their scripture, I saw the original Gods looking like them.
Epitomes of purity, beauty, love and grace, and they all look like them. Every play, every
book, every cultural thing they produced, the only Macros in them were savages or idiots! I
dont suppose they went out of their way to portray a Macro as the God of love, or a Macro as
Rowena. No! Definitely not. Their damn superiority complex knows no limits.
They also made Karaktaians look like sheep-fuckin hunters and the Zeers into drunk devil
worshippers. Youre taking this too criticlly.
Unable to add anything, and seeing that they have already reached their destination, Calvin
merely shook his head and rolled his shoulders back, ordering his camel to sit so he could
dismount.
You know the worst part of all this, Jocel? I am really not.
Well think of it this way, Jocel began, grunting as he jumped backwards off of his camel
and dusted off the lapels of his uniform. Would ya rather be a Macro or a Syth in
Brimstone?
Thats like asking a man if hed like to be hanged or disemboweled. Id pass on both.
Jocel shook his head at the taller Guard, remembering how they differed. For one, Calvin still
believed that change would come if he made an effort to philosophize and speculate enough.
The former farmer had given up hope entirely; it made life less of a disappointment.
Perhaps Calvins seething would have been justified if he were truly affected by those who
tried to wash away every trace of their former colonies accomplishments. Had he suffered
from losing work over his name, or had he been shown as a lesser being by how he dressed,
perhaps then he would find good grounds to base his line of reasoning. Yet this man was
nursed by a Callahanian nanny, went to an international college away from Aura, spent his
days with people of good wealth, finely brewed in the juices of the class and ethnic
background he claimed to have oppressed him. Something about his ramblings never seemed
to sit right with the man who fought small pox while the complainer was finishing up his
magistrate and laughing merrily with his school chums in Birch.
Best not to prod, especially with college boys. Each Macro had their right and reason to
dislike other peoples. The worst thing that could have been done was to turn on a brother and
try to undermine his sentiments. His father had taught him better than that.
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Callahanians of all people are like that, the farm boy musingly said. Theyll try and expand
everywhere. S in their nature, ya know. They cant take the fact that they once owned half-a
the known world and are now pressed down to a molehill in the Vale. Be cross with em as
long as you like. And if its any comfort, I wish those wine-drinkin glass eaters would stay on
their fucking hill forever, too.
For the first time that day, Calvin wholeheartedly agreed with him, and smiled as they walked
to Billies old cabin.
It stood next to a small dull barn, the home, and resembled something out of a fairy tale about
friendly villagers. It nested between three barren trees and was painted white with geometric
black streaks. Tiles of blue and copper created the roof, generously ornamenting the alltoo
small home. Four red windows were placed over the walls; one on the left side of the door,
two larger oblong ones at the sides, and a small one in the back, currently out of the Guards
sight. A long pole with a wick at its end stood by a painted red door; likely used to light the
small candle standing above it. It stood in an iron tray, wedged into the wall, and the wax had
burned down to an inch and its use was mainly to gather dust. A patch of ground seemed
lighter in front of the cottage, as this was the spot where Billie had parked her carriage. The
carriage and chimera were taken by the Guards during her arrest, and now the spot was
smoking in the summer heat. The fruitless field, once a bustling agricultural metropolis
destroyed during The Great War, represented death and hostility. The country home
represented hope and light, and the two clashed horribly. Jocel had no issue with killing a
person out of the Kings orders, but seeing that small hovel made something stir in the pit of
his stomach, and if he had any experience with the sensation before, he would have
recognized is as guilt. This way, he chalked the stirring up to indigestion, and patted his
stomach before cocking his rifle.
He looked at Calvin, nodded, and then stepped over the rancid chimeras body, ignoring the
cloying scent of death that lingered and killed the potted plants by the door. The lower
ranking Guard sniffed and kicked away a pot, cracking the clay. Then he shoved the door
open with his shoulder and pointed his weapon at the hideous half-breed seated on the chair.
She was breathing heavily through an optical mask with tears in her eyes.
Calvin squinted and made a faint guttural noise out of the side of his mouth. Its even uglier
up close, he said and holstered his rifle behind his back. Jocel kept his fingers on the weapon
and looked at the woman through the scope. He considered putting it back. What was the
point of shooting somebody who was already dead?
The violet half-breed, or Donovan as they learned her name was, unhooked the straps of her
mask and threw it on the ground beside her. She stared at the two with loathing as they
watched the machines cluttering the house, wondering if their camels could even haul half of
the apparatuses by the days end. The handsome man clucked his tongue and ran it over his
pristine white teeth.
There are people dying in the city, he nodded, not speaking to anybody in particular, and
we let people like you keep equipment like this. He crossed his arms over his chest and
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shook his head with no humor intended. When he looked at her, he watched just below her
marble eye. Damn shame. Youll be face down in the dirt in years time, even with the
contraband.
She didnt allow herself to be shaken by something she knew all along. Where is Billie?
Her voice cut like a knife as Calvin sauntered with his hands on his hips, looking over the
glossy records. All Tosh and Syth music. He slammed a record over the cupboard he found it
on.
Billie? His head moved to the side. Was that her name? I always called her Fido, since she
always scurried to the King like an obedient dog.
The insult had no strength or velocity to come into play. With the first part of his claim, her
deepest fears came true. Her love was dead. And soon, her life would be over as well.
Bowing her head down, she began to gather fistfuls of her magenta dressing gown into her
hands, trying to tear the fabric. So its true Her chin wobbled slightly; an awful and
repulsive sight when paired with her face that shined with tears and snot. Shes gone
Billie Billie
If she had any tears left to spare, she would have cried. Instead she made a stuttering noise,
and kept making it as she looked down on her twiddling thumbs. Prayers were whispered into
her lap, all unfounded. Please let her go to Heaven. She was not a good person, but she was
good to me. Please keep her safe. Please. Please, Calvin, God of thieves, you of all Gods
could save her soul. Or take mine. Take mine, make me suffer, it will be nothing new to me
just let me have her.
As she prayed to Calvin the God, Calvin the Guard watched from the corner of his eye,
disgusted at the display. You should have cried for her before she made the King her enemy.
Shut up now. Not even children cry as much over dead dogs.
This note rung sharply, and so did her following wail. Bony fingers came into her thinning
black hair, clawing at the scalp and looking back on her life. There was no breath for her in
the world. No step or morsel of food. Any love she had was gone, gone and dead, and what
was there more to live for at all?! Her heart pounded weakly, and still she felt like her body
attacked her, like her organs would erupt. There was no life for her, no life at all, and yet she
couldnt allow herself to die. She couldnt let them slay her, not them! Her sobs tore the
insides of Calvins ears, and he tolerated this long enough until he finally came up and
silenced her with a knife to the cheek.
One more sound out of your mutant mouth and Ill cut you like a AAARGH!
Sinking her teeth in his hand, she made him drop the knife he held. She felt nothing in her
jaws and she bit harder and harder, until she felt like her jaws would be left on his hand. He
tried to snatch it away but she hung on. Her stiff legs dragged over the ground and she
climbed him, teeth still over his skin, scratching his pretty face and pulling out his hair.
Screaming through the barrier of flesh above her jaw she tore his clothes and clung to him
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with hell in her eyes. If she was going to die in that hut she would be taking one with her, take
one who killed her love, take one who left her worthless and alone, and shatter his !!!
Jocels bullet to the top of her head made her eyes blank and her jaw crashed down like a
guillotine, taking away the side of Calvins hand. The Guard watched her form topple from
him, looking first at her in terror, then at his bleeding hand and the fallen pinkie finger that
should have stood with the rest. The velvet of his gloves was soaked and soggy when he
pressed down, breathing hard and looking through the hovel with panic. Heaving and gasping
for air, he turned to Jocel who took off his weapon and tended to his comrade; yanking away
his cravat to staunch the wound.
That monster, that bitch, he muttered as the ugly man wrapped around his palm. It was
possible that he still hadnt grasped the weight of losing a finger, and continued to battle his
fear. That monster, that bitch, that half-breed freak! Half-breeds arent human, they cant be!
Theyre not good in the head, Jocel, theyll kill us one day youll see, by the Gods, holy
shit
The field medics dull eyes came over the hand, bleeding red through the silk. Thisll get
infected soon. Looking at the man, rendered ugly with scratches and pulled hair, he gave him
an assuring nod. This house is an apothecary. I even saw vials of therolin. You stay here and
Ill find somethin to heal ya.
Jocel sped to the small bedroom, where he saw the glass container holding boiled cyanic
glow. As he walked, the other man looked on the floor for the glasses he dropped, propping
them on his visage with no regard for the missing lens.
But this is Damasquan! He bellowed, unable to say anything about his state. Its illegal!
Fuck legal! Dyou wanna lose ya hand?!
We could lose our lives if Aurus finds out! I can do with an iron fist, I cant do anything with
an iron tombstone!
Immediately jumping out to take him by the hand, Jocel pulled him to the bedroom and took
his rifle. He rammed its end into the glass container, grunting through his jutted teeth just
before the blue bile started to flow out of the cracks. Tugging Calvins hand, he set it under
the drops and heard the wounded man scream; in thrall to pain as layers of skin fell from his
flesh. No Macro had tried to intake the stuff over their skin before, and never at all in this
amount. The dousing appeared to have an effect, as soon there was no more burgundy coming
out of the covered hole where his finger once was. The screaming subdued and Calvin was
left panting and watching his bandaged hand.
There, Jocel exclaimed finally, and unwrapped the mans fingers. Good as new. He sighed
with relief, appearing visibly relaxed. His colleague was halfway between shocked and
mortified.

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Calvin watched the skin around his hand, glowing pink in good health and tight around his
bones, as he never had the smallest finger to lose. The small cuts on his fingers were polished
into fine ebony of his skin. Energy ran under his veins as great balls of fire, and he found that
he could stretch and clench his palm with ease. It was a perfectly fine hand, three fingers and
a thumb, without even a trace suggesting it was ever missing something. The pain left his
body but hovered about like a cloud of shock and fear. After recovering, Calvin took Jocels
pointed shoulders and shook him hard.
We never speak of this again. What you did could get both of us executed. I dont care what
cow of a wife you have back home that you could stand to lose, but if I die, all the money and
renown dies with me. If anybody asks, Ive never had a finger. We never found any therolin.
We never ever set foot in this room! All Damasquan items were destroyed, and we never.
Even. Touched. Them. Understood?!
Failing to respond at first, Jocel nodded his head as the colleague bore his eyes into him. His
grip was lighter without his digit, but he chose not to mention it, for fear that it could stir
another wave of paranoia into the mans already aberrant behavior. They ran out of the cottage
and to the barn, where they heard that Billie kept her pyromancers potion. The unspeakable
issue would never be mentioned again, leaving only another tally mark on Jocels list of
achievements he could never take pride in.
Inside the burning hut, tears ran down the deceased Donovans face as she dreamt of Billie for
the last time; her hard hands around her waist as she allowed her to step on her boots and
move to the gentle sound of music. The figures floated above the embers and luminous licks
of fire, blending with the smoke during their final dance.
Once the body and its mechanics burned to soot, the two ghostly dancers unfurled their
fingers and went, each in their suited realm, forever to be kept apart by the bounds of Heaven
and the gates of Hell.
/***/

Three days after Kronos expedition

Kee had visited the palace once again. This time she met Aurus in the corridors, walking
alone. There was no joking in her grin as she drew from her pipe and blew the smoke from
her nose, facing him with impertinence as streaks of ethereal embers billowed in his face.
Well, well, well she observed, throwing the side of her sand-colored shawl over a bare
shoulder. With a feline grace, she pivoted around him as a tigress about to pounce on an
antelope. Looks like the old cat finally fell off its tree. Id believe you were very much
fixated on your throne. This is the first Ive seen you off it. But Id better get used to the sight
Ill be taking your place in it soon.
But never soon enough, she almost said but silenced herself with another drag on her
smokeable.

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The King kept a stoic, unmoved expression as she circled him, only once waving out his hand
to dispel the smoke of her pure neon leaves. When he addressed the intruder, his voice was
sharp yet distant, as if she were not worthy of his precious time.
Keeyatara, I
Whats with the formality? She enveloped his neck with her willowy arms, blowing a
smoky kiss on his earlobe. I remember you calling me Kee time and time again. As her
fingers danced and pressed a spot with every word, she lilted: Time, and time, and time
again.
Her chest pushed up against his back though the sensation did nothing to him. Exuding
contempt and great aplomb, he remained still while she crawled over him; her fingers tapping
over his back and shoulders like a tarantulas legs. It disgusted him.
I believe I have made myself clear during your last visit. Arida will always have a King. If
this is your method of negotiation, its pathetic. And catered to the Kings most basic
instincts, he might have added, yet he chose to leave it curt and brief.
Upon hearing the word pathetic which resonated deep within her, Kee writhed around his
body like a mirage and faced into his dark eyes. I could say the same about your acting. The
long, feathered pipe dangled in her hand; the golden embers inside shining and transforming
from one vibrant color to the other. Hot wisps blew out of her nostrils and she stepped back
elegantly, to assess the man she attempted to seduce.
No.
Attempted was a wrong way of calling it. For she had succeeded with her methods of cajolery
before, but never with this man. Never with the toadying sycophant who kneeled by the
Kings throne. This was when she dug her heels into the marble and cast the pipe against the
tapestry on the walls, setting it aflame. Her index finger pointed at the imposter accusingly,
and her eyes glinted at the realization as the King pounced at her with orbs of blackness
hovering between his palms.
Silas you motherfucker!
Jumping and twisting in the air until she could kick the Mana out of his grasp, she struck the
mans wrist. Bellowing, he clutched his hand as his eyes became void as any Zeers. His irises
swirled with contempt inside the glass of his pupils as his highness features receded into
pasty skin and long raven hair, and his height dropped down to his unimpressive stature held
up with broken poise. The energy of his oncoming strike festered in the tips of his fingers
before it died out, leaving unfulfilled potential and insatiable bloodlust. The Queen of the
desert strand landed like a cougar on her feet and held her palm outstretched against the tile.
The walls surrounding them burned and entangled them in licks, making him look a fool in
iron chains and her a wild beast which fed off the heat and chaos.

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The Guards ran and their footsteps could have been heard like ringing bells, yet their
footwork couldnt have matched the speed of Kees lashing tongue.
I thought I told the King to take me seriously. Recoiling upright, she now dwarfed Silas as
she approached him, cautiously, with the look of a tyrant plotting vengeance. The Zeer, halfawaiting his commander to come to his aid, stared haplessly at her. If Aurus isnt willing to
negotiate within the fortnight I will see that your palace burns to the ground! With the last
word she flung out her wrist and send cold sand rushing out of the creases of her hand;
extinguishing the flames until they fell like obedient slaves. With the side of his blackened
eye, Silas witnessed the disappearance of May, the God of Destruction, from the needlepoint
depiction of the Gods on Zephyrs Field. Once reclining peacefully below the kneeling
Rowena, he has now perished and his golden locks were lost in grime and terror. Though her
musing expression hadnt changed, Rowena seemed crestfallen, mourning the loss of her
legendary lover.
As the fire burned out and the sands of Kawala Lax piled under the sacred art, Kee flexed her
bejeweled fingers and flashed a wicked grin. It was at this moment that the Elites burst into
the corridors, arms at the ready.
No King will reign in my realm. The desert doesnt spare.
Staples fired her rifle at the intruders head.
I dont fuck around.
The Queen disappeared in a sandy twister, only leaving small islands of red dust where her
bare feet once were. The Elite watched the bullet hole in Rowenas lips, then Silas composed
mien, and then at her own feet once she felt the tremors return into the core of her mind.
Storm, most likely the largest Guard ever to wear his cloak, took her shoulder and silently
alerted her to gather her thoughts, as the King was seconds away from approaching. Onika
nodded in thanks and stood close to the Zera, who couldnt help but to snicker at the Elites
poor assassination attempt.
The hole still flared below Rowenas nose, and none of the Guards could watch it without a
feeling of disgust. Even Silas, who was perhaps the fastest to recover, purposely averted his
eyes and watched the King as he approached, magnificent and grand and livid beyond
measure.
Zera and Staples stood on his right and Storm saluted from his left. Silas stood right at the
front, and was the only person to address him, bowing courteously.
Sire, he said, imperceptibly moving to the side in order to conceal the damage, I regret to
inform you that, despite your impeccable planning
It didnt work, Aurus guessed on his own, ignoring his Elites as he came up to Silas and
pushed him away. And you are to blame, he added as Silas stepped back.

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Before him was an image of sacrilege; one of the most coveted Gods burned to oblivion, and
the creator of the known world silenced by gunfire. The other original Gods, who looked at
the couple in jealousy and misunderstanding, now only stared at one butchered half of the
pair, and their eyes now showed remorse, rather than the disagreement shown in the Third
Scroll. The canvas etched with emerald threads was now burned and gray; emptied of life and
all creation, as though destructions disappearance could no longer bear life.
It was Aurus uncle Pasha who brought the artwork from the museums in Birch. Title aside,
this was all the good ruler left for his nephew. The matter at hand was no longer who fired the
bullet into the Creators mouth. It was, rather, who allowed the usurper to flee, who couldnt
live up to his Tricksters Trait, who ruined the attempt to capture Auras nemesis and who, by
the Gods who, could stand and try to talk his way out of it as some coy lapdog avoiding
punishment.
No sword tempered by the finest blacksmiths from the strongest ore could have cut as deeply
as Aurus stare, as his flames shifted and his voice laid flat across the room; Youre
dismissed.
This was an advisement to the three, and they wasted no time leaving. Onika was the only one
to look at Silas as she turned to shut the portmanteau. And then, after seeing that her King had
no intention of looking back, she left with some odd sense of satisfaction; for this was the
only time she was not the one left behind. Being decent enough, she promised herself to give
out a small prayer to ensure Silas safety a prayer whose prospect she had forgotten right
after she made to the safety of the common room.
Aurus and his Hand were alone at last, and at least one of them wished they could have been
far, far apart.
Silas took a step closer. Sire, I HNNG!
The tendons of Aurus digits shifted and cracked around Silas neck; gripping and curling
inside the skin as the Zeers feet dangled inches from the ground. He was pressed over a wall
next to a dry torch, and he nearly knocked it on the floor as he grabbed at his Kings hand. He
didnt know if he should have forced himself out of the grip or allowed the King to have his
way and pray to the Gods that he would soon lose interest in personal executions. This was
Aurus strangling him, so all hope was to be abandoned. All that he could have done was to
gasp and beg through a raspy, restricted voice.
ACK-ACK Sire, y-you have to understand AAGH!
My good uncle never punished his subordinates. He was a good and merciful King, he
reminded, as though the man hadnt known before. Aurus eyebrows knitted and he pinned
him against the stone, nails burrowing in the skin of the Zeers neck. This made him a fool. I
admired my uncle in far too many aspects, but his grace cost him his head. I will not tolerate
your audacity to fail me.

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Silas had freed himself from only one of the Kings fingers. He held it in both palms as his
head rose up to catch more air. S-Sire, she She was too wily, too hnng too clever
What did you expect when you took on the mission? Some bored princess with cotton for
brains? Kee is a manipulative mastermind, and her indolent charm is no more than a ruse to
hide all that she is capable of.
I know! He did not. If he did once, he allowed himself to forget. Release me, sire! This is
the first time Ive seen myself fail. Count my shortcomings! This is the first time I please! I
served you well for all your life. Ive served your uncle I served his father! If you could find
it in your heart to give me a second chance, I will be sure to ! To destroy her! Ill do anything
I can! Anything you could ever ask of me, Ill do it posthaste!
Aurus neednt listen to another word. Exposing his side teeth, he unfurled his fist and dropped
the aide on his hind.
Pain shot through Silas back and echoed in his neck, and he could feel the teeth clatter within
his jaw upon collision. Somehow, he also managed to land on his broken wrist, and the
already swollen joint now pulsed and strained over his fragile bone. He was lying on his side
and fighting back ailments, but he was still alive, and this was enough of a reason for him to
crawl like some bitch and kiss his masters feet. This he would have done, had he the strength
to raise himself and put weight on his hand.
Stand, Aurus commanded, and his adviser shot straight up.
Thank you, sire. Thank you. He bowed in deep respect, eyes shut as this befit conduct.
Wondering if his thanks might have been too brief, he began to add some more fallacies to
make his gratitude sound sincere. A thousand pardons. Never will you see me fail a
You believe that I wont, Aurus announced and turned, storming into the swerving halls in
an almost sophomoric fashion. My sovereignty holds no lenience towards those who disobey
me. If you so much as breathe out of line, I will string you up and quarter you before you can
even begin to make your contrived excuses.
He spoke in his speaking volume, with no grim undertones or threatening buzzwords that
struck fear. Knowing he was practically forgiven, the Hand felt a stone plummet from his
constricted lungs. There was feeling in his feet once more, and he took this advantage to
follow his leader.
Are we clear on this? Asked Aurus.
Silas walked with a leisurely pace, trying hard not to make his voice come out strained and
frightened. He rubbed at the small indent on his neck, irritated by how raw it felt. Crystal
clear. Making his stride carry more length, he nodded respectfully. It took him a moment to
add the awful honorific of sire, which had stopped being a call of respect and has lately
morphed into some warped sentiment of familiarity. At the end of it all, Aurus was still a
young pup trying to fill his role as an alpha male, barking orders and at times mauling another
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hound for display. Yet he kept his most loyal pack members intact, no matter how much he
loved to growl and pounce at them. All he asked for in return was some rudimentary respect; a
title here or there, and jobs well done. Silas, as the oldest and most faithful dog ever to dwell
in the pack, believed that he could have accomplished as much. If not for the King he had
cared for since he was an infant, then for the respectable position of the Kings Hand which
gave him enough freedom for his exploits and enough leverage to stop the nosy Guards from
questioning him. His employment and amiability shared with his King were some godsend,
and he would not endanger it further. Of this he was sure.
He had many crass comments to think of concerning his leader, but his work ethic was simple
and certain. There would be no more failures on his record.
Now, the King started, and only then did Silas understand that his lord had lead him into a
dark and secluded west wing of his court, onto the next order of business.
A large golden key with the base as large as a swords pommel emerged from the Kings
robes. His thumb trailed over the lions mane carved into the polished leaves. His eyes
searched for a door, a knob, a keyhole, of which there were few in the part through which no
soul passed and no sun shined. It reminded Silas of the wine cellar where he had previously
kept Epsylon, his Omnia in desertion if not in dankness.
What sort of business, sire? Silas asked, for a moment forgetting the shooting pains in his
hand. His cloudy eyes scanned the walls that became murkier, hindered by some swamp-like
mist. Hearing a click in one of the doors, the Hands ears came up and he followed the source
of the noise, feeling the cold stone walls. Cool air passed through the cracks in the mortar and
curled like ribbons over his lean fingers. He shuddered.
Silas, are you familiar with the fact that Aaron Kronos has found the Eleventh Scroll? The
King opened a small round door, an opening far too small for any dwarf, let alone a man.
Disappearing into its confines, he forced Silas to follow as he responded in the most
respectful tone he could have produced.
Yes, I am. The Aurians have been talking of it since the day it happened. Theyre elated, I
suppose.
It was true. Upon hearing the news, more and more festivities took place. Somehow food was
no longer scarce, music could be heard at any corner, and peasants were harder to find around
the castle walls. The men of Brimstone rejoiced, celebrated the coming of The Chosen One,
and all this before the Xexarian explained that the Scroll needed to be translated into the
common tongue for him to even read it. This mattered little to the denizens, who needed the
good news so desperately. Though the court might have been quiet enough for sub rosa
operations to take place, one could not even set foot outside without hearing drunken squalls
of If we waited a lifetime, well wait another day, or the even more popular, Gods, save us
from the King!
It was all very charming, in the rural, vulgar sense of the word. The Kingdom preserved its
charm for three days, and it was starting to show on the number of reported riots and the sum
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of Guards who went out to placate some rowdier gatherings, only to stay and enjoy the
merriment. It was only a matter of time before the King would speak of this to his advisor.
Silas attempted to slither through the narrow corridors, where dust crept into his pristine robes
and covered his sleek hair. Inching down the steep stairs, he followed the King, only guided
by the torchlight which illuminated whenever Aurus passed by some beacon hanging on a
steel ring. The flames were dangerously close to burning his white cheeks, so he hurried and
held the ends of his coat in his palms.
That speech you gave about Brimstones new hope was truly inspiring, he started, unable to
see his lords expression, or whether or not he should attempt to regale him with flattery. I
believe that I even saw the Emperor of Tosh weep. Biting his tongue, he remembered the
animosity Aurus shared with Zeers as a whole, as well as the people who lead them. And, if
the Callahanian Queen had recovered in time to hear it, I can assure you she would have
adored it.
I have not brought up the fact because I wanted you to praise my oration, sir Rotarum,
Aurus cut him off. Heavy footfalls bombarded the narrow ways which became cramped and
tighter still. I need you to do a small favor for me. Consider it you repaying me for letting
you live.
Silas nodded, descending deeper into the light. He needed to shield his eyes with his hand, as
the clusters of flame clumped together into fireballs and scorched his pupils until they were
dry and felt like peeling. What would this favor be?
Do you still remember what my nations primary source of trade is?
He called it his nation, as a child called its toys or a begrudging spouse called his home. There
was arrogance in every word. Silas never challenged him on it. Instead, as always, he tackled
the question answering what the King expected him to. Gold, sire. Gold, which they traded
for slaves. Gold, which they crafted into war machines. Gold which they used to plaster
homes which were now used as slums, and gold which was inside the mouths of every
noblemen of some significant standing. In other words, it was a resource so overused that
some compared its value to that of gravel, and others argued vehemently that gravel was
much more practical in construction. Silas answer was as correct as it was dead wrong.
Wars can place a dent in our natural resources. Poverty, famine, riots and treason they are
all parasites on the economy, and there are times when we need to stand back and admit how
deprived our kingdom is, in terms of obtaining and sustaining wealth. Never forget, decades
ago, we were a feared force and a metropolis worthy of the light-fingered countries of the
East. And now now, after poor decisions have been made, this desert monarchy needs to
make amends and try to repair the shattered market.
The Kings voice was heavy as he spoke, perhaps even tinted with regret. Silas found it
difficult to sympathize. After all, sire, during whose rule did our economy crumble? The
Hands slippered feet were heavy as he followed, still and silent.
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We may not have much to sell but we do have something to exchange. And in these trying
times, with the Aridian threat and the damage dealt in the mainland, we must turn to our
affluent allies and beseech them for a trade.
It was at this moment that Silas stopped and placed his cold hand on the wall. His eyes were
shut and he pinched the bridge of his nose tightly, as if he were trying to stop an imminent
bleeding. Having not heard the final steps, the King turned to face him, and he stared at his
Hand with a doorknob in his fingers. It was turned to the side, half a turn away from being
unlocked, and yet the King took his time as Silas expressed his doubts.
Please take my qualm with a grain of salt, as it is coming from a man uninvolved in politics
not as involved in them as yourself, at least. Surely some dynamics of Brimstone elude me,
but I have gathered a fair knowledge of our relations with other peoples. He ignored the
Kings impatient stare, looking through every pacifying lie he told. Perhaps it was his inability
to keep his eyes ahead which gave him away, and announced the coming of a tidal wave of
critique. The monarch lifted his chin, silently soliciting a challenging retort, which Silas was
aching to give.
Frankly, I see no way your idea could ever become reality.
An interesting thesis. Care to elaborate?
Gladly, he spoke in a tone resembling a serpents hiss. The main problem with what
youve said is and please do not take offense to the simple truth, butexactly what allies
do you speak of? His hand flailed out, and his timid voice crashed like a burlap sack of
bricks.
Affluent allies?! If you want them, we can cross off all the eastern nations. We can disregard
our colonies! Arida is as loyal as a beaten dog, Birch has abandoned us thirteen years ago over
tobacco commerce! The Monarchy in the Vale has been neutral all throughout the last
conflict, and they will hardly be willing to spare any coin for our post-war efforts. Karaktau
hasnt got a tack to its accursed name, and any other country existing in Brimstone is
alienated, bankrupt, or otherwise unfit to benefit us. By the Gods, all of their gold is moot!
Our own gold held no value for over twenty years. Ive seen people accept copper coins
before even daring to touch something made of gold. Our money is ineffectual, and we have
nothing to trade unless we begin to sell sand! In the entire human realm, we have no allies,
and theres a higher chance of us starving than there is chance of us jumpstarting the
trafficking system. I mean, the mere idea in itself, its nave at best and madness at its
worst! The notion is its ridiculous! With clenched hands he started grabbing at the air
around his head, inches away from pulling hair as his eyes turned blacker than pitch. The air
came through his teeth while he breathed, all cold and dusty, and the King seemed to be
pleased with the short mans awakened temper.
The two gazed at each other, the King in mild bemusement and Silas suppressing frenzy. The
latter had relaxed, pressing a fist to his chin while he cleared his sore throat.

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 sire, he corrected himself and began to rub his wrist absentmindedly, soothing his fiery
nerves.
The King smirked as he unhinged the mysterious vault.
Bitter words His eyebrow lifted smugly. And a daring display of emotions, for a man
who nearly lost his life in my hands. Some wouldnt have the gall.
My impudence is on point, and there is a reason Id never fear for my life. Swinging an arm
back, he pointed up, to the top of the stairs they climbed down. If you had killed me in the
corridors, you would lose the only ally you had in your life. As much as I admire you, sire, I
know that you couldnt afford that loss.
Are you implying that I need you for anything besides menial administration?
Youre speaking to the man who took back five of your colonies and built Lorna from the
ground up. His arms folded over his chest. There is no need to imply a thing.
If he were any Guard or messenger to make such bold claims, the King would have burned
him into the faade. For every crass word and each slip of the tongue that couldnt sit well,
the talkative fools would have met their doom in a fire of blazing infamy, and their corpses
would have been left to rot in the town as a casual reminder never to interfere with the ego of
powerful men. Yet all Silas statement elicited was a grin and a nod, as the King finally saw
the man who taught him of revolving power, and how to utilize it to its most gruesome
potential. The aide induced inspiration, never rage. Aurus short laugh was genuine.
He opened the door.
All you say is true. But heed my words, he reminded as he pushed the door to reveal the
treasury, the world can be an ally if we have something it wants.
What did the peoples of Brimstone desire more than the grace of Gods?
If Silas hadnt known that Aurus had spent most of The Last War appropriating the found
Scrolls by raiding museums and temples, seeing the collection would have made the Zeers
jaw sink to the ground. In the small, ember-lit room, within red velvet containers sat the
known scrolls, original parchments with burned edges and faded ink, yellowed corners and
words scribbled by canonized heralds in high Eilian. They unfolded and covered the walls like
drapes, their words glowing like glyphs on the shrine walls. Inside the vermillion hollow,
Aurus stood and breathed in the scent of riches and wisdom. He sauntered amid the
knowledge scholars would break a university oath and kill for, die for, renounce their titles
and steal simply for the chance to learn more of the world. These Scrolls have been translated
eons before, and all from the noblest monarch to the lowly beggars knew to quote Rowenas
prophecy, or tell of Calvins robbing of the silver mare. Yet only the most righteous monks
who had spent their existence in cloisters, trials of silence and depravation could see and
understand the originals. All this changed through tyranny and fear, so the power of

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omniscience fled to the arms of a false King. This man adored the pieces of paper for what
they truly were a priceless trade to buy back all the gold hed ever require.
There was only one space to be filled, at the far end. The gap kept clear for the Eleventh
Scroll was redder compared to the filled spaces and rolling ink. Its brightness stung the eyes
of those who garnered greed as a poor man gathered the pox.
In a single wordless glance, Silas next assignment was set in stone.
Where is the Eleventh Scroll now?
Saga. Silas hands unknowingly clenched at the thought of Silver Hair, the wench that took
to translating it. She might have gone by Lady at that time, yet she would always remain a
dirty pirate in the Zeers sinister eyes. His throat went dry. But I can make a deal with the
Xexarian. If I take something he values, hell have no choice but to give us the Scroll.
Excellent, Aurus replied as his digits slowly caressed the side of a papyrus, carefully as if
he were touching a doves broken wing. Take an Elite with you, preferably Storm. He knows
of Aarons sanctuary, and where it lies. In an instant his brow furrowed and he threw a look
of warning behind his back. Kronos must not be harmed. Take his Outcasts instead. All at
once or piecemeal, and then give him demands accordingly.
Kidnapping, I see. He twiddled his thumbs, the pain in his hand had finally gone numb. He
wondered if he should start by taking away the half-breed, and follow with her metallic
cripple of a boyfriend. Its underhanded and vile.
Are you saying youre against it?
Im only expressing my liking. Suddenly his brow moved and his aplomb twisted into mild
concern. And if he fails to surrender the Scroll when he is told?
Simple. Neglect keeping the taken ones alive, and see how long the peacemaker can keep up
the waiting game. If they try to fight back, do not hesitate to fry them he stopped to give a
dirty stare, like you should have fried Kee.
This was a needless drop in tone. Silas bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood.
It was bitter, and tasted pleasant on his tongue.
I leave at nightfall, under the mask of moonbeams. Ill draft a note for the Xexarian in the
meantime. Values, threats and terms of agreement ricocheted to and fro. There was a dark
satisfaction in how quickly he could ruin the Saviors life with one small note. It was only
appropriate since the Scrolls, inane notes in themselves, dictated the lives of Brimstone and
drove many poor souls to death and toil. Manipulating them would go against the will of
Gods, yes, but was there really a doubt in pulling out a dying country out of the claws of
poverty? It would take an idiot to value the opinion of a dead God over the life of a fellow
man, or the will of a mighty King.
I want this to go quietly. No need to disrupt the peace with talks of betrayal.
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Indubitably. Just one final question, if I may.

The King turned and allowed him to speak; already fond of the riches he would take from his
former foes in exchange for scraps of paper with scrawled godly gibberish.
Who will you do business with once the collection is complete?
Aurus smiled darkly. Is that not the beauty of the scheme? Throwing out his arms, he
breathed in the saccharine scent of spiced paper and age. We can take whoever we want,
Silas. We can rebuild the bridges we burned. My uncle wanted to unite the world and Im
going to honor him and dominate it. Great minds might have taken over generations, generals
might have taken nations. Pirates roam the high-seas as if they own them, and each lord reaps
the crops of his land. They all think they have control and glory, but we, Silas, we are about to
take them all! No more threats of separation. No more rallies at our doors. No more vague
thoughts of revolution and worn-out chants and sweaty serfs demanding rights they never
earned. No more. None of that! Nobody in their right mind would dare, for we will possess
the truth of Brimstone. You cannot place a price on truth, especially not a coveted one, the sort
the world needs and speculates about. We have the meaning of life, the relations of Gods and
the location of Heaven on these faded parchments. We can buy lives with these words.
Tomorrow, Ill have my undisturbed rule again. Tomorrow, Ill see justice how I designed it.
Tomorrow, the land will be at my feet at last.
Rigid and confident, he stared at the shielded skies with a dastardly gleam in his eye, as
though he had the power to damn all the men he ever knew, and took his dear time with every
calculated curse. The sun would fall and rise, and so would a new order of Brimstone, with
him as its name and face, with banners of gold streaming the ivory skies. The esteemed Gods
will fall under the weight of the crown, of this he was sure.
Come tomorrow, Silas, we will buy the world.
Rowena could bite a bullet for all he cared.
/***/
After awaking from another dream about her parenting Brimstones savior, Stella cursed
herself for letting the clinging tendrils of slumber cloud her priorities. As she pushed up her
round spectacles until they were cutting into her ivory skin, she looked down at the scribbling
on the parchment, and the fresh ink embellishing the stack of papers she has set in front of
her. Upon landing at an old outdated Syth word for gratitude, she had spent an embarrassing
amount of time looking for its Common tongue proper, and this mental exertion was enough
to knock her out for a good quart of an hour.
Pickering was the one who shook her awake, letting her memories of telling bedtime tales to
the baby Xexarian diffuse back into the fondest, most wistful cracks of the mind.
My Lady Forrester, he said as a greeting, trembling as she looked up from her work. Deep
caves held his brilliant eyes as a silent indicator that he hadnt had a good nights rest either.
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He was still worn and weary, despite Stella having dismissed him right after the second time
he dozed off on the towering pile of dictionaries and historical documents. Since his leave, the
precarious fortress of paperwork only grew in size and girth. Gazing at the slanting books in
discomfort, he jolted once his matron finally acknowledged his presence.
Is something wrong? Her ears lifted and started to listen to the air for traces of mayhem,
and the one thing she picked up was a faded buzzing sound far beyond her abode.
Pickering scrutinized the ladys makeshift bedspread; unused and littered with whatever
translation or map she could have found. The Eleventh Scroll had been a terror to read, let
alone make sense of. Have you have you slept at all tonight?
Forget sleep. Shaking her head, she blinked away the mist in her tired eyes, until the bicolored checkers returned their proper hues of stone and fog. I am on the verge of a historical
breakthrough; I mustnt let sleep dictate my productivity. Standing up, she smoothened away
her work in progress and walked over to her pupil, looking radiant even in her disheveled
state. There was impatience in her tone when she looked down, though it was laced with relief
that his intrusion had woken her before she could waste the night.
My lady
State your business, Green.
Its about your Aaron. Gentle violet-tinted hands curled into fists behind his back, yet he
wasnt aware of the reflex. He was meditating the last time I saw him but when I went to
check on him, the cave was empty!
Stella lifted up an eyebrow, wondering why the man could even go to the senex if he had
already found the Scroll. Moreover, why would Dedal send him out of the cave unless there
was something dismal afoot. She knew there was no matter how much she loved her boy, he
was a magnet for trouble, and calamity followed him like an obedient dog on a short leash.
Hopes of spending a quiet night behind a textbook and quill became pipe dreams, and her
sleep-deprived arrogance sank to the pit of her gut.
Where is he now?
As foolish as this question was, Pickering managed to provide a stupider answer. I I - I
dont know, my lady. Perhaps he is back in his in his He moved away from her path as
she stormed out; the silver trimming on her gown shaking in the golden candlelight like
curved blades of grass against summer wind. The student observed her leave, rapt and
besotted with the voice that accompanied the stride.
Try finding Pagoda Peak on one of the old maps. Ill return when I find him.
All it took was one glance at the faded graphs and charts for Pickering to feel somnolent and
sick with boredom, and yet he took to the work just as she phased through the walls of her
study.

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Greeted with chirping crickets and the silken glow of the moons crescent, Stella began to
remember how peaceful Encantadia might have been outside of her study. It was the evil
mandarin shine behind her that pulled her into the present, and Plamens booming voice
which strapped her by the ankles and kept her grounded. Craning her neck to see him and his
daughter was a painful experience; she couldnt even hide the annoyance she felt towards his
beard and scars, or her impious grin.
The matron kept calm, deciding that no hoyden of a daddys girl would attempt to cow her
that night.
Where do you think youre going, Forrester? Plamen asked, crossing his arms. They were
large and bulky, with ape-like hands that suggested he could have strangled a man with one
finger. Stella could never observe them directly without a chagrined smile making its
appearance over her stiff features. Though he was looming above the former premier, his size
seemed stunted by how coldly Stella accepted his means of intimidation.
The enchantress rolled back her shoulders and took her glasses away. I have duties to attend
to. I believe you do, as well. Drying paint is not going to watch itself. After she had folded
her spectacles and tucked the frame into the bust of her gown, she nudged her head to the path
behind the two, implying they were on their way back from whence they came. She seemed
incredibly pleased with her sly gesture, though the sentiments werent shared.
Lucretia furrowed her brow and stepped behind her father, looking up at his features while he
constructed a reply. You have a lot of nerve to talk back to me like that. Especially since I
allowed you to decipher the Scroll on your own terms.
Stella was outright insulted at that sly retort. You have allowed me nothing. I took to the job
myself, knowing that I am the most qualified. If I had never accepted it, we would have been
forced to send it to a monastery or a curator in the human realm her eyes narrowed
knowingly, and both of us know how poorly the Scrolls are treated by etherless souls.
Nevertheless, I am doing you an unspeakable favor by allowing you to even watch the
Scroll, let alone take part in the creed it holds.
Beg pardon, she pointed at the gray husk of her tree home where the parchment well
belonged, but that Scroll always held a creed for me. I fostered the man who surfaced with it,
and I taught him everything we know about legends and Gods! As I have with much of the
inquisitive Sheeban youth. There is no person more qualified for this task.
I can name twenty other Dryads of high standing who would die and kill for a chance to see
it! Dont think none of them would use their wisdom against you.
Have any of these respectable souls conversed with Gods? Referring to her visions during
the Festival, and all those beforehand, she silenced the premier and his grinning darling. I
have experienced a wrath of reality and was in touch with all the hearts of Brimstone and
never have I gotten disrespect for it yet. Serena revealed the secret of light to me. Equiar
pardoned all of my crimes!
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A lot of men have seen Gods, Forrester! In many ways, you are no different from a shivering
lunatic in an asylum.
And in many ways you are no different from a slobbering baboon! After a quick realization
that she was hunched and pointing at his chest, she withdrew her finger and rolled her
shoulders again, hiding her lack of sleep behind burning eyelids. I fear I have no time for
your monkey business.
You are damn lucky for that Scroll in your study. Because if you werent working on
interpreting it !!
Plamen, I simply adore your petty jabs and threats of exile, but right now I have another
matter on my mind. She opened her eyes and looked at him, in a manner most becoming of a
chastising mother. In her eyes the flame Dryad saw a likeness of his former spouse, an aerokinetic who gave her life so that another Dryad, their daughter Lucretia, could have been
born. Plamen remembered that her orbs were cold and unforgiving during her spurs of
madness, and seeing Stellas bloodshot irises made his heart ache. He even stepped back, to
Lucretias confusion.
The mistress of light tapped her fingers along her forearms as she delivered the news. Aaron
Kronos is missing.
Lucretia tugged at her fathers tunic at the new information, biting her tongue to keep in a
gasp. Her father was hardly shaken. If anything, he was indifferent.
Why should this concern me? Your bastard always runs off and comes back a few coins
richer each time.
He disappeared during meditation which he had no reason to partake in, as he has already
found the object he sought. Perhaps this is funny if you imagine he has gone to a marketplace,
but I know that meditation has once brought him to the centre of Dama
Youre on very thin ice, Forrester! He bared his teeth and wagged her index finger,
hunching his back until he and the lady were at eye level. That town must never be named!
And my bastard has seen it. Gods only know where this could have brought him, and I must
find him. Im behind on my work as it is, and we will get nowhere if we keep standing around
and bickering over whether or not Im fit for my duties. Ill end this discussion once and for
all before I leave.
She took four or five steps backwards and rose her heavy arms; the sleeves of her dress
unrolled and fell to her shoulders, exposing the glistening skin of her willowy arms. The
fingers reached for the stars in the sky and curved like they could have trapped them in her
palms. Staring intently, Stellas eyes moved from the dark night sky to her premiers eyes. The
gaze lingered in an air of hostility. It would take one swift motion downwards to transport her
out of his sight in a flash of cyan, yet instead of leaving at once, she declared;

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If you find anybody more qualified than I am, you may as well start kissing their feet and
give them your throne.
Plamen stormed and shook his fist at the sight of her disappearance, cursing profusely as his
daughter stayed behind and fretted over her Xexarians fate. And somehow, despite her hatred
for her tutor, she started hoping that she would find him and return safely to her study. The
reaction came and flew momentarily, though this was the first time she supported her fathers
adversary, and quite possibly the last.
/***/
It was halfway through the second reading that the inside of Maggies mouth dried out like a
bone in the desert. Her large emeralds swept to Rikers glasses-borne orbs, which turned to
fog with concern. The half-Sheeba otherwise remained unmoved, even though her palm
squeezed around Rikers robotic digits every so often, sending iced spikes clawing through
her blood. Even this made her calmer; it distracted her from the churning sensation in her
heart and stomach. Needles crawled like serpents over her forearms while Aaron read the
ransom note, each word enunciated to perfection and the signature uttered like some ancient
curse. The redheads voice dropped as she asked again.
Where where were we when this happened?
Riker nodded to second the question and pressed her tightly against his frame. More
importantly, he added, shooting daggers at the Karaktaian sitting crossed-armed in his corner,
what were the sentinels doing?
Archer met Rikers scowl with his defenses high. Immediately he propped up and pointed his
finger at the Outcasts who remained in the base after the attack. Dont you dare pin this on
me, tin can! I did whatever I could.
Stella, who snatched the letter out of her protgs hands and scanned it thoroughly, finally
spoke up over the din of dread. How could a ranked marksman miss every shot he took? Im
only presuming you shot at them at all
Yeah! Aaron turned on his heel and stood akimbo, siding with Stella. And how couldnt
Pion catch up with them?!
Those men who came overpowered that wolfish she-devil like she was made of plywood!
The big guy slapped the bullets away! His hand flew as if he swatted an invisible fly to
illustrate. Marching through the clutter with great aplomb, Archer shielded the seated Zeer
from penetrative stares directed his way. The albino freak himself wrung his hands tautly and
observed the happenings occurring by his feet, speculating about the poor defense in deep
shame. It was only after Archer walked in front of him that he dared to look ahead, over
Archers shoulder. You couldnt expect us to go against em alone! The Guard that came was
like a mountain riding on a camel! And Silas screwed up all of Maggies sentries with
those Spinning his fingers about, he attempted to find a proper term for what he had seen,
though words failed to come. Improvising, he spewed; black energy vapors o his!
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Mana. Stella stressed and frowned. The term is mana. And all Im getting out of this
testimony is that you couldnt handle one Guard and an over-esteemed bureaucrat on your
own.
Oi, dont you start with me now you ugly prig! He bellowed at Stella while she grimaced.
They took the Sitka by the heels and slammed her on the ground like a wet rag! I wouldnt
think youd have the guts to come out and try to save her!
Maybe we would, Fafnir decided when he stormed his way, if you had alerted us as soon
as it happened you useless racist motherfucker!
Archers cheeks sank deeper into his bones. His voice was dead while he stuffed his chest full
of air and pride to appear larger before the Sevvy. Whatd you call me? He asked in a
calmly homicidal tone.
Hey, hey, hey, hey! Aaron ran and jumped in between them, spreading his arms far enough
to create a buffer zone. The Macro and the Karaktaian sliced each other with any look they
threw over the Xexarians shoulders, despite Kronos attempts at placating them. Lets not
forget who were actually angry at! Silas is the one who did this.
Despite being thrown to the side by means of Fafnirs furious clench, Aaron continued to act
as a reconciler, derailing the dispute to the matter of the letter hanging in Stellas white hands.
His voice failed to carry through the musty air of repugnance that lingered between the two
belligerent sides, though it echoed loudly with the Outcasts who had yet to choose favorites.
Silas gave us the letter! Hes the one who wants our Scroll!
In forty-eight hours, no less. Stella turned the paper around, hoping that she had misread or
misheard the conditions. Past finding out that she hadnt, the doyenne was enraged and
fighting the bubbling desire to rip the proper cursive writing into shreds. Forty-eight
hours she murmured. And do they suppose that all the previous Scrolls were distributed
to Kings this easily?
Not bloody likely.
Her white hot fury was scattered by the sound of Fafnirs screech. He had laid his hand on the
marksmans shoulder with violence on his mind, even though the fact that Karaktaians hated
physical contact was not unknown to him. Pion emerged behind his friend and grabbed the
Macros wrist, crunching and turning it in the cold stones of his hands. Crushing and pulling
back, he continued to torment Fafnir until the latter was grunting on his knees, forced to look
up at the fuming racialist who allowed the Sitkas kidnapping. Perhaps it was humiliation that
drove him to forfeit quicker than pain; he shortly spewed out some sort of agreement and was
released. Words could not have described the rage he felt as he rubbed the sore red skin of his
wrist, nor could he have recalled the last time somebody had humiliated him to such a degree
since the Panopticon.

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He gritted his teeth and turned away, leaving Archer to thank his protector with a curt,
indiscernible nod. The albino mindlessly mirrored the gesture while the black needlework
surrounding his lips straightened up from his frown. His skin ripped like paper.
You racist psychopath Fafnir mumbled in disgust.
We can deal with Archer later, Aaron said, and immediately Archer began to protest. But
right now, we have a teammate missing. I dont know how or why or who let this happen
It was Archer.
FUCK OFF!
But the bottom line is, the Sitka is gone. The Xexarian pressed his hands together and
paraded across and over the scattered scrap metal and tools, as if he were on some podium
giving a speech. Shes in the Kings palace, where she can be sold back into slavery, taken
into custody, hanged in town square or worse! I dont care if you worshipped her, he looked
at Fafnir with flair of somebody who knew much gossip, I dont care if you hated her, his
eyes clawed Archer, who pulled his hood over his forehead, and I dont care if you wanted to
use her to fact check your old Syth history books!
It took Stella a second to realize that he was referring to her. As she crossed her arms, she
wondered if the boy she raised grew up to be highly observant or rather rude to his elders. In
either way, the young man starkly reminded her of herself back in the day, and she
unknowingly beamed with pride as he carried out the rest of his oration.
Look, I dont Stopping in his tracks, he sighed, diving his shoulders in the crook of his
neck. His voice was timorous when it emerged from his windpipe, ragged with stress and
anxiety he attempted to cover up. When it emerged, it sounded human, and not pitiful as he
originally feared it might. I didnt know the Sitka. Alright? I dont know anything about
her. But that woman was ready to throw away any prejudice she had against Macros to save
them in the fire, and she dedicated herself to training and recovering, and thats the kind of
person Id be proud to have on my team! And Im not letting her go that easily!
So, what? Riker asked, curling his shoulders as he tried to run ahead and see the final stop
of Aarons train of thought. Do we give them the Scroll? Because I can name a dozen
reasons why we should give nothing to Aurus, and Im not even counting those which could
lead to another genocide
Were keeping the Scroll, Aaron assured and crossed his arms. I didnt spend twenty years
going all over Brimstone to find it just for some thugs to come waltzing in and snatch it. And
were getting back our Sitka too!
So whats that plan? Maggie asked, stepping out of Rikers shadow.
It was at this moment that Aarons stance morphed into his usual laid-back posture. He ticked
up an eyebrow and smirked to the side, nodding at the petite engineer. Stella knew this look of
his. Momentary respect was immediately replaced with discomfort, and her smile disappeared
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like an apparition from her lips. Aaron leaned further behind with his arms behind his head,
clucking his tongue at the ceiling.
Its simple, he revealed his intentions as he rocked on the balls of his feet. We storm the
castle.
This ludicrous proposition was met with a scoff from the back; a sound of ridicule from the
Karaktaian with a foul mouth. His arms dropped almost to the ground. Storm the bleedin
castle?! What the deuce are you talkin about you pea-brained drongo?
Maggie raised an eyebrow and looked at Riker. Drongo?
Riker answered: Its a Frost Peak thing. His expression suggested that he did not know the
answer, that nobody present could know the answer, and also that the answer could never
truly exist in the realm of human abstraction. Maggie was semi-content with this and replied
with an unsatisfied oh.
We arent storming the castle now, Archie, Aaron explained as his thumbs found their place
in the hook of his leather belt. We need to devise a tactic first. We need weapons. Armor,
plans we have forty-eight hours to comply with their demands. I say we give them fortyeight to barricade themselves and pray to whatever God they believe in!
Are you insane?! Nobody in their right mind would agree to this!
I agree to this. Fafnir stepped forward, chin raised proudly into the flickering neon lights.
See what I mean? Archer asked, ticking a thumb at the Sevis fighter.
I never thought Id say this, Riker said in dismay, and the sound of his voice took away all
of Maggies previous excitement. I think Archers right. The King has his Elites and at least a
dozen Guards patrolling the perimeter of the gate wall alone! What do we have?
This was when Aarons confidence came thrashing back like a tsunami, breaking every doubt
that stood in his way. Already he could see their attack on the Senate, filled with the rush of
power and the throng of fallen people demanding justice. Their desire for freedom fused with
years of suppressed anger, anger for the world, anger for those who commanded it. Just from
the smell of revolution, all involved could predict the outcome glory and renown for the
Outcasts, and infamy for the leader who spent his youth praising the system he now sought to
destroy.
Except the Senate would be nothing compared to this. The Senate would be childs play. And
why did he believe that?
We have the Phoenix cannon.
Maggies eyes turned into gems as she squealed, biting hard on her fist to keep herself calm.
Yet she could not, and all of Rikers objections, issues, couldas and shouldas turned into
background noise. They had two days to complete the project she spent a lifetime to perfect,
and this was the perfect time. This brilliance of Aarons manipulation never stood in the fact
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that he could make all people do his bidding. In some cases, all he needed to do was thrill one
person to the point of combustion. Their vigor and lust for creation would draw the other side
into work, whether they needed this or not.
Rikers final statement was cut mid-sentence. Already the half-Sheeba took him by the collar
and pulled him to the cannons hull, all while she shook with frissons of joy and assured her
leader; WERE ON IT, CHIEF! in her voice most becoming of a hoarse pixie.
There was no rest for the others, either. When the couple was in their working position, more
orders soon followed. Fafnir was to train. Archer was to organize weapons and make sure they
were up to par. Pion needed to run run as fast his mortal legs could, as he should be no
slower than a hurricane to escape the hailstorm of bullets that rained from the sentinel Guards
on the yellow palace walls. They saluted and left, some with zeal and some with a groan, and
Aaron could already feel his skin grow lighter. The tiger markings on his body burned, but
this was a good flare to experience, like some fire of change.
The Outcasts would not be manipulated not by a King, at least. For the first time since their
last charge, and perhaps for the first time in general, Aaron could feel that he was about to
make a difference, and return the teams morale they so badly needed.
It was his caretaker who put a hand over his shoulder and broke his fantasy apart, reminding
him that two days were still an eternity away.
He looked at her with kind eyes, suddenly recalling that she had no obligation for the
upcoming mission.
Raem, she said in a tired voice, folding Silas letter in her palm, what happened during
your meditation? When he tried to evade the question through groaning, she continued to ask
with more austerity. Im serious, Raemskal! Transporting like that is dangerous. You could
have been anywhere! Tell me, what were you doing inside the cave?
The Xexarians smile fell and he looked away, taking the edges of a desk in his hands. After
such an adrenaline rush, it was hard to return into that vulnerable spot. Coming down from the
high, he released all the air he trapped in his lungs, wishing he never needed to hold this
conversation. But he owed it to her, aware of how much she must have worried while he was
away.
Its nothing, Stel. He bent onto the glass to find some support. Even though his joints held
him up well, his head turned light as some balloon and made him dizzy. His arms crossed over
the cold surface, and he listened to the distant sounds of hammers and drills. I wanted to I
wanted to ask Alistair some things.
What things might this be?
With flickering eyes the Xexarian looked over to the painted weapon towering inside of the
cramped laboratory. He took some time to watch Maggie connect colorful wires on the
command board atop the boxy stomach of the titanium beast. The lines sparked and whirred
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in a flourish, as if she performed magic in place of science. It was the happiest Aaron had seen
her in a long time, and others noticed her newfound speed and diligence as well. Riker often
looked up at her from behind his heavy welding mask, and even a dolt such as Kronos could
certainly tell that he was smiling.
Aaron couldnt have watched the lovebirds work forever, so he sighed and turned to his
matron.
Things, like Huffing, he stretched out his arm. You know. I mean, I found the Scroll. I
made the speech. We should know where the Field is now and well thats just it. I did what
I had to. I followed all the instructions. I passed all the tests. Now what?
So you wanted Alistair to give you further guidance.
Uh-huh.
What did he say?
Well, the abridged version would be that I should stop wasting his time and think for myself
from now on. Aaron spun on his heel and leaned against the glass desk, his head bobbed
downwards to avoid Stellas wide eyes. He sent me here in the end good thing, too. I was
just in time for Fa He stopped, furrowed his brow and ticked his head to the side. for
that guy to tell me what happened.
Chuckling sadly to himself, he began to make small swirls across the floor with the ball of his
foot. By the Gods, he should learn the mans name eventually. The Sitkas too, for that matter.
For some reason, Stella didnt seem to catch his avoidance of pronunciation. Swallowing
hard, he forced out a truth he couldnt say in front of anybody else. Im worried about her
Ive seen her, you know. With Billie. Gods, she was a mess back then. Cant even think about
that without flinching. I saw what the Kings followers could do to people like her and I I
just hope shes alright.
She will be, Stella assured. And its only human to worry.
Im not exactly human anymore, Stel. He shrugged. Im a symbol. Im supposed to be
Mister Congeniality or something. Heroes dont get emotional over their followers like this,
do they? The following breath he took was long but shallow, as if his body failed to accept it
whole. Even though there was nothing on his lips at the time, he wiped them off against his
wrist and swallowed hard. His knuckles were white as he held the counter.
This is the first time I didnt see Freya at all, during meditation. I guess I need to accept that
shes gone. But Im not losing any more of my friends to politics. Shed never forgive me if I
did.
It was when he mentioned politics that Stella remembered her duties to Plamen, and then she
decided to put them on a hold for merely another minute or two. Her touch was tender and
nurturing when she lifted up his chin and grazed it with her thumb, and the sight of his adult,
matured mien made something in her throat leap. It was almost like watching a leaf change
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color and wither, right in her hand, in a seconds time, out of her control like the sands of time
or the clash of seasons.
Her throat constricted when she talked, softly enough only for him to hear. You talk more
and more like a leader each day. A dark lock of his hair fell over his forehead and she tucked
it behind his ear. It frightens me.
This small addition cajoled a genuine smile from him. It did nothing to restore his lost youth.
In that moment, cradling his chin after he had announced the strike, she saw the glimpse of
her past in his weak smile. It was condensed parental emotions which drove her to say
goodbye right there, in that motherly sort of way, before she vanished in blue.
The matron left in her cyan glow. Later she would be back in her hollow, and return to the
translation. In numbing boredom her mind would wander, and imagine how she found the
Last Xexarian in the rubble of a burned village. How she swaddled him and rocked him when
he cried. How she played with him when he had no friends to call. She thawed the path he
walked over, and he followed in her long footsteps for as long as he could have. There were
times in his upbringing when she was at her poorest, and Raemskal cried with hunger on the
floors of goblin inns they could afford. Yet those times had specks of light and hope, simply
because the two of them were never alone. The cheerful boy grew into a picture of arrogance,
and Stella never held it against him. She still saw the gurgling Xexarian she referred to as her
child when she looked into his eyes, and recognized her wide-eyed idealist who took the
world by storm.
Some fiends tried to say that she coddled him too much; others called her worthless. Perhaps
those people were right. Aaron Kronos never needed a mother, but Raemskal might have, and
she cherished every hug and peck on the cheek as if it came from her own offspring. Raem
was older now, and resembled Aaron Kronos a touch more with each loss he lived through.
One day, he would detach from his former life completely, and live solely as a prophet and
Savior he was destined to become.
He would become the greatest diviner ever to walk the hot sands of Brimstone, and this would
not be because he was the last member of his kind. It would be because of his instilled
wisdom and care, his devotion and kindness, and goodness of the heart. Even though many
described her as a skeptic, this was one indisputable fact which she would forever believe,
regardless of what others said.
The only regret she could have concerning Raems upbringing was that she never told him
one phrase, the unspoken truth, which she hoped was obvious enough for him to know on his
own.
I am so, so proud of you.

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Chapter XII: The Coming of the Cavalry

Rage.
This was all she could see and hear and feel. From the fibers of her very being to the cloudy
ether of her hardened soul, a fervent ire boiled and burst through the craters of her pupils,
shooting her darkened surroundings.
Rage.
She had felt it from the very moment of her birth, when she shrieked through blood and filth,
demanding her shelter and cursing the air that crumpled her unused lungs. The intakes of
breath made her stronger and wiser, but the anger remained. Channeling it to sports, battling
and rebellion, it had become a powerful ally and a fearsome foe to all who opposed her. The
woman was a finely-honed blade made of wolf bones and iron, who knew how to tread the
glass path of tribulations from the day she learned to stand. Her clans name was an accursed
one; even among her own kith. Laranaikans were brutes and villains in fiction, but saw
themselves as patriots, and holders of a beautiful tradition that was Sitkan history. Others
could not be reasoned with, and they had no price set on respect. It was in a Laranaikan
childs best interest to learn how to become and stay angry, furious at any wrongdoing against
her. As a child the Sitka held the emotion close to her heart, and mixed it with any emotion to
strengthen it tenfold. Happiness was hysteria. Sadness was despair. Anger was her default
from the time her cognitive abilities developed enough for basic impulse control, and this was
simply her way to be.
But this was no anger to speak of.
This was the lament of a scorned mother, who overheard a rumor that it was her upbringing
which had her child killed or hanged.

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This was the fiery stare of a man who held the motionless body of a woman he loved,
watching her murderer flee with the bloodied weapon still hitched in his palm.
This was the fury of a man who had spent his years doing favors, and was faced with an
ultimatum to obey his masters or lose whatever remained of his miserable life.
This was an undervalued and underestimated student castigating her master who never
believed that she could do well, who never gave a chance to prove herself, and kept insisting
that she never would.
An orgy of nightmares and recollections of abuse, paired with the misfortune of her kinfolk,
crashed into a hellfire on the night when she was snatched by the shoulders and thrown on the
ground, gagged and stuffed in a sack like a swine while the marksman standing watch gave
her kidnappers his blessing. She saw it; the gleam in his eyes and the smirk over his lips. His
shots were weak and barely grazed a camels hoof before it galloped to the palace walls.
Hellfire ignited in her heart and burned like sin. Licks of its scarlet flames flickered and
combusted, higher and higher, while she grunted with every strike of the beasts leg. Deep in
darkness and beaten senseless by the Guards and their pets, she was cast into the dungeon
underneath the throne, chained up with brass and steel, and left to rot until Aaron Kronos
made his deal.
This was her true rage. It was quiet and deadly, as dry and as bitter as the bars which held her
inside. She was sitting on the ground with her arms over the wall, held by the links that
intertwined like serpents. None of the others were tied like she was, though some had chains
around their ankles, and others were stuck on walls like sobbing paintings. The air reeked
with sweat and shit, which came as nothing new. There was irony in it all; how a palace of
gold could harbor such muck within chambers filled with straw and madmen. The Sitka
listened to the moaning and cries for whichever relative still lived, knowing that some of the
family carried chains the last time she was a captive. Some time ago, she too called out for her
mother and brother, before her rage commanded that it was too late to cry. There was no
sympathy for the wretched criminals. Even if there was empathy left in her barren soul, she
rejected it, simply to become stronger with the ire. There was no room for doubt or comfort.
On the ground for over a day already, she hadnt slept and rejected every scrap she was
thrown.
Bowls of soup turned cold in front of her, and bread started to grow green. Her stomach was
tied into a knot, repulsed by the foodstuff they threw at her. A Guard would arrive, cast a meal
which fit through a locked flap door at the bottom of her cage, and then scurry away. They
were afraid all of them, but especially the Kings niece. The Sitka remembered her skinny
mien, dignified but terrified. Perhaps this was the first time she had seen a Sitka bound and
captured, yet defiant in her eyes. Those who came to the palace were housetrained and tearyeyed, but not her. Having delivered the food, the emaciated Macro ran, not walked, but fled
from the dungeon like its prisoners look could sever a limb. Even the other captives moved to
the corners of their cages, cowering and shaking with dread. This applied doubly for other
Sitkans; as they saw no Syth in her, only Laranaika. Only sin and fight and testimony of war.
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Sensation drained first from her fingers, then her forearms, until her limbs turned to pliant
rubber. Her cell could have been in Frost Peak, as cold as it was. The thick stone walls were
covered in gray moss, damp as a wet rag and reeking of vomit. This only tempered her anger,
cooking it slowly until it was ripe and lethal.
Her spotted ambers have not seemed to blink since she was chained up, too focused on the
repugnant mound of shit that stared at her from the bars. The Zeer grinned in front of his
King, who watched his new catch as his beringed fingers curled over one of the rods. It was
perverse, how tightly he clenched it. This was the first time he came to see his hostage; he
brought along a parade of low-ranking officials. They wore short velvet capes but no golden
hoods, which meant they were nothing more than armed greenhorns who feigned authority.
The Sitka couldnt tell if she was breathing. If she were any less furious, she would have
jumped at them. Now she took her time, savoring every moment that her rage went by
unquenched, wondering how satisfying it would be when she finally had her chance to kill
those degenerates who brought her back.
And if that went well, she mused with gritted teeth, she would return to the headquarters,
climb the observation deck, and slice Archer Acer Thornes skinny pale throat with his own
kukri.
Revenge took time, however, and hers would be chilled to permafrost before shed think
about serving it.
Aurus observed the olive-green spirals over her taupe skin, observing her slaves mark. Upon
recognizing it, he finally recalled where he had seen those furious eyes before.
Weve met earlier, he tried to jog her memory, too aware that she recalled every detail of
their meeting. His palm stroked the bar, and he leaned to the bars until he could have almost
stuck his face in between the gaps. How long ago was this?
Nine years, the Sitka answered with a voice sharp as a razor. Her stomach twisted like a
band yet she continued, letting fury triumph over nausea. Nostrils flaring, she added through
her teeth. I was ten. You inspected me along with other children, my friends and cousins. You
called me tight.
Aurus crinkled his expression and then saw where her bright eyes flickered at the last
sentence. Upon looking over to Silas, his mien was washed over with silent detestation. The
Zeer seemed unmoved, and took her statement as something humorous, going as far as to
cackle at it. In that brief moment, his teeth looked replaced by fangs, dripping with orange
candlelight.
I think I remember that wonderful night, Silas said and placed his hands behind his back.
You dont, Im afraid. Seeing as it was a traumatic experience, this is understandable. That
was my late twin brother who bedded you, may the Gods bless his soul. He paused to close
his eyes and bow solemnly, and then returned to his clarification. But I was the one who
brought you back to the Madame and changed your bloody vestments. Pacing leisurely over
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the marble stone blocks on the floor, he glanced behind his back and made another note, more
to himself than to her. His voice was softer as he mused aloud, reminiscing about the days he
wished that he could relive.
You used to be such a handsome child at ten though that night you sobbed your pretty
little eyes out. Ive never seen an uglier crier.
Had she any feeling in her fingers, she would have clenched them. Had she any saliva in her
cotton-stuffed mouth, she would have spat on his feet. Now she could stare and rage,
remember how Smee had forgotten about her amid the sea of younglings the court took in,
and how she fled along with his eye.
The last one was a pleasant thought, and she dismissed it to fuel her livid fire. Her words were
iron-cold and seeped across her sore throat like accursed bane.
Im referring to something that took place after that, Aurus spoke. You were the escaped
Marked One. The first to return into the palace from Lorna. The first to escape. Now I
remember; I watched you run across the bridge.
What does this have to do, she asked and looked at the King, with Aaron Kronos and the
Scroll?
Absolutely nothing, Aurus reminded Silas, teeth clenching. And I would appreciate if we
were to return to the subject at hand.
Silas short-lived Schadenfreude dilapidated into a sour grin on his face, which he tried to
swallow while his King addressed the prisoner. Blackness flashed inside his irises, and having
seen the transition, the Sitka growled under her breath.
The gold rings upon Aurus thick fingers clanked against the iron bars while he brought
himself further into the cell, as if he were to morph and slide through the gaps as some slime.
He wished that he could come into her crevice and take her by the neck, hold her as she
gagged and rolled her eyes, until she pleaded him to drop her on the ground. Or better yet,
until he could feel her shallow dying breath right on his cheek. His threats would carry more
power if he took her life at once, he knew this well. Aurus was no fool, however. The Syth
were savage beasts with more courage than reason, and this particular one knew what a strong
mans hand felt against her body. Witless but not hapless, this wench had the stars to assure
her survival. Her boiling blood would not make her an easy thing to murder, not in her prime.
If that mountain the giant Storm could barely contain her with Silas aid, there was no
telling what force the animal kept within her sinewy frame. Creatures of might and will could
not be cleansed from Brimstone that easily, not even by the resplendent flames. The Kings
eyes, the color of chestnuts bathed in wine, admired the wolf as one admired a caged animal.
Reminiscent about her former glory, and receiving untold satisfaction from having her in his
command. The proud Laranaika tribe of battlers and slayers died out, all but this one
specimen. He was in no hurry to torment her.

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His voice burred, hard as a mountain stone and thrice as cold. Youre an evil, disgusting
thing
The Dark Mana Silas had struck her with pulsed at the back of her head, blurring her vision.
And she could still see his fingers tap along the bars. Her swollen eyes came up, amber
contrasting shiners, and watched. His image had the appeal of cutting her eyes out with a
razor, and she continued to watch. Some feeling returned to her chained wrists; this was the
work of rage.
An abhorrent thing. A Syth savage. You shouldve been burned, he claimed. His hands
released their grip. Pacing with his hands behind his back, he observed the captive, the thorn
in his eye. You should have drowned. You should have been shot. Yours was the eye Smee
should have taken. Instead you fled and enjoyed your freedom.
The Sitka breathed heavily, nostrils wide and red. Ive spent years as an animal, in filth. Her
teeth flashed; the ivory blasting s some beacon. Her cheeks tightened. Ive tasted raw meat.
Ive fought with wildlings. Ive slept in dens with foxes and that was my freedom. It was the
freedom I was made for. Pulling her restraints forward, her voice leapt and she howled: Do
you think your tactics work on me?! Ive broken your chains! Ive killed your men! Ive seen
more shit in my life than you could ever dream of! And I lived! I lived to be a savage, but no
more of a savage than you!
Aurus was unfazed, though Silas took one step to the gates. He stood by the guards who
cocked up their rifles and pointed them at her head, until Aurus took his hand up and ordered
them lower their weapons. One by one they came to their owners belts, all but Jocels ornate
flintlock rifle. That one stayed pointed in between the Sitkas eyes, the barrel quivering
slightly.
Even your Guards are afraid of me, she noted the gun without even looking up. Your
Guards with firearms fear some beaten whore in bruises and chains. That Macro over there,
by there she meant the headquarters, and ticked her head to the side as her constraints rattled
like snake tails, the man with a cannon for an arm! He would have given you less trouble. I
am the last person you should have taken.
You are the first person we took and the first person we kill, lest they delay their surrender.
Aurus smirked at himself, resting one fist against the small of his back. Rolling his shoulders,
he sighed and turned to his Guards. My uncle he did so right by you. You Laranaikans
were vermin from the day you founded your tribe. You were thieves and scavengers, every
last one of you, and my uncle gave you sanctuary. He should have obliterated you when he
first had the chance. When you trifled with the Dryads. When you killed Queen Amelia at her
own coronation !
The men who did that had NOTHING to do with my clan! Plunging towards the monarch
she had forgotten how tight her chains were, and the recoil slammed her against the mortar.
They were terrorists! They were exceptions!

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Those fiends were disgusting moles who had more to do with your tribe than youd admit.
And this is exactly why all of you should have been eradicated. There is no forgiveness for a
Syth. There is no mercy, because they never had any to return! You are foul and heartless, and
need to be cleansed!
How dare you, you son of a bitch, my people are proud and noble!
Your people are vile and thats the end of it!
You think youre talking to all Syth when you address me, but let me tell you about my
Sitkan brethren. We have given you your weapons! We gave you art! The clothes you wear,
the arms you point at us! Your food, wine and spice all come from out cooking! We have
given you poetry, and saddles to straddle your camels. We gave you the design of your palace!
We have harbored gold while you still couldnt tell it apart from granite! My people have
given you life!
YOU DESTROYED MY LIFE! Aurus bellowed and clenched his fists. YOU
DESTROYED IT THE NIGHT YOU KILLED MY UNCLE!
For that moment the Sitkas rage fell into unease.
With a deathly stare, the supreme ruler of Aura turned away and looked up into the black
vaulting; intertwining treetops and vines with copper leaves, embellished artwork which could
barely be seen in dim torchlight. Yet he never looked up to admire the artistry. Instead, his
head only tilted when he had something to hide. Through the faint coughing from a
consumption-ridden prisoner, Silas made a cautious step forward, and called softly for his
King. The man failed to respond, and it was in this moment that the Guards bowed their heads
down and became invested in the mechanics of their guns.
Pasha loved you, Aurus said, and the phrasing gave the Sitka a start. He clarified; He loved
all the peoples of Brimstone. Even Damask, he never spoke evil of them. There was no city
greater than ours while he was on the throne, yet he never admitted it. It was a shared effort,
this is how he called his reign. A shared effort, resting on the shoulders of one King, and his
inability to hate. He was the one who gave you chances, every damn time. Be it a peace treaty
or a diplomacy act, he was there in support for both sides. A pacifist and a fool, but a good
fool, who trotted the earth to create common ground and made enemies into allies. He loved
the world when no one else could. Truly a
Stopping for a moment, he ran a hand over his cheek, and examined the warm tear on his
palm. Truly a great man, he stated. Crying could be heard in the back of the hall, and
several watchmen had mist in their eyes. Something cracked inside of Aurus hull, and
exposed a raw and rotten soul, which he never wanted to show. His chestnut orbs turned black
as glass marbles, hiding every licking flame that might have snuck past the barricade. Lips
folded into a thin slash, and in he drew a sharp line of air. If he had any sentiment aside from
barbarity, he hid it well. As he should have, given his years of practice.

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Aurus glowered and turned to the Sitka. This proves that your people are capable of killing a
man who has shown them nothing but support and trust. Your people knew nothing of death
and suffering, or dealt justice! But this was my uncles fault he was a man too good for the
world, too nave to think he had true power. I promise you Im not like him, he concluded as
the veins in his wrists throbbed above his clenched fingers. My justice is swift and pitiless.
So will be Aarons, she insisted in a flat, humorless tone. He cares for his followers.
Before Aurus could reply, a soft snicker could be heard from behind them. There, blending
finely with the shadows, Silas stood with his black eyes swirling pools of malice. His teeth,
filed-sharp and white as ivory, brought out a new brand of sadism, which no one present had a
name for.
But cant you see, you stupid girl? Its been almost two days and we have seen neither hide
nor hair from the young man. His arms stretched and his head shook, holding back new
titters which fired like bullets. The next thing we shall do is murder you in this cell. Then we
take another how do you call yourselves? Outcast in your place. Well kill the redheaded
mutant first. Then the freak with the sieve of a mouth. The Karaktaian in a cloak, and the
Sevvy youre harboring we know of him, and can still hang him for what he did to Smee.
And then we wait until Kronos stops his act and forfeits the Scrolls.
You wont touch any of my comrades! Her tongue whipped fiercely and she spat out her
words, ripping the sodden air with each syllable. Aaron will never surrender the charter!
Youve no right to hold it! Youve never been worthy!
His majesty, King Aurus, has more power to hold the Scroll than some bastard child
harboring Syth slaves as his disciples. Who better to find Zephyrs Field than a trained
scholar, or a pious monk?
That wasnt what the Scrolls prophesized! Youre going against the Gods!
The Gods have no power in my Kingdom! Aurus said and stomped, throwing his cape over
his shoulder as he marched through his Guards. The sentinels formed two lines and saluted,
lowering hands after he passed by. Jocel! He snapped his fingers. Castigate her if she
becomes a nuisance. In hours time, well see how much worth Aaron finds in an animal like
her.
Right, my liege, Jocel said and cocked up his weapon, holding the cool pipe on his palm.
His other fingers grazed the trigger switch as he met the Sitkas eyes. He stayed behind as his
colleagues marched beside the King, and caught Silas nod as he paced away, the last man in
the row, strolling with a leisurely gait. This was a promenade to him, not a dungeon, and Jocel
could hardly imagine what horrors a man had to endure to act so at peace with a room like
this.
The heavy doors opened, and before they locked, Jocel heard the Kings final word.
Burn the marked one.
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Jocels ugly face managed to grin.

With the confidence of an apt and popular schoolboy, he turned the rifle in his hands and
pointed it at the Sitka, taking the carving on her wrist into careful consideration. He laughed
as horribly as he looked; with a cocky sense of purpose, like he took silent pride in being the
apex of the universe. There would be no Staples of Calvin to outshine him now, no fathers to
tell him this was as good as he could have done. Having a loaded gun and a victim tied up like
a sheep made him feel like he was on his old farm once again, watching over cattle and
enjoying the control he had over mindless livestock.
Alright, you Syth piece-a shit, he called her, aligning his shot with the line of her eye. You
be a good girl now, or else youll be screamin with a skull full of powder! Just make one
move one move, I dare ya. Cmon you ugly slut, make my day!
The woman respected his warning and didnt move. Her head was downcast and her arms
were limp inside her chains. The blood had drained from her arms, making them pale and
white, like she was a closer relative to a Birchen than to a Macro man. The olive-green spirals
turned to mint, and there was no more fury in her. Instead, there was softness to her; an almost
shattered quality which made Jocel sympathize with her, and lower his weapon after a minute
of uneventful silence.
This Sitka awaited death, by either the gallows or the guillotine. Hearing tales about people
staying alive after decapitation and running like headless chickens gave him hellish night
terrors, and this is why he hoped that she would be hanged. Cold sweat pooled on his brow.
The torches on either side of his flickered and turned their flames to lava. The basement was
hot and steamy, and the Guard was overcome by an itchy sensation over his neck and arms.
He scratched his shoulder blade once he heard the chant.
Beasts of ice and tooth and darkness, come and break my cage. Express your cunning, bite
through foes, make them feel my rage.
It was a mumble at first but it grew louder; by the time she spoke it for the third time, in that
awful Syth tongue of hers, Jocel jolted and traced his rifle, preparing to shoot above her head.
You keep it quiet there, I swear to the !
He heard a scream in the distance, then two more, and then a squeak.
His eyes moved over the ground and his joints were spotted with red flakes, still feeling his
skin crawl and peel away. A rat ran over his boot. Jumping on his other foot he cursed the
damp dungeon and looked towards the mouse hole the vile thing scampered out of. Three
more came running, scurrying on their pink legs, dragging their yellow teeth over the ground.
He heard the grinding noise, the pitter-patter, the sound of vermin coming through the bars
and twisting their long tails around the cold iron bars. Five came at first, and then screeched
and ran to summon others. The chanting was louder; the Sitka twisted her body and rolled her
eyes, channeling every ounce of anger she stored just for this.

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Beasts of ice and tooth and darkness, come and break my cage. Express your cunning, bite
through foes, make them feel my rage!
Hey! Jocel called out as he held out his rifle, shaking at the sight of her inhuman
summoning. Stop that shit right now! Im warnin ya! Ill blow ya fuckin brains out,
whore!
Rats and cockroaches came from every cage, extracting screams from the sobbing hostages.
Some were black as ravens, others spotted and furless, punished with disease and half-eaten
by whatever creatures also hid inside the nooks of the unattended walls. Some walked on
three legs, others missed an eye. A one-eyed rodent stood on Jocels shoulder and bit him hard
on the neck, making him drop his rifle which fired a shot to the wall. This upset the others,
who brought along cockroaches as well. Some climbed over the Sitkas writhing body,
gathering over her chains and biting, clawing, feasting on her metal bounds as she screamed
out the plea.
Beasts of ice and tooth and darkness, come and break my cage! Express your cunning, bite
through foes, make them feel my rage! Accept the grime in which you thrive in! Come out to
the light! Claw your path to justice; its within your right! BEASTS OF ICE AND TOOTH
AND DARKNESS! COME! BREAK MY CAGE!
They were piling.
At first there was a small row covering the floow, like he stood in the shallow end in an ocean
of mangy fur. He had a hand pressed down on his neck, tricking blood into the golden threads
of his uniform. Rats climbed others, and stared at him with those eyes; dolls eyes, glass eyes,
oily, godless, black eyes! Their tails whipped him and their claws were thorny talons when
they climbed along his legs. He shook them off, but three beasts came to replace every one he
cast away. Grabbing a torch, he swung it at the amalgamation of teeth. It swerved like a wave.
The burned ones jumped at him, biting his cheeks. He screamed and threw the torch straight
at the cage walls. Chains rattles loosely, clanging and pushing. The binds were completely
covered, without an inch of space between the swerving creatures, which moved in spirals and
bit as though they starved for days. The Sitka still howled as rodents ran over her arms and
stomach, yet nobody touched her. When beasts wanted flesh they turned to the Guard,
ignoring his flames.
No! Stop! STOP! PLEASE!
Needles ran into his skin and ripped his clothing. They bit through his hand until he couldnt
hold the beacon. He felt himself disappear. Those things were everywhere damn
everywhere! in his clothes and under his skin; scratching the scalp in his hair and biting his
fingers. They were digging tunnels in his bones, thats what it felt like! First they left bite
marks, and then they started to draw blood, delicious dressing they slathered over their
mangled coats and dug deeper, deeper into the concaves of the man going under, in despair
and agony, with half-eaten cheeks.

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HELP ME GODS SOMEBODY PLEASE HELP ME!!! He called out, diving into the
ocean, drowning in fur and his own eaten flesh. The rodents ran across him and over him,
leaping once there was nothing more to eat. Fingers were raised above the line, curling into
his palm when darkness was all he could see. He felt rage and sharp teeth digging into the ball
of his eye, and this was when he screamed, and this was when he cried. The name on his lips
was not of a God, but of the one person he needed, the one person he trusted could save him.
By the Gods, he needed her. By the Gods, he was alone. Somewhere inside that mayhem, he
found the saviors name inked in his mind, and the only sensible thing he needed to yell at the
time.
ONIKA!!!
Nobody responded.
His arm cramped and fell, attached to nothing.
/***/
Commander Staples stood in the sun with her eyes closed against the pristine sky,
appreciating the clear and quiet day. There had been no clouds floating against the blue, yet
the exposed sun only brought forth light, and none of the scorching heat. In a Kingdom where
the climate could have been divided into three categories warm, hot and Hell this meant
the world to the Elite donned in corduroy.
She ran a hand over her wooly platinum hair and licked the piercing on her bottom lip.
Thirsty, she wondered how long she needed to stand guard before she was substituted by Elite
Storm. That man had more patience when it came to observation than she did. He could have
stood in the dry Aura heat spell for hours, and barely get so much as slight headache
afterwards. An admirable stoic, whose brute force was outmatched by his composure, and
thus enabled him to function among the crowds for as long as she remembered. Despite his
feral expression and soul-sucking eyes, he had never harmed a fellow soldier, or even
intended to. The sash and hood were stitched for him, Onika believed. The seamstress who
pressed the corduroy to the silk to craft the uniform had his visage in mind, his clout and
dignity. Storm would have suffered through the thirst with his chin up. Staples barely stood
still, and every so often twitched her fingers towards the whisky in her jacket.
Storm, Zera and she made the most notorious squadron together, and the thought almost made
her laugh. One climbed the ranks through brute strength and a Gargantuan build. The other
manipulated Mana like some sort of God, and was ruthless in its distribution. And there was
she, Aurus niece, whose mother had cast away her right to a throne when she married a
merchant. There was no remarkable power in her, and no true authority in her voice.
Something often happened to be inherently wrong with a Guard who would rather take a
punch than cast it, and this sentiment of hers brought her in the jaws of trouble more times
than necessary. Unremarkable and thin as a branch, she was doomed to be the first Guard sent
home after a year.
Yet she wasnt, and forced herself not to be.
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After some trainee pushed her on the ground, she stood up on her feet and struck with equal
force. When others fell behind her after running their laps, she kept on moving, even if her
heart felt like exploding and her legs became cement. Every insult thrown at her stuck like
glue, only to be reflected at her attacker, with as little consideration as they gave her. Where
others failed, she persevered, and what others claimed was impossible was a mere challenge
to her. This mentality drove her to the edge of her wits and straight to the bottle, but it also
skyrocketed her to her current position. And now, looking at the Kingdom lying in the sands
beyond the river bank, every blackened bruise and battle scar was more than worth it.
She only hoped that her determination would be enough to keep her status.
After she craned her head to observe the other Guards on the balcony, some strange voice in
her head assured her that it would be completely possible for her to keep her position,
provided she continued to share her employment with those bozos.
The first person she looked at was standing at the tallest viewpoint, with a bulls-eye drawn in
red thread on her sleeve. Lady Dess was a person unskilled in hand-to-hand combat, yet her
dexterity and precision strikes earned her the popular title of the Kings expert riflewoman.
There were ten good snipers serving the King, and Onika could have trusted her life with
maybe three of them. Lady Dess came third on that list, under Boone and Chickawick who
served Elite Zera. Her squadrons markswoman was a refugee of ravaged Parquesh, though
many confused her for a Birchen. Her blonde hair was dry and pulled in a tail high on her
diamond-shaped head, and this mousy carpet of flaxen strings was the sole element in
identifying her as a former resident of the communist stratocracy. She was all edges and no
flexibility; an ideal trait for a sniper and former bureaucrat, but a poor and unfortunate
personality to have in a palace. Those flat brown eyes of hers often instilled disquiet in those
who attempted to observe her. One gaze in return, and the onlooker would be shot down in
cold ice. A person of few words, and the Hands personal favorite among Onikas crew, she
had no patience for those who tried to go around the rules, and obeyed the written word to a
pious, demented level.
Her bitten finger lingered on the trigger of her weapon of choice; a vintage Roux Industrials
bolt action rifle. The weapon itself was gray and black, all too sleek for an Aurian and far too
simple for a Guard, if it were not for a simple detail. The barrel was opaque stainless steel
with a carving of a bare woman fanning herself with a peacocks feather Tamara, Sabrina
Dess lover as Staples understood. It was a lewd engraving which the King wanted her to file
away, and then retracted his protests after seeing that the ornament had not affected her head
count. Every so often, those void hazelnut orbs would fell on the barrel, and Onika would see
something akin to a smile in her ghastly visage. On that sunny day, the Commander had been
watching her for over a minute and had yet to see her blink, let alone smile.
If the woman had shaved her head and donned a pair of unsightly glasses, it would as looking
into a mirror, and this frightened Onika to the core.
She looked to the woman closer to her.

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Lady Smith had two sheeted swords crossing on her back; the fortes intersected on the half of
her back and the pommels rested on her shoulders. The woman was a great battler, perhaps
held in high regard more for her reckless abandon than for her skill. This soldier had more
will to fight once provoked, and nobodys order could make her as willing than hearing a
threat from a nearby enemy. She would turn to wind; rolling and tumbling, slashing all who
came in her path, be it a foe or a teammate. The wild card was a danger to the group, not at
anybody could tell from her charming demeanor. Standing at ease when Onika looked at her,
the duelist crossed her arms over her chest and enjoyed light conversation with Sir Calvin, all
flirty and coy, rolling a thick dreadlock between her fingers. The glasses-borne Guard greatly
appreciated her art of seduction, and murmured some suggestions in her ear.
After all this time serving with those people, Onika was not at all surprised to discover that
Calvin Cunningham and Katie-Cassidy Smith were closer than they had led others to believe.
Their affair was first discovered by Jocel, who came across them canoodling on a hay bale set
aside for his camel. The poor camel, Eliot, was so upset after witnessing this that he hadnt
eaten in days, and Jocel swore that the traumatized animal, on occasion, made odd grunting
noises which were vaguely similar to Calvins. This was the only one of Jocels tales paired
with his adenoidal imitation of said noise that made Onika laugh every time without fail.
His anecdote made it slightly easier for her to see Calvin and Smith together. Even when they
seemed this happy. Even when the swordfighter tittered in the back of her palm. Even when
they looked as though they would start snogging at any given moment.
Onika furrowed her brow and shook her head as if she had picked out an offensive scent in
the air. Now where was that damn bottle of hers? Perhaps that would dispel the nausea.
Instead of reaching for her flask, however, she craned her head fully to the side, to watch the
most notorious man in her group. This man was none other than Captain Karalynns grandson,
Sir Emmett Kith.
The ginger was having a spat with a mosquito flying overhead, while simultaneously trying to
eat his banana. The manner in which he flailed his arms about reminded Onika of an
orangutan, and would have laughed at him if she wasnt too busy pitying herself for having
him on her squadron. He had no discernible feature on his uniform, no weapon aside from the
standard saber he carried tucked at his hip, no true talent aside from being the descendant of
the greatest Callahanian Captain ever to live. A good deal shorter than most of his comrades,
the mans presence could have passed unnoticed, had he controlled his speech and spastic
movements.
Wild red lions mane flew about as alert green eyes jumped from one point to another; trying
to seek and destroy the buzzing nuisance. Finally, he dropped his lunch to the ground in
frustration, just as the insect landed on the back of his neck. Slamming his hand against it, he
frowned at the sensation of warm blood his warm blood trickling down every crevice and
slit in his ungloved palm. Disgusted, he observed the small stiff crumb smudging his hand,
and then wiped it against his dirtied uniform. In all aspects, the man was the most untidy
Guard ever to parade the walls, and Onika cursed and resented his blue blood which kept him
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employed. On some level, she knew that he resented it as well. Sir Kith had his place in the
world, but his future had little to do with swords and shields.
Those five people settled on afternoon watch were Onikas acclaimed team, and commended
only for her leadership. Jocel was the only one absent; having been summoned by the King to
tend to some duties with that frightening wolf woman festering in the dungeons. He had
dwelled in that cold, slimy basement with mouse bones and wailing criminals for a little over
ten minutes.
Onika missed him already. She took out her pocket watch and sighed at the passing seconds.
During this time, she hadnt laughed once with her squadron. Jocel carried all humor, and
could usually quip at Kith, distract her from Calvin and Katies courtship, or impersonate the
broad-shouldered Dess accent to every deep and gruff vowel.
This almost made up for him regularly belittling her for being related to the King almost.
Her timepiece returned to its leather home after she slammed it.
Crinkling her chin at how badly he treated her once his humor had dried out, she propped her
thick glasses up the bridge of her nose in contempt. Better not think about him too much, she
thought. No matter how annoying or strange these people surrounding her might have seemed,
they never once undermined her authority, nor have they insinuated that her title had anything
to do with her lineage rather than sweat and toil. So she continued to observe the golden sands
and block houses not too far yonder; Jocels spotted visage was blocked from all her senses.
Enjoying the view of nothing? Asked an educated voice and gave her a start. Dust scuttled
underneath her boots when she turned.
Calvin was standing in front of her, cracking a smirk as his tussled locks rained around his
face, absorbing the suns shimmering veil. His eyes were molten chocolate and jest when he
pointed them at her, and already she was a dry-throated fool who didnt know quite what to do
with her shaky palms.
Yes. Her eyes squinted at Smith, who was now engaged in idle chit-chat with Emmett.
Moments later, she realized that her answer might have been incorrect. No. This too was a
wrong reply. It isnt nothing. Its Brimstone. My Brimstone.
I wish it was your Brimstone, Calvin admitted, and threw a pensive look at the array of
homes scattering the horizon; the white-feathered lari birds circling the perimeter like ravens
surrounding a battlefield or orphans around a dinner bell. It would be nice to have a ruler
with a sharp mind and her feet on the ground. But this is not our luck. Brimstone is in your
uncles hands and Kees and Alazars and whatever King and Queen lead Birch these days.
Its a miracle we still have a homeland.
The shadow Calvin cast in front of her was not enough to shield her from the blasting heat.
Hot as struck iron, the top of her head smoldered and pleaded for a drink. Onikas tongue
rolled in her closed mouth. Her eyelids were hooded and heavy when she made her retort.

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Now that isnt true. Aurus knows how to lead.

Lead us all to an untimely grave, maybe. Tucking his gloved hands behind his back, he
strolled in a leisurely pace. One heel dug into the dusted path, and the rest of the foot fell like
silk. After every step, the other foot rose on its heels in divine slowness, and tread the
walkway as if time itself stopped to give Calvin a chance to reach his desired destination. His
head shook and he smirked while his feet glided over the cement and mock gold. Hands
dressed in crushed velvet with a satin trim tapped along the small of his back; fingers
drumming over in quiet cadence all but his pinkie, which had been replaced with a silver
back and hidden under the mask of the glove. The smallest digit was stiff and cold, somehow
limp compared to its brothers and thus drawing most of Onikas attention.
He had told a sentence or two about Brimstones politics, which the Commander hadnt
listened to. Instead of asking him to repeat his views, she changed the subject completely.
What were you talking with Smith about?
His dark, leech-like eyebrow ticked to his hairline when he turned his head towards her. Her
inquiry was sudden and rude for its interruption, but he knew better than to resent his superior.
Smiling, he freed his hands and threw out his arms to emphasize the free space around him.
His arms flailed on both his sides, and then fell and dangled tiredly when he approached her.
Good things, he insisted. I always love to hear her view of the world. Shes an idealist, but
has good views on foreign policy at times. When he was at a short enough distance, he tilted
his head until it almost touched his shoulder, and then he asked with the brightest grin: Why,
Commander? Were you feeling excluded?
What makes you an expert on my uncles rule? Her brow corrugated, arms folding over her
chest in authority. Reading the morning paper and snuffing every headline does not make
you fit to run a country.
Calvin blinked in a way a cat might after feasting on the family canary. Nobodys an expert
on your uncles rule. Not even your uncle. And you failed to answer my question.
Youre forgetting the chain of command once again; and I believe I offered a counter. Failure
to respond to your superiors query is a serious act of insolence. If you talk about your Kings
affairs as freely as you talk about your sex life, those little chats of your with Smith might be
considered treason. And may I remind you, Sir Cunningham, that the consequences for that
are dire.
His eyes all but rolled at the back of his head when he heard her well-rehearsed caveat.
Onika had fallen in love with him during their training, while he was an older college boy
with a penchant for debating and a keen, semi-ironic interest in social justice. It was as clear
as day, how she fawned over him and stammered when he spoke, how he was the only person
to defeat her in combat because the sword slipped out of her moist palms. One day during
their training, Calvins friends and he came up with a plan it involved a forged love letter,
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which she was to reply to in writing. Perhaps it was because she was younger, perhaps it was
because she was susceptible to sweet-talk, perhaps the training grounds were most vicious
with girls not considered attractive. It didnt matter why. What mattered was that she was
tricked, hook, line, and sinker. She replied to every note, and did so until asked to meet him in
his quarters, wearing nothing but her leather jacket and smallclothes. The other trainees all
two hundred of them caught her sneaking out of her barracks in the dead of the night,
clutching her jacket over her chest. They taunted her with lines she wrote in her letters, and
Calvin laughed hardest while she cried.
He apologized to her a day later, when she broke his rib during a duel. Her palms were no
longer sweaty but she still stammered as she accepted his apology. She hadnt forgotten,
however, and it became all too clear that he was never actually forgiven.
Years passed, ranks were out-passed, and in her eyes she still had the bloodthirsty look of a
woman scorned. Calvin huffed out of the corner of his mouth. Nicki
His teeth gritted when she grabbed his disfigured hand and turned it with enough force to
dislodge the peg he had for a finger. It slid into the fold of his glove and pressed into the palm
like a bullet. Her grip tight, she clenched around the sides and knuckles until he grunted in
surrender. This was when a soft warning left her mouth: Thats Commander to you.
It was hard to believe that the person looking down on her fellow Guards crushed hand was
the same woman who once observed him during training with stars in her stomach and her
heart in her throat. But in her Elite regalia, she needed to remind herself of who she chose to
become. She was Nika in her late mothers arms; she was Nicki before she took her first
badge. Onika Staples on the dotted line, and just Staples when King Aurus reprimanded her
for drinking on the job. But to all others in Brimstone, she was Commander and nothing less.
Such influence needed to boil over with confidence, so she strove to obtain it even if it took a
thousand twisted knuckles until they learned her rank.
Calvin was only now starting to realize how much she valued her hard-earned place. He did
not appreciate her zeal for a moment, nor did he enjoy popping his prosthetic into place. His
digit cracked, and he winced as if he had pushed a metal cog into a still-existing finger.
Flexing his palm, he quickly apologized for his slip of the tongue.
And to answer your question, he continued, still rubbing his palm, Smith and I were
talking about you.
Onikas glasses slid over her nose when she lifted an eyebrow. Me? Her thick lips formed a
small circle when she blinked.
Yes, you.
What concern am I of yours? With a thin pointer finger, she pushed up her black frames.
Her underling chuckled at her stern demeanor.
We were concerned about you and the relationship you have with the King.
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I have made myself explicitly clear already. Under no circumstances are you going to
insinuate that I benefited from my uncle in any !
Benefited? On the contrary. Lower your finger, please, being jabbed in the chest feels very
uncomfortable.
With a furrowed brow, Onika looked at him from below her onyx lashes, and then retreated
her accusing digit back to her hip. It danced along her uniforms frayed threads, in an anxious
rhythm that urged the speaker to clarify. Calvin caught sight of her nerves taking over, and
smiled while rubbing away the crease on his shirt.
I may not know much about Aurus family relations, he began after noting that Onikas
marred visage came off as much more interesting that a cloth of silk, but even I can tell
youre at odds with him.
Commander Staples tried to bite her lower lip. Her teeth surrendered to the raw plump flesh,
too sore to put any pressure to. She had been doing this a lot; gnawing on her lips until they
were nothing but scabs and flakes. The large silver chunk stuck in the middle only spotlighted
the wounds and scars. In her position, she never had the luxury to care about her appearance,
and seldom bothered to keep them up. And now, conversing with perhaps the most visually
gorgeous man she had seen off of romance novel covers, her sinewy ugliness was starting to
peck at the back of her mind. She shuffled her feet backwards.
The King at I are fine, she said and crossed her arms over her chest. It was right after this
fallacy that her tongue dried up and demanded a drink of something strong and bitter. Her
words were uttered with a false conviction: We have been on good terms since he gave me a
livelihood after the war reaped away my household.
The war started by him, you mean. He examined his gloves, unimpressed. It was as if he
hadnt said anything; she continued without skipping a beat.
Being in the Guards, protecting him and my people, that is the highest honor ever bestowed
upon me. All the work I put in to earn my place, all the sacrifices Ive made its all
dedicated to him and my army. In that second, the day when the King took her under his
protection flashed quickly as a lightning rod. It was all image and no emotion; no gutwrenching grief or guilt. The shock and fear were lost to the realization that she was never
alone, and the worst day of her life was over and all but forgotten, like the days of desert
snow.
The day of her recruitment was a hot, dusty one. Twenty Syth soldiers have broken into the
borders of Kix County, running amok and slashing throats as their feral eyes called for blood.
Desert sands coiled around their ankles and sloped into new hideous forms; those animals
moved mountains and glades, and turned family homes into graveyards painted scarlet. They
doused her home with the burgundy bile of a pig, the universal sigil of domination. Her
mothers mangled body fell over her, and the shocked teenager stopped breathing. Allowing
the body, the corpse which still held her kitchen knife in a desperate defense, to shield her
from the Syth attacks it saved her life on that day. She stayed buried in the reek of death,
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until she could no longer hear screaming or trampling feet. The Syth hollers were lost with
the setting sun, and so was all possibility of help.
After hours of heat, she pushed her mother away and stood up to step over her father. He still
had the polearms rusted blade protruding from his back, and her toe caught it while she
exited her family house. She wanted to look but couldnt bear to; her eyes zoomed to the
setting sun and the paint dripping from the windows outside.
A triangle and a half moon were drawn over her home and several others; the symbol which
would later be used to engrave the bodies of Syth prisoners of war. The Wanted, the Guards
would call them, and force them to serve for their heinous crimes. Justice couldnt have come
quickly enough. Onikas knuckles were white and tight as she looked at the mayhem set
overhead. Even the empathic skies were filled with golden rage.
It was at this moment that she was tapped on the shoulder and, ready to pounce, she twisted
to see a cloaked man, wearing golden robes with a lions icon sewn on its front in platinum
thread. She recognized him as a relative, her mothers brother, the prince of Aura or was it
King now, as his ruler had no offspring, and other kin was dead or excommunicated, just as
her mother for her love of a commoner.
He didnt speak, but he saw her family home and knew what took place. In that moment, his
flaming eyes knew of no light. With heavy arms he clenched her poor form, more for his
comfort than her.
That wont happen to you, he promised as Onikas eyes filled with salty despair. Well
avenge them. His fingers tightened against her skin. All of them, he said through a growl.
She sobbed in his chest; like some suckling babe, even then covered in gore and sporting
foggy, cracked glasses. Her hair was long, like her fathers, and its thickness reduced the
sensation of her uncles lips on the top of her head.
With that one kiss, the King inspired a fire of endless devotion which lasted for ten years. Still
crying in his arms, she walked out of her district and admired the Elites standing in a row, all
numb to pain and suffering, knowing only of loyalty. They scoured the grounds for survivors,
cleaned the pigs blood from the walls and searched for any Syth that stayed in hiding. They
had found two hidden in a sand dune among debris. The Elites put an end to them with a
single shot to the back of their heads, on Aurus command.
The savages screamed, taunted and cried as they were thrown into the dirt, but they never
suffered. Not for a moment.
And they damn well should have.
This was not the first time that this image played before Onikas eyes. Every time she recalled
her parents killing in less and less detail. By now it was a blur, a foggy reminiscence whose
sharpest, clearest point was her uncles comfort. Something as pure as that, as calming as a

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Gods grace it was impossible to forget. Nobody knew of this incident. Nobody but her, and
her Majesty.
He made me what I am, she explained to Calvin with her fingers intertwined. Her eyes were
downcast. Without him I would have still been a starving orphan with nowhere to run. For
that, I owe him my life.
The man brushed away some raven locks out of his eyes. Owe him? His tone was repulsed.
Hell take it! Look at those marks on your cheek! Did you fight a puma or just come late to a
briefing?
Onika winced and rubbed at her cheekbone, swollen and red it pulsed under her fingertips,
but she refused to take them away. I deserved this. Ive been drinking.
Drinking? Weve all been drinking! How the hell do you expect to last a day in this shithole
without drowning out the memory?!
Smith and Kith turned their heads to observe the spectacle. Lady Dess hadnt moved, and
stood her ground as a marble statue. Yet even her eyes darted furtively, before they met
Onikas gems and retreated to the desert horizon. Calvin was still spewing, mad and skeptical,
and his words struck every chord until the curious Guards turned away and refused to look
back.
I see you, every day, standing here in the sun. And he hasnt said anything appreciative, not
once!
It isnt his job to be appreciative. Its my job to be obedient.
Youre delusional. Even the poorest Guards arent beaten after a mishap. He saves that for
heralds and whoever contradicts him. Guards are people the King needs he is alive to this
day solely because of us! He knows that! Thats why he respects his men!
And women, Lady Dess said in her thick and deep accent, normally mistaken for a mans
voice. It was the first shed said in days time.
His people, Calvin corrected without as much as a blink. All of his sentinels except
you. Rubbing his chiseled chin, he pivoted around her as she kept her arms akimbo. I lost
one of my fingers during an operation and all I got for it was a cut in pay. Ser Kith can act like
a complete moron for a day and will hear nothing of it. But you endure too much. Your cuts
are always fresh.
I earned them, she said just before he stopped to cackle.
By the Gods, what kind of an insufferable martyr are you? You did everything for your
battalion. You were a star child and the envy of all Guards. And here you scale the walls like a
shadow of a mouse. You should be holding your chin up, untouched and indestructible.
My King has made me who I am today, she stated as if it were a fact. My strength comes
from his discipline. I was nothing when I came to the palace, and if such a time comes, I will
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leave as an accomplished woman and a respectable Commander. I am not an Elite without

cause. I allow myself no mistakes not anymore. Neither does Aurus. You may count his
methods as brutal or unfair, or whatever other proper word you college boys use
Stopping for a moment, she noticed that Calvin stood at attention again, as he should in front
of a superior. He allowed her to speak, eyes glistening while she recited her monologue. In a
way, the man was impressed. This caught her off guard, and the following words were spoken
to her boots.
His fist taught me not to err again. Each day I receive less. He doesnt want me to blunder;
he respects all of his Guards but he couldnt care less about any of you. Your deaths are tally
marks. My death would be a broken lineage. He hurts me sometimes, yes. Their eyes locked
and her throat no longer felt tight. Instead, a new energy was born inside her gut. An honest
truth that came in her testimony; written in stars and etched in the stone of her heart.
I also know that this is the best I deserve.
Onika Staples expected no reaction from him at the time. Mostly, she waited for him to scoff
and dismiss her with a flick of her wrist, only to be reprimanded until he returned to his
grounds. Yet he sighed and came closer, placing his hand his complete hand on her jutted
shoulder. When he approached her to whisper in her ear, she could smell the cinnamon tint of
his skin, and his kempt stubble brushed against her swollen cheek. It prickled, but she kept
herself from grimacing, and allowed his honeyed voice to transmit his regards.
Youre wrong, Commander. His hand trailed across her shoulder, reaching over her bicep
and rolling to her forearm, where it glided towards the meat of her gloved palm and squeezed
it. Dark, bony fingers intertwined and brushed with an electric frisson, just for one moment,
and this was when Onika learned a valuable lesson on proper support.
You deserve infinitely more.
She almost whined when he released her lax hand. He nudged against her petrified form when
he walked away, telling her to be careful. Then he came up to Dess, most likely to try and
converse with her. Onika couldnt turn her head to see. Her heart was pounding, hands
shaking, and her throat gave out a desperate cry for alcohol. Finally, her hands slid into the
deep confines of her jacket, where she pulled up a silver flask and decided to quench her
thirst, just with a small sip.
Her reflection looked back at her from the polished surface of the silver, and she convulsed at
the sight of its battered form. She thought nothing else of it, and unscrewed the tip.
Perhaps, in time, she thought silently, Ill stop making mistakes, and end up as beautiful as
Smith and Dess.
She tipped the flash towards her bottom lip. Her ring clacked against the surface already, but
no smooth liquor came out.

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A flash of cyan burst out of the smooth container, strong enough to blind her. Her eyes
screwed tight, rum gushed out onto her hands, and soon the pure brown mixture spilled over
the palace walls, pooling on the hot concrete and evaporating in aromatic, nauseating wisps.
Smelling it gave Onika a strange new awareness to what exactly she was about to consume.
Her stomach flipped, and she pressed a hand to it while still adjusting to the flashing light.
She saw another column of bright blue, and instinctively drew her weapon.
The hell?
Her squadron and two others, not the ones lead by Elites, gathered to view the intruders from
below the palace walls. Kith gasped upon seeing the construction manifested out of air, and
Calvin took off his glasses to see if his eyes were deceiving him. Onika paid no mind to the
colossus; the metal block roughly the size of three men and as wide as a Frost Peak
mammoth. It was dated technology shiny and metallic, reminiscent of inactive Callahanian
warheads but it was constructed with old materials, and shoddily when compared to the
confiscated Damasquan instruments. Beside it stood three people; the shortest one was
standing beside the towering Macro with a metal arm, smoking a small twisted joint. Vapors
of blue and red flew around his cloaked visage, and Onika knew the man was smoking neon
leaves.
It that? Lady Smith asked, lowering the assault rifle she had at the ready.
Kronos Calvin said in a daze. Is that really Aaron Kronos? He couldnt tell by the thick
black cloak he sported over his head, hiding braided hair and his distinctive features.
Onika had no time to be star struck, nor could she analyze the ungainly cannon from such a
height. When compared to the size of the palace it was to invade, it was actually laughable.
The Commander had no trouble taking on her most authoritative tone, still furious about the
troupe forcing her to drop her drink.
State your name and business! She called while clicking away the safety lock from her
firearm. Failing to comply will give us sanction to shoot on sight.
Isnt that the man who killed Smee? Kith asked, and Onika discretely hissed through her
teeth to keep him quiet. Her orbs, hovering over purple half-moons, squinted behind her
smudged glasses to inspect the hooded man. He stood with his arms crossed behind his back,
rocking on the balls of his feet without a care. At one point, he took his smokable and threw it
on the ground, expelling hues of color through his nostrils. Only after he inhaled a breath of
clear air did he speak; he sounded nothing like a leader.
To whom it may concern, he started as his hood came off, I am The Last Xexarian.
His voice carried well and reached the perked Guards ears. Some gaped at him with their
jaws hanging low, hearts thumping and palms shaking as though they had seen some popular
actor or a wealthy prince. Onika was one of them. It took all of her willpower not to let her
voice quiver.
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What business d-do you have with our

Two days ago, he interrupted, your good old King has taken away one of my Outcasts,
wanting to trade her for the Scroll Ive found. I have been given forty-eight hours to decide
whether Ill hand it over, or if Ill let my teammate suffer. His arms sprawled out, from the
cyborg to the cross-armed Macro standing by his side. He grinned, displaying his delightfully
white teeth. As you can see, I have brought no Scroll. But Im still taking my friend back.
The Guards shared puzzled looks, all watching Staples and pleading for guidance. She had
none to give, but the cannon standing behind the trio appeared larger and more ominous by
the second. Her finger caressed the trigger as Aaron spoke.
Now, Im a reasonable Savior. You can hand over the Sitka peacefully and apologize, and Ill
go back to being a pretty face you can exploit when and if you want to share the Scrolls
information with Brimstone. Of course, that would be a kind thing to do and since this is the
King Im talking about, I know that you dont know kindness. And thats why I have a second
proposition for you. If you agree to manumit the Sitka right away, we can pretend that none of
this happened, and youll save face along most of your body hair.
What the hell is he talking about? Calvin asked in a whisper, curling up his lip. Onika has
made a decision, seeing all the rifles lined neatly like birds on wire.
On my command, shoot the cannon. If your bullet touches the Xexarian, itll be the last
bullet you fire.
The weapons clicked and loaded in confirmation.
Aaron finalized his argument and pressed his hands on his hips. If youre still set on keeping
the captive well have to take drastic measures.
The metal-armed man nodded towards the cannons hull, and as if his subtle gestures could
control it, the barrel lifted slightly off the base and spun into standby mode, looking deadly
and precise. Aaron looked behind his shoulder and grinned, shrugging at the Guards.
Staples was not as impressed as she probably should have been. All fire! She commanded,
and thus cast a rainfall of bullets and shells upon the weapon of mass destruction.
A hailstorm cascaded over the metal hub. Arms jerking, sweat pouring out, jagged shoulders
shattering under the force of the rapid fire, the onslaught of arms was devastating. With hopes
of bringing down the giant weapon via attrition, the team continued to fire and load, load and
fire, until the sands have settled and there was nothing left in their magazines. The attack was
short-lived, and evoked a much-needed feeling of pride in Onika, who wiped her brow and
instructed her people to stay at ease. The ruckus cleared and the last grain of dust set on the
mushroom-colored ground.
It was only then when she saw the cyborg shielding Aaron, the generals killer and the
machine with his mechanical limb; a glass-like orb roofed the three, transparent save for the

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suns glare that gave the trio a slightly wavy, distorted appearance until the shield retreated
into the mans wrist. Onika was speechless, if not even insulted.
Aaron sighted and stretched out his hands to the Guards watching agog. His feet were slow
and heavy as they made way behind the weapon, while the long nozzle pointed to the middle
of the palace, spinning and whirring until it rang loudly enough to cause Dess a migraine. The
sniper rubbed on her earlobe while all save for Onika and her moved from their attack
positions.
You never learn, Aaron asked in a derisive tone, do you?
His cloak fell from his body, exposing his tiger stripes as black as jet. He struck the hull thrice
with his curled-up fist.
This was when the cannon blasted the palace walls, crumbling them instantly.
The noise from the blast was monstrous on its own. It was as if the continent exploded
straight at the middle and parted, ripping apart the seas and lakes; all those who walked the
parting line. It was mixed with screams and gallops as all tried to run. Consequentially they
fell to their injuries, sprawling over floors like crushed spiders and cracking their heads open.
Onika saw smoke and blood; debris ricocheting from the rooftops and landing below, into the
spot where the three men and the cannon stood seconds ago. The noise was gone once she
came on her feet and clutched the precarious metal rails for dear life. Calvin shouted
something at her; all she could hear was a high ringing sound, which couldnt have been
dispelled no matter how hard she shook her head. Looking down from the rails, she saw that
the front of the castle was shattered entirely; leaving nothing but the buildings skeleton of
cement, marble and mortar. The gold succumbed to the strike first, crumbling like dust, like
glass figurines off a mantelpiece. If she were to fall, it would be to her death.
Staples took her weapon just as she saw Calvin run from his station, leaping to the lower
palace levels in nothing short of panic.
Calvin! She called out and took her rifle to aid him only to be stopped by a freak with a
sewn mouth kicking the weapon straight out of her hands. She yelled and was thrown on the
ground, facing another barrel; this time the one of a sniper rifle, held up by a man clad in a
thick mountain coat.
Cold sweat broke over her, and seeped the longer she watched her associates drop on their
knees in a circle. Lady Smith tried to draw out her twin blades but was kicked in the stomach
before she could react. The dark Zeer Onika could tell by his white skin moved as quickly
as an arrow and aligned everybody on the front walls to stare at the marksmans weapon,
helpless and confused. All deaf and choking with sand and gunpowder, the Guards couldnt
help but to wonder where else they have experienced such an attack.
Alright, ya wankers, listen up! The marksman called, shifting his rifle from one shocked
face to the next. His words were wasted on deaf ears. Dont make any sudden moves. We can
let this stay a standoff, he paused as his weapon spotted another snipers emotionless
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features, expressive as ice and just as cold. Infuriated that he didnt come off as menacing as
he indented, he made sure to press his gun into the womans forehead, much to sir Kiths
dismay. She hadnt blinked.
If you try something, the hooded man warned as the dark Zeer stood beside him, were
more than happy to make this a multiple homicide. Take your pick.
The Zeer picked up a saber left by some Guard during their fall. Onika only recognized it as
hers when he pressed it right under the soft of her neck, making eye contact with his eyes the
color of oil. With an extended finger, her attacker showed her a glimpse of her possible
outcome. He maintained contact with her as his darkened nail drew across his Adams apple
in a swift, decapitating motion. The Commander shivered and felt her weapons blade cut the
soft skin, and closed her eyes to control her nerves.
Her hearing returned just in time to hear the attackers last warning line.
I hope none of you need to be heroes today.
/***/
Sitka! He called as another man fell and coughed up blood, clutching his kicked stomach in
furious agony. Fafnir jumped over him and ran down into the hearth of the palace, where he
heard somebody wail higher than the muffled clamor of roaring guns and falling pillars.
Sitka!
A whole minute into the attack. Aaron had zoomed the palace and bounced off the walls,
clinging on the tapestry as a chimp while petrified Guards ordered each other not to shoot.
Archer and Pion had staged a hostage situation on the roof, keeping some of the most
dangerous sentinels out of the fray and on their knees with a guns barrel upon their lips. As
Riker and Maggie sundered the foot soldiers coming from all corners of the court, and while
sirens wailed their screeching alarm, Fafnir sped straight into the chaos. His eyes were peeled
wide, his ears stuffed with cotton to stop his senses from collapsing on his judgment. With a
start he greeted each Guard who came his way, and as he apprehended them, his mind only
focused on the missing crewmate.
Riker had told him that there was only a twenty-percent chance of the Phoenix being
functional.
This shot at success was marginally higher than the one calculated for the notorious Senate
strike. This was enough for even the calculating mechanic to throw caution to the wind and
agree to Aarons plan.
Simply because the plan was liable to come off, it was not at all predisposed to go on
flawlessly. Once inside the walls, every member of the Outcasts had their qualms, and
Fafnirs bellowed in protest. He fought through them, telling his feet to go forward and
resisting the impulse to hide away. With each step as heavy as anvils, and a breath that tore at

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the seams, the fighter continued to evade the gunshots and blades; cast from an enemy or by
his own mind.
Breaking a Guards wrist as she attempted to stab him with a dagger, he delved deeper and
deeper into the bare bones of the Kings landing. He was already embellished with cuts and
abrasions of all kinds. The Sevis fighter failed to recognize others wounds from his own.
Scarlet and burgundy were alike in weight and smell, and it mattered not which shade of red
sprayed over his dark skin. It still dried and cracked, falling off in flakes or inside his beads of
sweat. By the time he made it to the cells, his heart was leaping and flipping in his throat,
palms sweating and ears ringing like a dragons call of death.
The Phoenix fired again, and the ground shook under his feet.
Dravite eyes, cold and shaking with horror, flipped with each turn of his head. As his frame
started to lean and fall, he jolted and ran back as he saw a stream of rats, spiders, roaches and
mice flee from the cracks in the walls. It was like seeing his Panopticon cell block, and those
evil creatures feeding on whatever remnants they found. Fafnir pressed a hand to the stone
walls and watched, fighting the urge to vomit as they came, in hordes, with claws like talons
and their coats marred with fleas. There were hundreds thousands of them and the patter
of their feet thundered even above the cannons boom.
A heavy metal door opened, and as the captive lowered her foot, she breathed fast and hard
before looking at Fafnir with clenched teeth. Chains still rattled around her wrists and ankles,
and lice crept over her the bare tops of her feet. They never bothered her, but the noise did,
and she looked up to the higher palace levels.
Fafnir knew not of her distress. The load of dread pooling in his gut faded into relief, and the
next words from his mouth were accompanied with a weak smile.
Youre alright
You shouldnt have come here, the Sitka said, less enthusiastic about their meeting. She
took his hand and pulled him, marching across the smoky halls. His arms were numb and she
couldnt feel how tightly he adhered. Is that the cannon?
She was referencing the noise above. Fafnir nodded, not even hearing her through the
commotion. The captive was not amused. Her footfalls struck the cold floor to her rapid
heartbeat.
We need to get out of the palace, right now! Tell Aaron Kronos to flee immediately or else
well!
Freezing, the Sitka looked up to the towering mountain of a man, and Fafnir looked up with
even greater alarm.
If either had known anything about the ranks or Elites at that time, they would know that the
Guard standing by them, obfuscating their escape route, was none other than Elite Storm. The
tallest and widest Macro either had ever seen, with eyes as small as roe and wide leather mitts
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for hands, Storm could have easily appeared daunting on his own. Now he had them cornered,
dwarfing them in a hall barely fit for him, and yet he could still handle his weapon of choice.
On a stripe of iron chains, the man swung an oak block roughly the size of his torso, spiked at
the bottom with stainless steel. The spikes were blunted and browned, not with rust but with
whatever its last victims had coursing through their veins. There was no emotion in him as he
walked towards the duo, spinning the weapon in his arm like a ratchet. Vermin ran across his
boots yet he paid no mind. If nothing else, the rodents fled from the Guard, who lumbered at
his seven feet of height and three hundred pounds of pure pressed muscle. A smirk appeared
only when he was ready to lift his block above, enough to give it momentum, and a sufficient
angle to bash Fafnir squarely on the head.
Fafnir breathed out sharply through his nose. Shit.
The runaway pulled him aside, clutching his forearm. The iron left jagged imprints which ate
through the stone floors like dragon teeth. With fury in his beastly eyes the fighter looked
behind his back, lifting up his weapon again. The Sitka scaled the walls, leaping as a veteran
aerokinetic. Fafnir fled from the spikes which came so close to him that he could feel them
grazing the soft of his back. The vermin had fled in horror, some panting in pools of their
blood after the towering oaf crushed them. Elite Storm paid no mind to the Sevvy; he had the
Sitkas head in mind and mentally imagined a bulls-eye on her glistening forehead. His
muscles tightened when he struck the walls. The stone crumbled into dust. After losing her
footing, she fell on her back with a hiss.
Amber eyes flashed at the sight of the block zooming towards her. The chains of the block
and the links around her wrists rattled when she rolled out of the way. Sitka! Fafnir cried
out to warn her, and as she landed on her cemented feet she wiped away the copper from her
lip. If she had wished to flee before, now she wanted to fly. Storm had reached enough
momentum the bludgeon came down.
AAAARRGHHH!!!
Screaming like a pig mid-slaughter Storm stumbled back. His calloused hands loosened their
grip and the cube went limp, landing on the ground. It dragged its thorns and grazed the floors
into powder as its commander yelled and shrieked, blinded with red.
Fafnir clung on his back, fingers digging deep into the mans sockets and pressing hard on the
mans spheres. His pupils felt slick under his forefingers; his thumbs burrowed into the
attackers temples as if he wished to squeeze out his eyes. His euphoria returned, and once
again he was a survivor of thirteen, fighting away a boy twice his size using nothing but his
hands and brutality, The dark whispers clouded him again, but they were crumpled into
inspiration and reduced to shadows of his previous fears. This was not his survival anymore.
For once he bloodied his hands to save a life, rather than take it. A strong brown hand gripped
him and pulled him out Storms way; the Elite had attempted to elbow him in the jaw.

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Fafnir panted and came into the dimmed hues of reality, watching Storm turn around and
blink away the madness he felt. His teeth chattered at the two pests, who stood with their
backs pressed and their fists up.
Are you alright? Fafnir asked, able to form a coherent sentence by then. The Sitka let out a
strained exhale and tightened her knuckles.
You have learned much, she commended him; evading the question she was too proud to
answer truthfully to. You might just live.
As he stepped back with her, a small comment flew off on ragged his breath. You trained me.
If I last, you have my life.
He blinked at that moment and missed the instant where her rage fell into perplexity, and she
looked at him with gratitude. But they were still wedged into the stone woods of wailing and
despair, and needed to escape them.
Storm was distinguishing blots of burgundy to find the two forms he needed to strike. It was a
good opportunity to run, had the lumber not blocked their path. What they needed was to leap
over him, and pray to the Gods they dont collide with his crafted mace. With the slyest
figment of a smile, the Sitka took Fafnirs hand and spoke of her plan in two glances. One
pointed at the head. One at the feet. He nodded wordlessly, and they hurled to the raised
weapon with a growl and a grin.
Storms knee cracked under Fafnirs sole, and he attempted to kick away the bastard. His feet
shifted, but the grip on his wood-and-iron still came to the Sitka, who had all but presented
her head for murder. She grabbed for the weapon when it was close enough to reach her scalp.
Her hungry arms shook with determination and pain, the bludgeon came down closer. It
would draw death or blood, depending on which side hit. Arching her body she kicked him in
the chest, leaving it concaved as the air from his body came out, along with droplets of scarlet
rain. Fafnir grabbed his golden hood and pulled him downwards.
This when the Sitka finally released his mace.
It happened in seconds the first kick, the second kick, the pull and throw but each figure
danced in their minds with a slowed heartbeat and blurred lines. Fafnirs clenched jaw and the
small waves of his skin when he knocked over the titan. Her pearls of sweat rolling over olive
markings. Fingers touching the spikes and tearing the smooth layers of skin with a deafening
rip. Storms body trying to recover as he reached the floor and tossed about before his head
came and crashed over the rock. The soft muting of his golden colors as a shadow came
across his facial features, deepening his cheeks and elongating his nose while eyes fell into
oblivion. His pupils otherwise dark and reddened shone with a diluted fright and, for the
first time since before his childhood, the great Storm finally looked small.
The mace crashed right across his head and made a wet popping sound, splattering both the
Sitka and Fafnir in a showering cascade. A giants body now had a block for a head, and fiery
hair which pooled and seeped through the cracks and fissures. Silence and dread, Fafnir
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thought to himself. These parts were those when the weight of his deeds set in. It crawled into
his paranoia and twisted his grief until he could barely breathe. Still he stood along the
warrior, barely hurt apart from a few contusions and cuts.
He looked at his hands, bloodied and sinful. This was when he felt the Sitkas hand on his
shoulder and her softened voice on his ear.
It was him or us, she concluded to elevate the guilt. Honor does not fare well with
survivors. And neither does weakness.
She looked at the Elites body with such disgust, such contempt that Fafnir feared that she
would spit on his corpse. Yet he knew that her kind never went against the dead, be they kings
or slayers. After that moment of silence, accompanied with a faint dripping noise, tens of
captives came out of the woodwork and started to rush to the light, to freedom theyve been
depraved of. The palace thundered overhead, filling the air with screams and bangs. One of
them rattled the ceiling, and dirt fell over the heads of pickpockets, grave robbers, kidnappers,
thieves, murderers and rapists alike.
In the crowd, nobody could know their crimes. They were free men desperate to see light for a
second time. For this reason, Fafnir could not condemn them, knowing there were innocent
people somewhere in the throng. As he was years ago
Come along now, the Sitka said and pulled him out of his musings, making him speed up
his run to a gallop. They went in front of the crowd of escapees, leading them to the exit, to
the main arena where their battle would commence. Fafnir watched the hungry, mottled,
pockmarked faces behind them. He could only recognize himself or his murderous father in
each elated roar.
After a time, those expressions formed into an amalgam of the Scion lineage. It was a sight
too disturbing for him, so he turned to look ahead.
/***/
Heads up! Aaron shouted and clapped, flipping over the Guards and running on the walls.
The pursuers ran amok and debated whether they would shoot him down. Even if they tried,
the Xexarian moved so flawlessly, so elegantly, that every shell blew away into the mortar and
marble regardless of the shooters pinpoint accuracy. Prophesies carved into plaques erased
with each bullet that grazed their surface. Bits of wall tore away like chunks of cheese. Still
Aaron taunted, running and distracting the men from the dungeon escapees and the machine
blowing away the halls. In his left hand he held a halberd taken off the foyer wall, spinning
the thing as he searched for the person whod need it.
His body craned to the side and he grabbed a railing hanging overhead, the weapon sticking
up from his palm and pointing at the Guards who dared come too close. This was all childs
play to him; while others fought and schemed, he provided a quick disruption and allowed his
teammates to go out with as few casualties as possible. Spinning and leaping, he landed on his

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feet with a soft grunt and started to run faster than light. The hollers of the Guards seemed
almost comical in the distance.
He only stopped when two cold hands gripped him and pulled him aside in the darkest
shadow Aaron had ever seen, hidden straight in the Guards path. As they ran and bumped
into him, oblivious of his presence, the Xexarian recognized that the illusion of light was
Stellas creation. The man grabbing him was Pion, in all of his grotesque glory. He moved to
the side, allowing a Guard to pass straight between them without even darting his eyes to the
side.
Whats happening? The Xexarian asked, and Pion answered in a flourish of hand gestures.
Gods, Aaron thought. Regardless of what was said about Archer, the Karaktaian was so much
better at deciphering the sign language. What he could tell from the fingers pointing up, there
had been a complication on the roof. Judging from the fright in the Zeers eyes, Archer was in
great peril. Aaron crossed his arms over his chest, irritated.
Archer can take care of himself! He blurted out and made some Guards look in his
direction. They shook away their suspicion without breaking pace, chalking the noise up to
the ringing in their ears. The Phoenix was blasting with all its might, and everybody
attempting to communicate was shouting with no regard of volume. Aaron could barely hear
his own words and let alone others. Pion only shook his head, meaning that Aaron has
misinterpreted his gestures. Having no will to try again, Aaron got to the heart of the matter.
Maggies weapons about to blow if it keeps going off like that! We dont have much time!
Wheres the Sitka?!
In lieu of an answer, he received a vision of his matron guardian, holstering a bundle of
documents in her grip. She spoke with the voice of a sage, loud enough for them to hear but
not sharp in order to pass under the Guards radar. We must wait more, she claimed. I have
important matters to attend to.
What important matters?! Aaron blasted in a flash of impatience. Just grab her and we can
get the hell outta here!
Raem, believe me when I tell you that this is for the good of the intellectual community.
You! She called to the dark Zeer who stood at attention, You know what needs to be done.
Well rendezvous in exactly one minute in this very location. Take care until then.
Intellectual co ? STELLA WERE A LITTLE BUSY HERE! He felt a cold gust of wind
rushing through his hair as Pion ran to whatever location Stella ordered him to. Aaron caught
urgency in his eyes, but no explanation befell. Desperate, he faced Stella, who disappeared in
cyan along with her manufactured shadow of invisibility.
Hey, where are you COME BACK!
This part he shouted in plain sight, at the top of his voice, before another wave of Elite Zeras
Guards coming to smite him regardless of diplomatic immunity. A shorter ginger with eyes
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the color of fury pointed at him and commanded: There he is! He drew his weapon so
quickly that the glint of his saber resembled a lightning rod. The command was like tines of a
fork against porcelain; thrice as abrasive on the intruders sensitive ears. ATTACK!!!
Aaron cursed with a start, tripping over his feet as he ran. On his way to the unknown
destination, he managed to catch a blur of the Sitka running with the former Sevis fighter,
crossing fingers while they went. All too suddenly, the Xexarian noted that the halberd was
much too long for him to carry, but would perfectly suit the warrior who had lost her weapon
to a tax collector.
Sitka, catch!
Chucking the weapon, Aaron ran as fast as his legs could carry his lithe form. Only turning
around to see the recipient, he smiled upon noting the pole in the new teammates worthy
palm.
AFTER HIM!!!
The entire vestibules ornamented walls and statues poking heads out of marble began to
swim in another airy blur. It wasnt until he slapped his gut upon Rikers outstretched arm that
Aaron finally caught his breath.
/***/
If it werent for the plucky Guard with twin blades crossed over her back, this mission would
have went smoothly.
If it werent for that obnoxious Forrester prig digging her nose where it didnt belong and
taking away his mate in heat of a hostage situation, he would have been in the base by now.
If it werent for that Staples character and her ability to orchestrate her squadron to escape to
the bottom tiers, obfuscate the Phoenix from advancing, take out Fafnirs earpiece, misplace
the Sitka, send the pair on a wild chase with no escape, introduce monsters instead of men to
fight against a handful of well-intentioned extremists with no equipment and even less of a
clue on how to battle proper, he would have won already!
Instead his rifle was cast away somewhere, left on the ground and kicked away by this this
petite demoness with a fire in her eyes and slashing knives that clanged against his kukri like
funeral bells. Come on! The woman in the Elite regalia called for her companion, but the
fighter refused to turn back. Her blades were quick and shining in the silver sun, dreadlocks
flying overhead like a cat o nine tails. Whips, like the wind, her fighting style had grace and
beauty as well as an evil within. She broke into her berserker mode right after Archer made
the mistake of calling her craven for shivering when his rifle lifted up her chin.
The shiver was a product of impatience, not cowardice, and this he learned as he heard cloth
tearing on his body a second after she took a stand.

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He had never seen somebody kick away a guns barrel. By Gods, he never wished to witness
it again.
With no runner to come to his aid he fought off the beast on his own, feeling her blades slash
across his coat. He cared more for that garment than for his own life. After a strike left a
crimson trail across his stomach, his teeth gritted and he lunged towards her neck.
Try that again! He bellowed as she expertly pushed him toward the edge of the roof. Try
that again and Ill cut out your fucking throat!
She had tried this again, but his body swerved just in time to evade the point. Yet as he lifted
up his knife to make his promise a reality, his feet crumpled and he shuffled back, looking
down to the ground stretching underneath the brim.
Convicts, Guards, camels fled in panic and smoke. The palace rattled under another
explosion. A gust of hard, black tar blew away a stained glass window and started to release
flames creeping up over the walls. The golden statues melted and disfigured, giving the Gods
pained expressions and horrendous abnormalities. A marble arch fell and cut off the path of
the deserting Guards on camels. Ivory lifted up the sand into the sky and created a barricade
which startled the animals. Screaming and panicking, they shook away they masters. They
would scream and fall to break their bones, some even cracked their necks upon impact.
One Guard, the quickest to escape, led the cavalry atop his irascible camel. When the arch fell
the beast took its first chance to run away without the abusive master. Missing one of his
fingers, he failed to hold onto the reins and he fell right on the carved stone. His stomach
folded over the cylinder as Rosie broke out and went into city limits. He could only watch
those who managed to jump over the hurdle, all leaping, racing until he was left alone in the
pandemonium. Unbeknownst to him, Archer observed the happening and wondered if he
would soon join those bodies lying helplessly in the Aura heat.
The painted picture below him shook and made his head misty. Either he would meet his
doom in the hands of a fighter, or in the dusted plains of heat and fire.
Two swords came crashing down on his chest with no mercy.
And then, Gods above and below, the swords crashed out of her hands with the aid of a
foreign blade, a fist knocked her on the ground. When she looked up the marksman was
whisked away and dragged across the observation deck, over the wasted weapons, broken
glass and flickering licks of flames. Somehow he reached down and took his rifle by the
leather strap, and hauled it awkwardly as he ran. As the image of the woman and the promise
of plummeting left his sight, he realized that he had no Gods to thank for his rescue.
No Gods except
He looked at the strong brown hand gripping his pale gangly limb; the swirls over cinnamon
skin, the fortitude in every movement, the deadly grip on her polearm. Shock and disgust

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could not prevail to relief, and only one word left his mouth as the Sitka he openly scorned
lead him to safety; to the stairway leading to the rest of their group.
Why?
Her amber eyes seemed more clouded than usually, as if some God poured liquefied onyx into
her pupils to make her appear threatening. He feared his wrist would break in her palm. She
hardly looked at him before solemnly declaring:
Your death belongs to me.
Shoving him down the rails, she sped past him, dashing across the stairs and to the Macro
who urged her to hurry. Archer was right behind them, heart racing out of his body. He
thought about sawing off his arm for letting that thing touch him. Now his life depended on
the mood of that barbaric whore.
If the time were more appropriate, he would have stopped to vomit. Before he could, he made
it all the way to see the Phoenix cannon wedged into a corner, attacked by a Zeer Elites dark
magic.
Glowing blue columns flashed as Stella appeared in intervals, always running to Pion and
always disappearing with him before anybody could question her. Aaron scaled the walls and
tried to push back the crowds building up. Riker shielded the cannon but was constantly
knocked back on his feet with the orbs of darkness. Zera was an expert in conjuring Mana,
and the intensity of his strikes, cast like cannon balls at the hull, made the cannon unstable.
Lighting sparked out of the metal panels. The barrel shook with strain, ready to burst and cast
its final dying blow. Fearing for the safety of the pilot, Riker urged Maggie begged her to
escape her warhead and leave before it was too late. Yet she refused and adamantly stood her
ground, enduring the scorching hot temperature building inside the contraption. Fire roared in
the backdrop. Cyan streaked the walls. Orbs hit past the shields and ran into the machine,
which burned red and sparked and whistled highly enough to burst somebodys ears.
Archer watched and came to his team, palms sweating as he took his rifle in his hands. He
called for the Zeer, and fired as he heard no response. The bullet came into Elite Zeras head
and he fell like a sack of stones, but not before almost destroying Maggies lifework.
The team looked to Archer, who had placed his rifle on his back and came to Riker, who
shouted at the construction. It was the first Archer had heard him yell at Maggie never in
this tone, never with this severity. His shields came down. The hot robotic fist clenched as he
backed away from the whirring calamity, feeling the spurts of lightning carve into his skin
grafts.
FOR THE LAST TIME, GET OUT OF THERE!
No! Her voice hissed and crackled inside his earpiece. He winced upon hearing her pitch.
We can still fix it! We can fix it, I know we can!
MAGGIE BE REASONABLE FOR ONCE! IM NOT LETTING YOU DIE IN THERE!
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Ive worked for this so hard! She was beginning to weep, and her voice wobbled in his ears.
The Sitka furrowed her brow and approached the hull, marching with her fists clenched.
It was in this moment that Stella arrived with Pion and summoned Aaron to join her. Fafnir
followed, as well as Archer who could barely hide his discomfort. His chest heaved as he
breathed, deeply but rapidly. The smell of smoke crept into his nostrils, and flashes of burned
flesh came into his nostrils and made him gag. He called over to Riker, who was too
distracted to pay mind to Stella or to the Sitka climbing the cannon.
I dont care how much you love that thing, its going to kill you! We cant fix it! Its over!
Were !
He was stopped mid-sentence as he saw the woman they came to rescue rip apart one of the
panels which failed to drop on their own. The sheet of metal flew over his head, and ducked
before snapping at her. You! Get out! Youll kill us all!
The Sitka paid no mind to the Macro as she came down to look into the cockpit. Maggie was
crunched into a ball, surrounded with red lights flashing on her tear-stained face. Her goggles
couldnt hide her eyes, scared and flaring with panic. She grabbed her controls and held her
grip, too afraid to move yet too stubborn to release the gears. Frozen in place and smaller than
a poppy seed, she trembled in the sea of noise and flashing. The Sitka felt remorseful as she
called to her from the gap. Her weapons blunt end was struck in the cannons core for
balance.
Listen to me! She spoke as Maggie lifted her chin. This machine will hurt you! Its
finished now! Your objective is complete! Im free that was your mission! You have won,
now its time to go!
I cant! She wailed and released a shaky sob. Snot and saliva trailed her chin in equal part
while she shuddered, desperately trying to focus hard enough for her wired brain to develop a
solution. It was blank and void, sucking in all ideas into her dread until they warped into a
full-blown panic attack. I lived for the Phoenix! He was going to save me!
Sweating through her clothes and falling deaf to the wailing sirens, her head dipped down into
her chest. I wanted to matter this would have mattered!
There will still be time to prove yourself! You cant die in there!
If I leave therell be nothing left! If I stay theyll know who made this! Theyll find me!
Theyll know it was a half-breed who created this, she thought but couldnt force out the
words. Theyll know we arent failures. We arent freaks. Theyll know we can be capable of
greatness, too
The Sitkas proffered hand reached above her, and Maggie watched it with bated breath. She
heard the words coming through the gap, and saw the honesty in the former slaves eyes. You
matter enough as is. Archers profanities cut into the following statement, but her words runs
crisp in the redheads ears. You will live to make another.
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Holding back another sob, Maggie nodded and reached for the hand. She was still holding
onto the controls. Promise.
The Sitka nodded once, stoically, as though she confirmed a law of nature. I promise you.
Maggie allowed her to pull her out of the volatile monstrosity, and she climbed right down the
panels where Riker greeted her shivering body. He held her tightly as if they had been apart
for years, and he brought her to the group. The Sitka stood beside them, ordering Stella to
take them away.
The matron waved down her arms and pulled them into a vortex of flashing hues, spinning
and pulling and drawing them out, morphing into ribbons and veils until they came to their
destination, plummeting on their backs like fragments of a grenade.
The last they heard was the Phoenix final blow.
/***/
Onikas squadron had made it to the deserted catacombs, along with Silas and King Aurus
himself. They were in the cells, hidden from the blast which collapsed half of the palace. The
earth shook with the flare of untellable proportions, enough to make the escaped convicts
wish they had never left their cells. Calvin returned to the palace, dragged there by Kith as
soon as he heard Onikas plan to hide. Kith tended to the mans wounds a dislocated
shoulder paired with a broken arm. It was the same arm that missed a finger.
That side of me is cursed, Calvin joked in between hisses of pain as Kith pulled back his
shoulder to pop it into place. Give it a week, and the Gods will have me wear a prosthetic
like that cyborg we fought. That is, unless they decide to kill me.
You would have been dead if it werent for Commander Staples, Kith spoke with a
trembling voice, as if he hadnt drawn the arrogant Guard out of the sand himself. His
strength and speed were once again scratched from the history books, and nobody would
remember the ginger that jumped from his own camel to a superiors rescue. Instead, Calvins
life would be known as a miraculous turn of events, the work of a benevolent God in the
machine. Kith paid no mind for recognition, or lack thereof. Despite being Karalynns only
living grandson, the limelight was never inviting, never tempting in the slightest. He was no
fighter, no sentinel, not even as determined or skillful as some other Guards who had met their
doom in the blast. Yet there he was, not a scratch on him. The Gods had miscalculated, of this
he was sure.
I cant believe theyre gone. Those same people I looked up to. Storm Zera only one
Elite remains. I saw it with my own eyes - Zeras entire squadron disappeared, and what
remains of the others His bottom lip quivered as his fingers clasped the shoulder tightly.
There is nothing but blood and bone up there. We might as well be the only ones left alive.
Alone, in the dungeons. Greatest minds and men of steel have fallen into chaos, all because of
those rebels! They took our goods, they took our Guards they took everything, and yet
we remain.
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To distract himself from the obvious question, why, he tried to adjust Calvins body into the
proper position.
The shoulder was less of a problem than the arm was a broken bone stuck out of his skin
and pierced through it like a fine blade, burning into his nerves upon every touch. Lady Dess
insisted that the wound was ugly, but not fatal, and suggested to tend to the shoulder until it
was safe to go to the infirmary.
Provided it isnt blown up already, Calvin quipped before sinking his teeth straight into his
lips. He looked to the two Macro women standing across from him to distract himself from
the pain.
Smith cradled her broken jaw in her hand, furious at the Sitka who dared to put a hand on her.
She could offer absolutely no consolation while standing alongside Onika, who recognized
Jocels disfigured, mottled features among the flesh and weevils in the dungeon.
Monsters, Smith said in a hushed tone. Theyre monsters, all of them. We shouldve killed
them in their cribs. She shouldve been hanged, not tied. Her hand landed on the Guards
shoulder plate, lightly grazing the skin in small circles which were meant to be comforting. I
am so sorry, Onika.
Onika watched the half-eaten remains, not knowing whether she should fall ill or cry over a
fallen teammate. Yet Jocel was never somebody she respected let alone liked so his body
started to look less like a fallen Guard and more like a wasted resource. She showed her
appreciation to her fellow Guards prying regardless, not meaning a single word of thanks.
She stared at the mans lifted arm, his screaming mouth that made no sound, his chewed-up
eyes that the rodents couldnt stomach. This man was once organic; carnal desire, living flesh,
vibrant eyes that stared at her with some amalgamation of lust, admiration and hatred. Jocel
was everything but a good man to her, yet he was there living and breathing and pulsating
and there even when her mind and body tried to make the world stop in its tracks. Now her
body felt numb and her mind ran in circles, always coming to the same distractive thought.
Gods, I need a drink.
Somewhere deeper in the dark, Silas kneeled beside his King, bearing awful news as he
ignored the shooting pains in his broken wrist. His face tightened, and his normal aloof
demeanor was lost to the growing presence of entropy. The King sat upon a metal cot as his
throne, still holding himself like a true monarch even when he knew his reign was falling
apart.
Sire, I have inspected to see what the assailants took from us, aside from the Syth. He
looked up at his King with his eyes dull and monochrome, yet still showing some sympathy
behind the blind rage he felt towards Aarons destruction. During this time, I took note of his
guardian and a dark Zeer delving into the palace. They came and went, taking away what we
had in the Scroll room

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Its gone, Aurus finished in his place. Running his fingers across his temples, he sank down
to his knees. With his head throbbing, he struggled to articulate what he saw when he opened
his treasury, only to find the walls bare and the cabinets barren. Shattered glass, crushed
furniture all remained apart from the Scrolls. Aurus was speechless, though Silas had much
to say in his resolute, obsequious manner.
I know full well who did this, sire, he spoke, still on his knees. That Forrester schoolmarm.
And the monstrous mute who raced for your uncle. He runs like a rabbit and she commands
him because she knows. She knows everything about your palace. About all of the courts,
temples, libraries in Brimstone and beyond. Former premier or not, she was always a
conniving thief. She was a pirate, sire, and pirates never change!
Neither have I, he thought but bit his tongue. I promise to retrieve the Scrolls. They must be
in Encantadia - it is the only spot they knew no man can enter. But I am no man, sire. My
Omnia can give me unimaginable power with the right sacrifice. I will pay Epsylon well, and
he will take me to Saga.
I know you will, Aurus said without looking away from his feet. I would have ordered you
to fetch them either way. The fact that you offered matters not.
Silas eyebrows lifted slightly, but furrowed just as he bowed again. As you say, sire.
Are all of them there?
Pardon, sire?
Rise, Silas, I wish to see your face when I address you. Aurus sat up and looked him in the
eyes when the man propped himself on his feet. Aurus scanned him for a trace of dishonesty.
Are you certain Forrester took everybody into her lair?
Definitely.
And I do mean everybody the half-breed, the Syth, the Xexarian
I wouldnt know about whom or what makes Kronos group. But I am sure that they are all
in one place. Teachers never had creative minds. Separating the group was beyond her.
Thinking about this made Silas irritable, as he couldnt believe that a teacher had swindled
them of all people, a teacher!
Aurus started to think out loud, his words low and masked by darkness. If he hadnt watched
him speak, Silas would have thought that shadows had found a voice to communicate and
scheme with. They cant stay there for long, the King believed. The Dryads are a bitter
kind with a strong odium towards outsiders. If the Syth is there, I expect them to be ejected
after a day. That Forrester will be most likely excommunicated for even thinking of bringing a
Syth into the magical realm. In days time, they will be out into ours. I want us to be prepared
for them.

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Silas nudged his head towards him, straightening himself. His broken wrist stayed on the
small of his back. I I do not believe I follow, sire.
I want to issue an order stripping Aaron of any and all forms of immunity, he said flatly, and
provoked the Guards. They craned their heads towards him, shooting inquisitive looks. Even
Onika looked at her uncle, not believing her own ears. The King spoke for a time about
Aarons disobedience, about his terrorism, about how the guise of his fanatic organization as
some freedom-fighting group worshipped by the Brimstone youth. With every word his
muscles constricted and his teeth showed, and he practically growled as he came to the final
statement which left the cells in a deathly silence.
There will be a time when one of my soldiers will spot the Xexarian. He might steal and loot,
murder my folk, go against Gods and nature. His existence alone is proof that there is no such
thing as justice in mercy, and no wit in the minds of the admired. Kronos is a foolhardy child
with guns for toys and millions of people looking up to him and he has repeated his attack.
This must end.
Uncle?
Aurus looked her way and his eyes were followed by the Guards, until everybody inspected
the silent Commander. Her hand clutched at her uniforms fabric, clenching her jacket right in
place of her beating heart. Swallowing hard, dared to ask him:
Are you suggesting we imprison Aaron Kronos?
The King shook his head. You saw what his team is capable of. We take one, and ten others
come and destroy everything we have built for generations. This palace stood well for two
hundred years, and it took five minutes for them to destroy the very quarters you live in.
Imprisonment doesnt come close to what I want. Beasts thrive in captivity. You have seen the
Syth wench and her conjuring.
A rat dashed across Jocels skull at the very moment. Onika kept herself from looking away,
knowing that she would be sick if she watched the rancid meat. Her body filled with an air of
disgust, and its claws crept to her heart, drawing it deep into the acrid bile eating away at her
stomach. Words eluded her.
Then what do you suggest, my lord? Calvin asked in her place, leaning onto Kith for
support.
He knew the answer. Everybody had expected it, drawn to its dark premise. Like some
masochists, they awaited the sentence that would make them plummet into confusion and
dreadful babble, and they received without as much as a blink on the Kings side.
I want Aaron Kronos killed on sight.
NO!!!

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The King stood up to face the insolent voice. It belonged to Lady Smith, who ran to affront
him while her eyes were overflowing with fire and daggers. Aurus looked like a tower
compared to her, yet her voice carried and echoed through the corridors, striking fear in any
ghoul or ghost that might have listened to their debate.
I wont let you do that! I know youre the King, but youve been growing mad with power
since you sat on your throne and this must stop!
How dare you speak ill of my King?! Lady Dess asked, pointing her sniper rifle at her
cheek. Her angular face took on a monsters form in the dark; some centaur made of glass and
mirrors. She reflected Smiths anger with every word of rebuttal. His orders brought Aura
out of misery!
They plunged it into misery! The Macro protested as her stone-colored eyes glowed. The
war was over five years ago, and still he makes us fight! My people are starving, and hes
trying to take away the last glimmer of hope they have! I wont stand for it! I may be in your
service but Ill never be cruel!
Who do you think you are, Silas asked with his chin up, when you think you can slander
your King while he stands before you?
A woman who lost her whole family to psychopaths like you! Pointing at the Hand, then at
the King, she bellowed out her familys demise which came in the form of trial by fire. They
had nothing left because I had nothing to give them! You pay your Guards nothing and then
you take away their homes because their families dont have two tacks to rub together! I stood
by your side the night when my mothers home burned! She took a pause to breathe in;
bottom lip quivering as a bow after releasing an arrow. Her white teeth chattered when she
recalled how she discovered her family wrapped in a blanket and black with ash, and when
they asked her if she recognized them she needed to see if her parent missed a specific tooth
before she was sure.
Onika and Jocel knew this would happen. The two of them couldnt have saved the entire
county you knew and you still sent them alone! I stood by you and guarded as you spoke to
the King of Birch! I didnt even know until until
Crying prevented her from finishing the sentence, but she remembered how Jocel told her.
Curt and blunt, as he handled most anything. She arrived to her childhood home, what
remained of it, and watched the extinguished homes send green smoke up to the Gods. She
stayed for an hour and returned to the palace, summoned by the Kings Hand for her nightly
sentinel duty.
Wiping the tears away from her cheek, she stated: I didnt even make it to her funeral.
Dess glanced at the carving on her weapon, papery eyebrows knotting in distaste. Her fingers
clenched against the wood and metal, hitting Smith across the cheek until blood splattered
from her mouth. While the Guards coiled back, Silas watched pleased and the King heard his
markswomans words of warning.
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We all lost our loved ones. If your mother paid her dues instead of relying on others bounty
she would have been spared. Her upper lip curled in distaste and she nodded derisively to the
panting Guard on her knees. Smith clutched her face, striped with crimson and salt in equal
parts; lifeblood mixing poorly with the trickling lachrymal essence. Dess concluded: Look at
you now, miserable shit. If only she had been on her knees longer we would have been
spared from your birth.
You little AAAGH!!!
The militant sniper kicked her in the jaw and heard it crack further. Few winced in sympathy
as the blonde straightened her shoulder and pressed a boot on the dark girls head, pressing
hard against her temple with the rubber bottom of her boot. Shuffling her ankle, she dipped
her weight into the act ever-to-slightly, enough for the loud-mouthed child of a whore to feel
discomfort that morphed into pain. Dess allowed her rifle to fall by her side as she looked at
Aurus, awaiting further commands. The King observed the act without a word, neither
pleased nor displeased. He allowed the torture to continue.
Coughing up blood that pooled on her tongue, Smith started to bark. Go ahead! Hurt me!
Gods know it wouldnt be the first Ive been hurt! Say my mother was a wench, say I was a
mistake say everything you can and I can top it! Ive heard it all! I know what youll say
and I know I can repeat what Ive heard, and worsen it tenfold! I am the daughter of a whore!
I am the daughter of a woman who gave her child whatever she had! I am the daughter of a
woman who had men defile and belittle her after craving her so badly that they had to pay her
in gold!
Calvin tried to run to her, save her from Sabrinas stomp, but the left side of his body gave in
to Kith, and he collapsed in his arms while weakly reaching for her. Silas took note of the
commotion in the back. His attention returned to the King, who lifted a hand and ordered
Dess to stop with her torment, and the woman removed her foot from the Macros skull.
When Smith recovered, she rubbed at her ears and felt as though she was sitting on a cloud,
falling into the spinning void where everything smelled like rotting meat. There was salt in
her breath and cotton in her head; there was no telling if she was breathing air or tasteless
honey. She still spoke, knowing that she needed to.
I also know that Aaron Kronos is the greatest thing that happened to people in over a
hundred years! He is hope to them! They adore him! If you think they will obey that asinine
order, you are mad!
You cannot kill Kronos, Calvin exclaimed suddenly, and Dess looked at him from behind
her back, a finger idly hanging on the trigger. Still leaning on the redhead, the near-amputee
spoke to the King. Everybody knows Aaron Kronos. Issuing a public warning would be the
gravest mistake you could make. He took away the palace and must be punished for it, but at
this point hes the poster child of revolution. Taking him away would bring Aura into a civil
war, and cut us away from all of Brimstone.

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Breathing sharply through his nose, he placed a hand on Kith and rose, finally able to walk
without falling in pain. Onika couldnt stop looking at the flash of ivory cutting out of his
flesh. The man made two steps to the throne.
With all due respect, my lord, we are all you have, he said and gestured around him with his
right palm. A trigger-happy sharpshooter. A crooked man with twisted limbs. A Macro
swordswoman, beaten nearly to a pulp, standing in front of the niece who chose not to speak a
word throughout the discussion. And of course, the grandson who debated whether or not to
pull the orator to the side and keep him from saying another word. It was a pitiful sight; an
army of five huddled into a damp crypt along with the two most powerful men in the
Kingdom.
You no longer have the luxury of killing whoever you dont agree with. You might as well
listen to us.
Aurus stopped to think for a moment, even looking down on the ground infested with rat shit.
His nose crinkled as he thought over the mans words, weighing them according to how they
sounded, and how pleased they made him. After careful consideration, he found that his point
was valid, and that he himself was atrociously exasperating. If anything, the hysterical woman
was amusing to look at.
Onika, the King called out and implored her to come to him. Silas gave her the nastiest of
looks, a kind of gaze which could potentially murder, before he slinked into the deep end of
the cell they occupied.
The stones felt hot under her feet, and she wondered what a massive fireball needed to run
through the top tiers to bring this temperature, and what destruction it wrought. Hours seemed
to pass before she dragged her body to her uncle. Upon seeing her come to his throne, he
cupped her shoulders and pulled her closer, numb to her impulsive convulsion. His hands
dusted away her shoulders and held her cheeks, examining her features before finally asking if
she was feeling well.
Nodding, assured him that she was fine. He caught no whiff of alcohol on her breath. His
expression seemed to soften.
Im sorry, uncle. About Calvins arm. I know he could have been useful as a duelist. I tried to
bring in as many people as I could in time, but Looking away the side, she remembered
the great ball of fire shooting through the pillars, crushing them. Her feet fell and clacked
across the marble with such speed that she might have been flying, and had to lean against the
walls and clutch her chest when her team went into the safety of the chasm beneath the walls.
People fell in the hellish purple flames that the cannon cast, disappearing in puffs of smoke.
They were people quicker than her, smarter than her, and far more worthy of having their lives
spared.
The reason she lived was because she was the Kings relative, and thus able to find some
hidden chapters scattered in the court, in which she could retreat in times of peril. Knowing
this did not make her value her own life more. If anything, she wished she could have traded
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it for Storms breath, Jocels soul or Calvins protruding bones. Her uncle called for her, and
she only responded the second time she heard him say her name.
You did the best you could, niece. You have carried yourself like a true leader. This dungeon
stretches far and wide across the court; surely other Guards versed in this architecture have
found their safety. With a voice as soft as velvet, he continued to comfort her, wiping away
the dirt on her chin with his thumb. You have done well. I couldnt have asked for a better
Elite than you.
Given the circumstances, the smile she gave was not genuine.
But I fear, Onika, that the people you saved do not understand the severity of the situation
were in. Or the influence both of us hold. His eyes came to Calvin, who tried to touch and
soothe the wounded Macro girl while Lady Dess elbowed him away. Onika didnt know if he
meant that he doubted Calvin or Smith, or possibly both. She had even less of an idea for
what he was about to say. Her ears perked in anticipation, ready to obey.
A sword came into her gloved hand, and she took the hilt firmly. It was lighter than her saber,
and reminiscent of a Birchen blade. Only in appearance, but not in the feeling; Onika needed
to weigh the staff Aurus had given her out of his sash. Even then it felt lacking, fuddled and
unfinished. Drawn to the mysteries of the oddment, she couldnt see Dess and Silas pin Calvin
to the ground with Smith, forcing his broken arm on his back. His scream brought her to
reality, and when she turned she held the weapon in her hand as a security blanket.
Upon seeing her clutch the sword, Calvin parted his lips and shook his head mutely. Smith
glared from beneath her bushy eyebrows, anticipating Onikas move.
Kill them.
Silas grabbed Kith by the scruff of his neck when he tried to run, and kept him halted beside
him. The ginger looked green in the face and kept jumping his gaze from Calvin to Smith,
back to Calvin and then Onika. Mouthing a plea, he slouched his shoulders and refused to
look at the triangle of doom; the two broken Guards on their knees and the scrawny
executioner standing in front of her uncle.
I am in no position to kill one of the five people I have in my command, he said and
sauntered about, spreading his arms. You forget that I have many people willing to run to my
summon, even outside of these walls. This gives me enough power to command your killing,
and I would trust nobody to implement this but my own flesh and blood. Turning to the
shorn blonde, he gesticulated at the two figures stooped down in front of her. With a small
smile, he instructed her: Choose.
The weapon might have fallen into her grip as if she was born for battle, but the expression on
her face was that of a frightened babe seeing her crib burn. What?!

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I cannot have them both killed, but I do need you to set an example. Either take out the
cripple or the child of a whore. He will be no use to me as a Guard. The sight of her repulses
me. Do what you must, Onika. Kill for me.
GODS, NO! Kith protested and was smacked across the face. Dess said nothing but kept
her eyes on Smith, who looked furious enough to spit on her coy grin.
None of these lives matter, niece. Only ours. He will be a dead man in days time, and she is
a lunatic by right. No child of a wench could ever grow up to be sane. If you let her live, you
will receive a strong but unpredictable warlord. Keep him alive, however, and you get a timid
bastard with a life expectancy of a week. But you despise her, dont you? He spoke softly in
Onikas ear as she fumed, nostrils flaring. You hate her pretty face and her little pretense,
pretending that shes worthwhile. People like her have taken away everything youve worked
for. She does not deserve your mercy. Neither of them do. You may choose now, Onika.
Choose wisely or by chance.
Dont do it, Staples! Calvin cried out to distract Dess from his paramour. You dont kill
your friends!
Shes no friend of yours, Dess said flatly. Elites have no relations; only edict!
Whoever you chose to behead will make a difference. These people will fear you. They will
obey your every word. Take that sword and fight!
Fuck you, Aurus! Smith exclaimed in a hoarse tone, trying to stand up. Youve been
messing with her head for as long as she worked for you! You power hungry wolf! Shes
terrified of you! Shell do anything you tell her and you know it!
As she stood on her feet, her eyes rolled back and black bile rushed her mouth as Silas struck
her spinal column with a surge of Mana. Her balance fell to ash and she flopped, contracting
her body as if she experienced a seizure, jumping like a fish on dry land. She still spewed
garbage, senseless curses and insults with no syntax, a lobotomized and crude form of her
former resistance. Calvin called her name as she swam in her delirium, but Dess would not
have him speak. His forehead met the end of her rifle.
Cut her, Onika! You hold her death in your cold grip. How dare she call you a coward?!
You are a coward! Calvin reminded her, spitting on the floor. Youre a craven and a nave
fool, and a stupid girl who needs to find guidance in the words of a man who doesnt love her!
Drop that sword, youre fooling yourself if you think you can !!!
The Elite put up her arms and crashed the sword on the ground, shattering it into pieces as the
rest watched in silence.
The pommel remained in her wet palm before she dropped it as well. It rolled away, and then
returned to rest at her toes. A sharp exhale escaped her and she straightened herself, finally
aware of what her uncle had done to her. When she turned, she spoke loudly and looked him
in the eyes.
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That sword could shed no blood.

Silas smiled as she pointed at the fragments, understanding that the girl was smarter than he
initially believed. The thick Guard he clutched in his bony fingers fell on the ground and
heaved with relief and disbelief. The Macro woman explained:
This is a toy sword, uncle. It is a costume prop a functionless element of your garb. It
weighs like a feather and strikes like a stick. I would have better luck trying to drown a man
with a thimble of water. Bring me a proper knife next time, and I will do whatever you
command.
An imitation sword.
Kith remembered this from school the test given to sir Ocelot when he needed to test if he
would betray his King before his brotherhood of knights. The fable ended on a sour note; the
knight struck his best friends neck and saw the sword crumble, leaving only a striking bruise.
The King commended him, but he had lost any and every ally he made in his long and
prosperous life. In some versions, he spared the life but was beheaded all the same, on
account of high treason. The story morphed according to the teller; friends spoke the former
while generals and army men preached the latter. This was the first time that a person was
clever enough to distinguish a fake weapon from a real one. At the very least, the first instance
that any of them had witnessed.
Onika breathed steadily, half-expecting her uncle to grant her another weapon. Instead he
chuckled and shook his head, turning on his heel. The average King wore his sword as
pretense, he once told her. The rebel might see him and think of him as an equal brute,
oblivious to the power in his hands which some monarch held as troops, coin or even
enchantment. Claymore represented nothing but a veil to his pyrokinetics. Of this he told his
niece when she was last fully abstaining from drink; two moons prior.
You really are sober, he congratulated her remembrance. You make me proud.
She nodded.
But if such a time comes, he warned Onika and her squadron behind her, expressing
emotions from disgust to deep relief, I will order a murder if one of you crosses me. I hold
your lives as King. I will tolerate nothing. Deep brown eyes were cold when he stated:
None of you have the luxury of defying me. I could rule with only one Guard at my side.
A specific Guard, it was needless to say, who feared and revered him in equal parts.
He left their sight, coming into another dim corridor smelling of putrid flesh. Silas followed
him, slinking across the stone as though he walked on tentacles. It was after some time that
the two were brought on their feet, and Smith approached her Commander and asked in a
surprisingly timid tone, perhaps tired from screaming over Dess viciousness and the Kings
grandiose speeches. Onika stood still the entire time, not even moving a muscle until the girl
asked about a past possibility.
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Commander, she said wringing her arms, if that blade wasnt a prop, and if you truly
needed to choose would you have taken my life instead of Calvins?
Staples blinked at her once. It would depend on the true will of my King. She marched
across the cell to join her uncle in the treasury. The swordfighter stared into nothingness,
imagining her Commanders hand crashing like the blade of a guillotine, Aurus nodding in
approval before she cut.
The humid air froze around her, trapping her in ice.

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Chapter XIII: By Any Other Name

It has been weeks since they had escaped the foul King and reclaimed the Scrolls that
belonged to them or so it seemed, with Plamens interference and constant fact-checking. In
reality it has been a little over four days, and this time only passed too quickly during
investigation or translation. The hours spent inside the Premiers quarters were hard on even
the best of speakers. Every new arrival needed to be heard, and woes betide those whose story
differed from somebody elses by a single minutia. The ruler needed to know everything from
the exact time of the Sitkas abduction to the light-refraction spell Stella used to deceive the
Guards.
The flaming beacon of her warrior tribe insisted that these interrogations were needless.
Fafnir wholeheartedly agreed and even Stella dismissed a couple of Plamens accusations that
the entire spiel was a hoax. Riker and Archer were the ones who gave most of the information
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(though never at the same time, seeing that they contradicted each other on every word). Pion
was no help at all for obvious reasons, and Maggie became so detached and aggrieved due to
the loss of her Phoenix that all attempts at asking her on the matter became fruitless. She
would sigh and lose herself in her silence until the Dryads conceded and turned to another
source of answers.
Even with all the cajoling, pestering and blatant threatening on Plamens end, Stella refused to
speak anything other than the absolute necessities. The Sitka was saved. The Scrolls were
returned to the magical realm. And the plan to fetch them was flawlessly executed (or so
Stella boasted). After all that time spent going over the logistics, hiding places, secret halls
and crypts under the palace, Stella finally had her chance to enter the courts treasury and see
what the King has been sheltering inside. The theory of the multiple Scrolls has been on her
mind for many long years, and whose development she only shared with Pion (solely because
he wasnt physically able to give away her secrets). When she visited the palace during
Aarons Brimstone-wide tours, the Dryad never had an opportunity to spend enough time
inside its walls. Pion, however, could scout the building in seconds. All she needed was a
signal from him after finding out the location the rest was up to her teleportation and
expertise in crafting shadows.
This was the first opportunity for a heist in a little over a century or two. She wouldnt have
missed it for the world.
Upon coming to Encantadia, the team was met with a small stack of papyrus salvaged and
stored inside Stellas Librarium the sheer amount of paper made it almost impossible for
them to move inside it, so they moved the goods to another secure location. They had
everything now, and learned that there were fifteen credible Scrolls in total, and not twelve as
originally thought. This confirmed Archers crackpot conspiracy premise, and for the
following three days he would not stop talking about it, all righteous and smug.
The Outcasts were to bide their time inside Meecrows inn indefinitely, until Stella or some
other high matron deciphered the map leading to Zephyrs Field. This was all she would give
as a response to questions about her plans, and this was all everybody needed to know.
Plamen grew furious with her insolence. One more remark like that, he would attempt to
frighten her, and out of the woods you go!
She would then look at him blankly, almost bored with his incessant pestering. Duly noted,
my lord, she replied with an almost imperceptible nod of her head. In that case, I will make
no further remarks at all. We are finished here.
Snapping her fingers and disappearing into the inn for the umpteenth time, she would leave
the premier to boil and fume inside the hot shell of his fiery flesh. Stella could only imagine
how many of his trinkets he broke in his wrath, and for some reason the number that came to
mind made her smile in conceit.
This time when she pulled the stunt, Plamen was foaming at the mouth. Perhaps she had taken
it too far. There was no time to speculate about her momentary lack of tact. Meecrow or
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was that Chrome?... fumed at the Outcasts scribbling away at his reception desk. His current
insults were along the lines of flthy Syth scum, so either choice fared well in the Dryads
mind. Rolling her checkered eyes, she stepped over Pion who looked up words of the Elder
tongue in various dated dictionaries. A couple of documents shuffled under her feet, but he
would not protest.
If I catch you drinking my water again, the foul little imp scorned with his jaw tight, Ill
have you hung!
Calm yourself, goblin. She took a sip of murky water from a cracked clay cup. The taste of
metal and earth grazed her tongue so she had to cringe. I cannot believe you charge your
guests for this, she critiqued the drink and leaned one elbow on the reception desk.
That water costs half a tack per gulp! So far you owe me twenty! Retracting his finger as
she snapped her teeth at it, he stomped his leg and cursed her grin. I should have expected as
much from you vandals! You Syth are nothing but slime and dirt in the eyes of oh, hello
mlady Forrester!
After she picked him off the dusted hardwood by the hood of his cloak, Stella dangled him
several feet off the ground, looking into his beady red eyes like a snake about to devour a
mouse. In an impatient tone her voice hummed: Chrome
Chromes out, mlady, he apologized as he wrung his hands. But I can call him if you need
him!
Stella watched him tick his thumb to the back of his neck, where Chromes head laid dormant
full of wrinkles and frowns. The fat folds which formed a face were unappealing enough, and
she had no intention to see him twist his head and morph into an even more unpleasant
creature. Her head shook.
This wont be necessary. I would only like to inform you that we are performing sacred
duties, and that none of my people need be disturbed.
Your people? Archer scoffed from the back, handling a book that might or might not have
had anything to do with their subject of research. Which poor sucker died and made you
Queen? Kronos is the leader, last I checked.
He isnt the leader! Riker objected from behind a quill. The ink splattered his human hand,
and he cursed the magical realm for forbidding science as small as a decent mechanical
pencil. Black trails came off on his shirt as he wiped his fingers against it. We are a
democracy with members equal in every right, each of whom has a specific role in our team.
His hands rowed with every word, as though he categorized his thoughts into small invisible
boxes. Aaron is just there to give us some guidance when were halted by indecision.
Archer flung out his arms. Exactly! Hes the leader. As he chucked the book behind him, it
clattered against a supporting beam. Aint I right, mate?
The dark Zeer lying with his feet up in the air gave him a thumb pointing upwards.
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Thorne, for the umpteenth and hopefully final time, books are sacred in Saga. There will be
no tossing, ripping, burning or general carelessness with them!
By the Gods, prig, will you ever let that go? His head rocked sideways as he groaned. It
was The Luck of the Draw, by the Gods! It was filth!
Shows how little you know about premium Parquesh literature, Stella said and hoisted up
the goblin who struggled to reach the ground. Meecrow crossed his arms over his barrel chest,
pouting when she lectured. That was a masterpiece worthy of the laureate Paisley and his
gripping prose. The words he used shook a generation to the core! Luck brought fresh insight
on the socioeconomic power structure prevalent in their would-be democracy. The graphic
depictions of violence and beige prose riddled with expletives brought out the darkest sphere
of human mentality! She seemed genuinely excited over her report, gripping the poor goblin
regardless of his wheezing. He proved that people with power were rabid wolves who would
stop at nothing to gather whatever prey they could plunge their claws into. Everything about
Luck was flawless in context of their flash-in-the-pan transition from a monarchy to a peoples
republic.
Well I sppose me and about six million other people failed to see the political undertones
when Paisley spent three chapters writing about raping a minor. Three chapters! A scoff
escaped him. I dont mind you being into kinky shit but at least own up to it and admit its
nothing but smut.
The whiteness in Stellas cheeks burned red with fury now, and the Dryads voice rose above
the dull monotone she tried to maintain during conversation with idiots. One hand clenched
into the stale air above her while the other pinched at the folds of the imps foul-smelling
garb. Those scenes were analogies! The girl was the voter and the author was the two-party
system ultimately refusing to give her a voice!
Its a piss-poor analogy. I dont know how you see rape but back where Im from, its serious
fucking business. His gloved thumb pressed down on his solar plexus. And you cant
honestly look me in the eye and say that you, with any ounce of that soggy washcloth you call
a brain, werent disgusted by that too!
Disgusting or not, its his artistic license to express his views in an abstract manner. Do you
honestly think he could have plainly written about the issues concerning his nation at the time
when police forces gathered every person who told a joke about their leader to lead them onto
some uncharted island prison? He needed to rely on metaphors.
Metaphors? Thats a laugh. Everyone with a grain of salt in their eads can see right through
that flawed narrative. Rapes a cheap narrative cop-out its demoralizing, dehumanizing,
morbid and done to death and beyond. He wasnt doing anything new for literature. He aint a
satirist! Those words were inked on paper as fetish fuel with dead seriousness. And
schoolmarms like you still have this, this this bizarre urge to analyze every scrap of Godsawful text for framework just so you can sleep easier at night for letting your students read
kiddie porn!
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Books are more than just words, Thorne. Each text holds a history, a background, a purpose
to it beyond telling a story. He wrote the scene of Floras deflowering in a daresay emetic
manner because he needed the reader to feel ill upon reading it. Say what you want about his
choices of narrative Gods know hes no Chamberlain but his pages manipulated desired
emotions just how I manipulate light and you manipulate my patience. It might not be to your
liking, but there will never be a book like that again!
Excellent! That novel was garbage anyway.
It is art!
Its disgusting! And youre disgusting for liking it, you rape-apologist!
The Dryad made a noise akin to a wounded animal before giving into reason. This man came
from a family whose sign and sigil was a pistol against a bears head. They were violent,
pragmatic and crude; unable to distinct the artist from the work. Arguing her stand would be
like nailing a plank to a waterfall. Before sighing in defeat, however, she did manage to say
one word. Pickering?
Violent skin and wisping curls of emerald hair dashed from the stairs above, and he landed in
front of her with a courteous bow. Yes, my lady Forrester? The star pupil had been
examining the Scrolls as well; eyes reddened from lack of sleep and clothing marred with
patches of black ink. Yet he still had a studious vigor and will to participate in the upcoming
tasks. How may I help you?
His tutor held out the imp as if he were babe in dire need of a change of smallclothes. Take
him away, Stella commanded as her fingers retracted from the proprietors armpits. We are
much too busy to deal with nonsense her eyes shot at Archer, of any kind.
The sharpshooter fumbled with the torn patch of his coat, stopping only to lift a middle finger
at her. The odium lingered in the air like cheap wine at the back of an alkies throat, persisting
until the student managed a curt yes, my lady Forrester through his teeth. Pickering
proceeded into the basement stairwell just behind the bookcase (which was now inhabited by
Scrolls and scribbled doctrines brought from Stellas classroom). The goblin persistently
swore and kicked him in the shin, hollering loudly before he was muted by the deep dark
hallway the Dryad carried him through. The reception was quiet again.
The Sitka set aside her now-empty cup, unsure of how long these people could stay in one
cramped inn before the tension builds up to the point of bursting. A nervous hand scratched
behind her ear. I should, um probably return to my post. Pointing vaguely at the stairs
leading to the sleeping chambers, she took long heavy steps towards the knobby Oakwood
rails and nearly collided into Aaron.
The Xexarian bumped her shoulder with the door he opened, choosing to speak with his most
zealous admirer instead of paying attention to the inn.

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So what youre saying is that ooh. Sorry, Whatshername. The man flashed a small
apologetic smile while the Sitka glowered and walked to the top tier. Her silent indignation
could not be helped, and so the man repeated himself to Lucretia. So, what youre saying is
that theres no such place as Calamity Cove?
Well, yes and no, she mumbled and looked down to her feet. Apparently it was just a prank
among Birch preachers who lead the believers of the Gods of Creation on the wrong trail
during their pilgrimage. Calamity Cove exists as a landmark, but only because some people
lost their lives to the hands er, I mean tentacles of a lake monster. Its a name given to a
remote location just outside of Callahan, but it surely wasnt called that back in the days when
the originals were written. The parchment itself is very valuable as a historical artifact, but it
isnt canon as far as The Field is concerned.
Aaron pursed his lips and tapped his fingers along the spiral tattoo imprinted in his shoulder.
One down, a thousand to go. Ah well. At least were making progress. Good work, kiddo.
Stella noticed that she wore her nicest dress that day; the ankle-long tunic with a golden rope
tied around the hips, ornamented with frills and stitches depicting wild flowers over the
trumpet sleeves. They dragged on the floor when she lowered her arms. The young Dryad was
stiff and out of breath in her garb, though one couldnt tell from the glimmer of sheer love in
her eyes. Her fingers twisted and ribboned beneath her tilted head. Any contribution to your
worthy and noble cause is my highest privilege, my lord. Eyelashes painted with melted coal
fluttered like butterfly wings, at a speed which light would have envied.
If only her essays on Encantadian history were as beautifully worded as her status report, the
matron mused. Perhaps then her father wouldnt have relegated himself to bribing Stella for
his daughter to pass the semester. The inept student was jolted out of her silly daydreaming
when her tutor cleared her throat with urgency. So I take it, Stella said flatly, that my class
of students have completed their assignment.
Lucretia did not even try to contain her eyes rolling into her forehead. Six hours and twenty
students later, you have a confirmed dud. You could have figured that out on your own! But I
suppose anything that takes a bit of brain power to comprehend is nigh impossible for a
schoolmarm to handle.
Stella had stopped listening after the first sentence, and this kept her from taking offense.
You watch your tongue! Aarons retort struck away the smirk on the students face. Her
tangerine-colored eyes now observed him with more confusion than awe. Stel arranged this
whole operation. If it werent for her, we wouldnt have even known about where all these
Scrolls were hidden. Were all one step closer to solving this mystery, so be grateful for
having such an amazing teacher!
It was impolite to point and talk about a person present in the third person, the older Dryad
wanted to say. However, she allowed this for the time being as she internally beamed with joy.
Lucretia moved her gaze from him to the white-haired lecturer for a time, and then mumbled
an apology into her toes. After perfunctorily offering more of her help, Aaron allowed her to
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stay and help him work. In mere moments, he came to a davenport and opened a large leatherbound journal stocked with yellowed, dog-eared pages collected out of various notebooks.
She planted her elbows on the table and watched him trace the reference with his left index
finger, the right pinpointing a word on the Scroll. Her breach of courtesy was forgiven, but not
put to rest, as Aaron barely looked her way while he searched.
Archer found the view in front of him rather unpleasant. Isnt she a bit too young to fancy
him like that?
The question was aimed at Stella, but she expertly ignored it. Riker accepted it in turn. Shes
easily thrice his age. And then some.
Yeah, but aint Dryad aging a little different? Mentally shes bout as mature as a schoolgirl.
And I suppose Aaron is the epitome of sensibility and wisdom that comes with his ripe age,
the engineer said, lifting up his glasses at the corner with his robotic thumb. It creaked when
he tried to lift it by itself, and this stirred up some unease within him.
Well, I mean, the bloke did bed a mer-creature so I dunno how wise one can be. I still think
its unnatural though. I mean Dryads are great at a lot of things. Theyre resourceful,
ingenious sometimes too damn smart for their own good.
Stella made sure to hand out the wryest of smiles before dipping a quill into a vial of ink the
curve of her lips tasted like profanity. Archer continued;
They can see things, mate. Its in their eyes. But they cant see how big of an issue their epic
lifespan is. Whats gonna happen, realistically? She gets a bastard baby in her belly too young,
or she waits until shes old enough. The Last Xexarian might be the Gone-To-The-LastRoundup Xexarian by that time. Theres no time span for it to work well. Morally speaking,
biologically speaking, technically speaking.
I guess this is why relationships between species never work out.
He suddenly thought of Maggie, and how she hid her bug-eyes.
Lets just hope, Riker said while detaching his ring finger to check for rust sediments, that
Aaron isnt stupid enough to bring another half-breed into this world. His brown eyes
watched the sharpshooter from above his rectangular frames. Contracted pupils, rigid
shoulders and compressed lips were Archers first clue that what he just insinuated was wildly
out of place. The Macro, however, had too much tact to say it aloud.
Biting the inside of his cheek, Archer turned his head. You you know what I meant.
Oh, I do. He assured. Keep the races pure and the half-breeds sterile. You Thornes have
always had an intelligent way of perceiving racial issues. Funny how hard you tried to defend
a book characters honor and then followed up by condemning an actual person for
developing feelings for a man not of her creed. His head shook slowly as he noted the cause
of his delayed reaction; rings of grime coating the hollow fingers interior. Some might call
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that behavior hypocritical. Not me, however. Deep down I know youve engaged in the
conversation simply to spite Stella. Now youre just acting according to your conduct.
Riker banged the metal digit over the surface of the dusty table. Scraps of red rust flew in the
air and scattered over some of the notes he had made. It was a short, blunt impact which
Throne needed to stare at to truly experience the threat. If he failed to pick his words wisely,
the towering man would have no problem with hollowing his head. Hot saliva went down his
throat.
Icy-gray eyes came down to Pions black ones for support. Catching sight of his friend, the
dark Zeer furrowed his brow. Dark stitches came together in a frown. While his pencil rolled
and spread more scribbles over the diurnal margins, Pion went out of his way to gesture that
Archer had already dug his own grave and there was little he could do but lie in it. The
offenders fingers curved up to beg for support, and this was a gesture easily overlooked. Pion
cleverly decided that he would stay out of the impending argument, and whichever fistfight
could emerge from it.
This meant Archer needed to talk his own way out.
Unable to do so, he clumsily changed the subject.
So, uh, um. H-hows Maggie handling the Phoenix thing?
Riker was twisting a knob on his palm, but stopped as his eyes locked on the Karaktaian.
They stayed, frozen in time and thinking over a million ways to divert the discussion back to
his blunder. Yet the longer he considered the less he believed that a forced argument would
amount to anything worthwhile. So in seconds, the knob was twisted again. He sighed and
observed his handiwork. In weeks time, the construction of his forefinger and thumb would
need to be replaced entirely, but in terms of basic mobility it was fine for now. A puff of air
escaped his nostrils, displeased with his willingness to let things slide.
Shes heartbroken. To say the least. The Phoenix or whatever she called its predecessor
was her lifes work. Did you know that she applied to university with sketches of it? Thats
how long she had it in mind.
It was a crisp, straightened blueprint, sitting atop his designs in his fathers workshop. She
wanted to study hard science with him, and her love of technology paired with uncanny
mechanical intuition made her the finest candidate. The draft was excellent, as Riker
commended her several times while helping her with the technical names of components (the
structure and scale were sound and resembled the work of an employed engineer with years
of experience behind him). Her feet skipped over the ground when she went to present her
work, whistling at the clouds. And two hours later she returned, eyes red from crying and her
work ripped to shreds, clutched in her gloved hand. They had removed her goggles to expose
her eyes, and threw her out of the university gates spewing slurs and casting stones. Her plan
could have been the detailed cityscape of a Gods nation, but the checkers in her iris
sentenced her genius to a public stoning regardless. Riker patched up her blueprint with
stripes of transparent tape after she threw the work in the bin. It took all of his persuasion
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that her dream would become reality one day, and that the people who belittled her would end
up cursing themselves for doubting her abilities.
He promised this so many times that she believed this would be the case.
His human fist clenched at this memory, and so did his teeth at the thought of his girlfriend
secluded in a sleeping quarter with no wish for company.
Thats thats pretty rough, Archer said, poking in the hole of his coat.
Riker turned his head away as Stella pointed at his work. By the Gods, that woman could have
been an absolute pain when she wanted something done. Archer could not fall victim to her
subtle gestures, as he himself never knew of true subtlety and seldom applied whatever
diluted version of it.
Did you try talking to her about it? Archer asked Riker loudly, to show Stella he had no
interest in work.
Yes, but it always ends the same way. I knock on the door and ask to go inside. She refuses
and promises that well talk later. He shook his head, running fingers through his shoulderlength hair. Later. Thats the word shes been using for days. It pains me to see her like this.
Well maybe she needs somebody else to talk to. I mean, bear in mind, youre still the only
person she directly connects to her cannon. Maybe she needs somebody else to confide into.
Id volunteer. Less youre worried about the tomatohead fallin for me because I was bein so
gallant. Actually I could see us like that. Me bein a kind and considerate piece-a shit when all
of a sudden she starts snogging me and grabbing at my
Thorne! Scriptures! Now!
Archer snarled at the sight of Stella throwing the entirety of the Fourteenth Scroll in his lap,
accompanied by a dry quill and documents to use as a cross-reference. The faster we confirm
the validity of these Scrolls, the faster we can forward them to Bellarmine. They do not like
their time wasted, so be quick about it!
Riker ticked up a corner of his mouth at Archers irritation. He pretended to work for some
time, watching Aaron and Lucretia becoming frustrated over an indecipherable passage. The
Xexarian took his duties seriously when he wished to, and this was a praiseworthy effort on
his behalf. The Macro still worried for the young Sheeba fawning over him, like he was the
moon and stars piecing together all the gossamer of Brimstones sky. By the Gods, he hoped
she knew how complicated a romantic interest between polar opposites could be.
Complicated enough, he thought with a heavy heart, to regret it on the worst days.
/***/
Maggie had been given a mission to place the events between the sixth and ninth Scrolls in
chronological order a futile effort seeing that the scribe had recollected all of the Gods
escapades in blurry retrospect, riddled with inconsistencies and thought derailments
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throughout. Even without the boggling narrative, Maggie could not bring herself to complete
the task, and instead stared blindly at the ink on parchment. In her state, words came down
into something obscure, like an ancient tongue not yet translated by modern linguists. The
piece of paper fell out of her gloved hand, and on the dusty ground. She didnt pick it up, so it
stayed with three or four of its comrades who met the same fate.
The mechanic sprawled prostrate on her bug-ridden mattress which reeked of sweat, piss, and
perhaps more bodily fluids (which should remain anonymous stains as far as she was
concerned). Stellas orb of light flickered beneath a lamp skin, as replacement for a cracked
bulb which met the tenant. The white waves it cast illuminated the dust and filth in all corners,
the cracks in the beds railing, the concaved floor nobody dared to stand on. A door hanged on
one hinge and tilted diagonally when closed, letting inside a faint glow from the top left
corner. The corner just so happened to be adjacent to Maggies eyes, and she scowled at the
brightness. Apart from Stellas creation and that small gap, the rest of the abode was engulfed
in shadows and murky remnants of what was once furniture. Broken bookshelves piled on the
wall like a ladder. Shards of glass pointed up and threatened whatever foot they saw their
presence made ten times more frightening considering that there were no windows or broken
mirrors in sight. Her heavy boots rested on a small mess of splinters and spiked; a leather
jacket close by. She had dropped it to step on the thing while navigating towards the exit, but
ended up avoiding it after a small rat had inhabited the footwear and began to scamper around
the frayed leather for sport. Now he slept, covered with one of the sleeves.
At least he was comfortable.
Maggie threw a hand on her forehead and rolled on her cot. Filth. Pest. Broken. All three
words were used to describe her at one point or another, so it was befitting that they would
illustrate her living arrangement as well. She sighed, wondering how long until the matron
came requesting a report on her progress (and then chastised her for lack thereof).
A heavy hand knocked on the door, moving it from the frame. The voice coming from the
gap, however, wasnt Stellas.
Miss? Fafnir asked, fingers curling around the doors edge to move them. Lady Forrester
asked me to see what youve done so far. His deep eyes were the color of stone when he
looked at her. She pulled the strap of her goggles over her checkers, avoiding his direct gaze.
I I didnt. She threw her head back, and this did not make her idleness any easier to
admit. I havent done much.
Or at all, she wanted to say. Fafnir most likely took note of this already.
A sigh left him. Maggie, I understand this is hard. Nobody can take losing their lifes work
lightly. You may not have the cannon now, but you have an obligation and you owe it to your
group to see it through. I wont return to Forrester empty-handed. I need results, and you need
to provide them. So Im putting my foot down as of right now. Either you will buckle down
and work, or Ill have no choice but to !
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The engineer wished to protest him. A million fragments of arguments and various sorts of
rhetoric swam inside her head, from promising that she would do her work to bursting out in a
screaming fit, demanding that he leave her alone. Instead of articulating her demands, her
body chose to pursue pity and wallow in it for all it was worth.
So, in the middle of Fafnirs mild threat, Maggies jaw wobbled as she sniffed. When she
decided not to do that again, her nose protested and repeated the action, over the backdrop of
a weak mewl.
It was not the action she wished to take, but it brought the desired effect. Fafnir inched from
the doorway. Oh Gods, Im sorry. I didnt mean to make you cry, I know its hard how hard
it must be for you. Please dont cry. You should take your time. I- Ill tell Lady Forrester
youre sick and Ill leave right away. His face peered once more, eyes softer as they met
hers. Please please dont cry. I cant stand to be around people who cry.
The door fully closed. Maggie listened to the muffled conversation behind them. She
recognized Fafnir and the Sitka, whose voice was stern and immediate.
Have you talked to her yet?
Fafnir replied in hushed tones. I have, but It was surprisingly easy to visualize him
looking down at the floorboards, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck while his throat
clumped with bits of cotton. Maybe Im not the best person to tackle this.
Should I fetch Stella?
I was thinking you could
Me?! The Sitka was scandalized. Her words after the initial shock were expelled in a harsh,
furious whisper. I cant tackle these conversations! She needs somebody else! Stella is the
empath, and her partner
Tried talking to her and failed. Considering how the attack on the palace ended with you
pulling her out of that burning heap of scrap metal, Id think that youre the sole person she
would talk to. Shes upset. She needs some sympathy.
Us Sitkans have no concept of sympathy.
Well then just just talk to her, woman-to-woman.
Us Sitkans dont have a concept of gender, either!
More prattle ensued, during which volumes rose and depleted, hissed expletives lingered in
the midst of coercion, several apologies bounced with vigor until, finally, the Sitka sighed and
grabbed the doorknob, twisting it halfway to the side. Fine, she said. But only to show how
much I value your progress.
He thanked her.

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When the door creaked and Maggie lifted her head off the graying pillowcase posing as a
cushion, Fafnir was nowhere in sight. Instead she saw a glimmer of amber, speckled with ink
spots out of the burst pupil spiraling in the midst of the dimmed iris. The Sitka pushed half of
her face through the gap, focusing on the engineer and refusing to look at the squalor she slept
in.
You dont have to talk to me, Maggie spoke in a bored voice. Tell Stella Ill catch up soon
enough.
This is fine, the Sitka assured her, squeezing into the room until she could shut the door
behind her back. We are all overexerting ourselves, minding the circumstances. I needed to
step away from the teacher as well. As much as I love that womans approach to duty, she
tends to be she shook her head while looking up to the beams on the ceiling, perhaps
trying to find the end of her sentence. She tends to be fairly imperious.
This coaxed a smile on the redheads behalf. Yeah, I guess she can be a little bossy. She sat
on the mattress and propped herself up for support, legs crossing under her thighs. Her palm
patted the lumpy surface beside her. Siddown. You look like you need a break.
The Sitka graciously obliged.
Her sandals shattered three glass shards, and this made the rat perk his ears and scurry over
the ground, just to reach the Sitkas exposed toes. When she sat down the mattress creaked,
and Maggie tilted to the indent created by the tall Sitkas form. With her knees cocked and her
hands pushed on them, she looked like a schoolgirl being scolded. This would have made
Maggie laugh, but now all it lured was a sidelong glance and a smirk.
Copper skin shone in the light, as though it had a soft shell made of clay lovingly smeared
over the warriors arms and thighs. On the neck and tense shoulders an artisans brushstrokes
spread, swerving and curling mossy spirals into an arabesque over scar tissue and muscle. The
natural pigment used to be hidden by long, luxurious locks which were now trimmed to the
base of her neck, and stood out like a cloud of wire. The kinks were tight and hard as a stone,
hard as the scowling expression mottled with a cut over the nose and two spider bites over her
chin. What made the vision were not the facial features and the speckled and freckled
physique. It was her clothing.
A dirty taupe onesie draped over her body, cutting away just at the beginning of her thighs. A
similar material covered her feet underneath the impractical footwear, and the gloves cut off at
the fingers (inspired by Maggies personal choice of handwear). The forearms were shielded
by armguards made of copper and rope, knit and bound by metal and leather, with solid brass
plates covering her elbows. The iron-clad chestplate hid the top of her torso, and shone with a
golden tint regardless of the obvious wear-and-tear it endured over the years of service. These
two items the plate and the guards were found in Pickerings private collection of armor.
All other pieces were made for giants or goblins it seemed, and this was all that was left for
her to wear. She claimed it was no armor, and barely qualified as underwear. Despite the
claim she wore it, recalling the times she spent with frayed silk, a potato sack with cut-out
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holes and her bare skin as protection. Ugly armor was better than none, after all. Carrying
herself with the dignity of a battler whose armor was blessed by a God, nobody dared to say
anything against her wardrobe. And now Maggie stared as one would gawk at a mammoth
inhabiting a room for no apparent reason.
The Sitka noticed this. Are you feeling alright?
The smirk turned to a default expression of boredom. Checkered eyes scanned the ground and
locked on the small pest trying to climb on the tall womans leg. Ive been better, she
admitted. I know that my slump is giving everyone grief, so Ill need to break out of it
sooner or later. Later seems more likely, mayhaps.
The Sitka ticked up an eyebrow. Mayhaps?
Yeah. Her forearm ran over the slit under her nose before she snuffled. Its just that I
really cared for that cannon, you know?
As you should. It was a fine piece of work. And many more are to come, and someday you
will reach stardom through them. The Sitka watched the engineer until the latter produced a
smile. She swung her arm and struck Maggie on the back with such force that her goggles
slipped back over her eyes. Now come. The bed creaked into its normal position. Others
are worried. And tensions are high enough without their fret.
When Maggie removed her opaque lenses to stare at the walking copper soldier, she was met
with the image of an opening door. Hey she called out and made the Sitka slow her
movement, why did you save me back there?
There was no response at first, save for the knob which slowly rotated to the side. Then, the
Sitka returned to Maggies side, pushing away the wood until they were shut inside the
chamber, alone. Her arms crossed.
What do you mean by that?
Well, things were hectic. Words seemed harder to reach, growing out of some abstract
branches on the top of her mind which could not bend low enough for her tongue to catch
them. You were safe. I wasnt, but we we didnt come there for me. I mean, we came there
for you, and we got you. I was too busy sitting in a death trap. I know Phoenix was my
greatest creation, but it was still predestined to be destroyed and thats depressing. Look, I
appreciate you saving me. Im just trying to figure out why you wasted the time to talk me
into coming with you guys.
The Sitka shrugged. Did I have a choice? The Outcasts are my comrades now. Losing you
would be like losing one eighth of an already too-small battalion.
Oh. Her head dropped down to her knees to hide the disappointment in her eyes. A
sentimental answer was not something she expected to receive, yet she couldnt help but to
wonder if this response made her feel any better about posing the question. No counter came
to mind except for a weak and forced I see.
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Also, it wasnt me who saved your life. You took my hand and climbed up. That was your
effort. It took courage to step away from the condition which could have realized your dream.
No matter how macabre, your death would mean reaching your goal. But there is no victory if
your battles were won posthumously. You realized that. You were your own savior.
Maggie laughed softly, curls bouncing. Oh please. You were the one running around saving
everyone! Even if you were the initial rescue mission!
We both know your coming had less to do with my incarceration, and more to do with the
Scrolls. It was actually orchestrated nicely. Nobody was the wiser, save for the Zeer I think.
I still cant believe Stelly went through with all that. First she needed a distraction for the
Guards, she ticked off the conditions on her semi-gloved fingers, and that was the Phoenix.
Then we needed somebody to take out people from within
Which the Gods supposed would be me, she said with a hint of pride. I believe Ive made
them happy with my performance.
Oh, you were spectacular! Maggie planted her hands into the mattress and jumped on all
fours. Her legs kicked outwards before she returned them to her body. Running around,
knocking over Guards, punching everybody Forming fists with her hands, she struck the
empty air around her. The Sitka released a hearty guffaw at the redheads sound effects. WABAM! WA-BAM! POW! And you were like, TAKE THAT, and they were like, NOOO, and
everyone else was like AAAAAH, RUN AWAY! You almost made me forget why we came to
the palace in the first place!
The Sitka nodded, chuckling at the new gleam in her companions eyes. Well, I cant take all
the acclaim. Your maneuvering and targeting skills are easy to admire, granted that you had a
very limited space to operate within. For what its worth, I think the Phoenix fulfilled its
destiny. The final blast dealt just enough damage to the infrastructure for the building to
collapse. It would forever be the weapon that destroyed Aurus gilded palace and his tacky
throne. Her lips stretched out into a mischievous grin. Now that I think of it, perhaps
obliterating that heap of kitsch did him a favor.
Maggie all but snorted at that last sentence, bellowing out her first true laugh in days. After
the wave of euphoria had passed, she wiped away a tear from the corner of her eye, scrunched
up her nose and took another brisk inhale, only to see that the Sitka still tittered at her own
joke. The engineers body jolted and swam in a new electric aura, and her lips and fingers
blended into a new form consisting of pure movement. Her hands tapped along her thighs
when she spoke. Do ya really think I did well on the Phoenix?
I do, the Sitka replied, smiling.
And and and! Do you really think Ill be able to make better weapons? Because Ive
been thinking about what Ive done and I think meshing Mana with electricity might have
been bogus. So, now Im thinking of using hydrogen instead. Or or highly-energized
quantum particles extracted out of out of oh, I knew how the generator was called! Her
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forehead landed in her palm, not in sorrow but now in frustration. Her teeth gnawed at her
bottom lip. Never mind the name, Ill figure it out eventually. Was that polarized or
hyperpolarized? After Im done with the Scrolls Ill have plenty of time to visit Stellys
library and read up on them. Oh! Do you think I can use a vacuum field to separate no, wait,
that wouldnt work. But I could use helium for the core heater no, wait, Im thinking of
mercury. If we think of lightning as a property which is both plasma and gas, and if we take
into consideration the velocity of a piston engines recoil do they even have recoil velocity
or am I thinking about sniper rifles? all things considered I might be able to construct a new
Phoenix! And maybe soon Ill have a stabile Mana with a half life of well over fifty years!
Think of the proliferation properties! People would give an arm and a leg for weaponized
Mana, and after this theyll be distributing it by the vial, unless I go with my initial plan and
infuse it directly into a generator. And then Ill
She looked up at the visitor, who looked down at the engineer crawling over the mattress. Her
mouth was askew and her head tilted to the side, wondering whether or not she should have
commented on the word salad the bug-eyed engineer had stirred in front of her. Red in the
face with embarrassment, Maggie gulped and sat up straight. Sorry. I just had a lot of ideas
but nobody to verbalize them to. Her hand went over her greasy scalp, scratching into the
back of her neck. Buuuuuuuut, if I do make a new Phoenix I wont call it the Phoenix.
Oh?
Yeah, no. Im thinking of calling it after... well, after you.
The Sitka lowered her head, doubtful. Her arms were still crossed tightly over her breastplate.
Why would you?
B-because you saved my life. And I owe you for that I mean Im thankful for that, and I
want to express my lo- gratitude in an appropriate way, so so when I make the weapon Im
thinking of calling it The Sitka.
There was a short, pregnant pause during which the listener didnt know what to do with the
honor. After brief contemplation, she ticked up a corner of her mouth and spoke, in the
bluntest tone imaginable:
You can call it Lattika.
Lattika! Maggie bounced on the floor, fists clenched in excitement. Yes! Lattika the
cannon! Thats a great name! Lattika! Ill call it Lattika! Her ecstatic smile fell. Why would
I call it Lattika?
Because that is my given birth name.
Maggies jaw dropped.
It has just occurred to me, the Sit Lattika continued, her eyes going to the side and her
hand gesturing to the ceiling, that I have not introduced myself to you properly. I know most
of my comrades names, but nobody knows mine yet. Except for you. Eyes narrowing, she
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said the following as an army commander gave an order. You should honestly feel
privileged. Us Sitkans consider our names next to holy when it comes to distributing them.
Im Im honored
The engineer hid her cheeks in her hands, eyes glassy in disbelief, body shaking in pleasant
tremors while her heart ached and beat right outside of her chest. I am very, truly honored.
As sweet as the moment was, it was broken by Maggies screech, during which she sped right
past the Sitka, swung the door open, rushed down the steps and screamed from the top of her
lungs: HER NAMES LATTIKA I FIGURED IT OUT HER NAMES LATTIKA, SHES
LATTIKA SHE HAS A NAME NOW!
Lattika stood, paused in time with an index finger up. Dust and scraps of paper flew around
her, and even the rat hid under the doorless closet in fear of the compact tornado whose jacket
he used as bedding.
Well, she thought with a sigh, so much for respecting my customs.
It was fine, she decided, since she planned on introducing herself properly one of these days.
Rolling her eyes, she turned on her heel and pursued the exit, ignoring the floorboards that
cried out in pain when she stepped on them. It took her ten seconds perhaps, to reach the
bottom floor of the inn, but Maggie had already announced her name to everybody and their
mother.
Heeey, look whos finally here! Aaron said with glee upon seeing Maggie, much to
Lucretias jealousy.
Riker looked at the approaching Sitka with a sentiment similar to the young Sheebas. Three
minutes with Maggie after the most traumatic event of her life, and she had her jumping and
beaming? There was something this Sitka did right when it came to speaking to his girlfriend,
and it was a talent which he needed to learn.
Stella lifted her eyes off the parchment, observing the two ladies and wondering whether or
not they were worth her time. Conduct outlived ambition, so she relaxed her furrowed
forehead and nodded at the Sitka, ready to speak.
Tell em, Lattika! Maggie demanded, pulling at the rope tied around the womans forearm.
The Sitka obliged with cloying malaise, clearing her throat and putting a fist on her chest.
Her name was meant to be spoken in reverence, not as a moniker but as a title; a rule given to
her by blood relations whose wit and energy she carried in her marrow. These people might
have wanted her name as something to bellow at her when they needed her, but even in this
case she was willing to provide it. For all the strife and trouble they created, they were a
covenant bound tightly by their leaders judgment and charisma. It was in this closeness that
she wished to stay, as their relations reminded her of her long-lost tribe.

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You know this by now, she said as Maggie watched closely, but I must introduce myself in
my own words. I am Lattika of the Laranaika tribe, branching from the western Motoki. My
father was Kotaku the Guardian. My mother, Danara the Swordsmith, comes from the lineage
of our Defenders personal shieldmaiden. My legacy is a just and noble one, and my name
means fallen, to match the house Divinorum of Heaven. My God is Ayers. My colors are
brown and green. My name is now yours to take.
The introduction was a heavy, stiff one, spoken a hundred times but never in this language.
New words, butchered with literal translation, felt spiced on her tongue and hard to expel.
Lattika watched, half-aware that all listened to her in a stupor, and she expected at least one to
ridicule her customs. Instead, the very first words she received were words of praise, coming
from Fafnir Scion.
Lattika, he said in a haze. Fallen of Heaven like the creator Gods. It fits you.
Thank you for sharing that with us, Stella praised her with no irony. I know this is a
serious custom. One that should not be massacred by somebody yelling your name from the
top of the staircase, no matter how well-meaning their enthusiasm appears to be.
Her checkers met Maggies, and the redhead took one step behind Lattika with her head
tucked in her shoulders.
Its fine, Lattika assured. Ive lost more than a few traditions already. I think I can live
with informal introductions.
And Im informal as they get! Maggie said and jumped at attention, proffering a flattened
palm with her thumb facing up. It wasnt until she spoke again that the Sitka realized she was
meant to shake it. Nice to meetcha, Lattika! Im Maggie Clodowick!
Before she could even unclench her grasp, Lattikas hand was occupied by another Sheebas,
who stood in Maggies place just to barricade Aarons view of the wolf woman. Her tangerine
eyes were narrowed, her face solid as stone. Lucretia Plamen, she said, trying her hardest to
squeeze the life out of the Sitkas palm. Its a pleasure. It wasnt.
And Im Aaron Kronos! The man shouted from halfway across the room, making all heads
turn. He grinned and pushed back his hair. But I suppose you knew that already.
A flurry of footsteps came down, tumbling across the stairs until he clicked his heels together
and straightened his bowtie. The group had all but forgotten about him, and couldnt help but
to smile when he came, desperate to join in. M-my name is Pickering Green! He also
extended his hand but retreated in a second later to point up the stairs. And youve met
Meecrow Chrome whoever just bit me when I tried to get him to relax.
And Im !
Settle down, I know your names! Lattika shouted a bit more loudly than intended, making
Pickering flinch. She started pointing at the inns patrons, listing their names to ensure nobody
was overlooked or forgotten. You are Stella Forrester. Lady Stella Forrester. But I have the
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right to refer to you by your first name. I have met Maggie Clodowick, Pickering Green and

Lucretia!
Calm yourself. Youre as tall as a mule and twice as stubborn. You are only present because
of Kronos, and otherwise indifferent about my team. I care not for you.
Lucretia gasped, less offended by the remark and more by Stellas obvious snickering. With
her cheeks pouted, she came over to Pickering and stood beside him, hands on her hips and
head craned to the right as far as sheebanly possible. It was difficult to laugh at the premiers
daughters offense with no fear of severe sanctioning, but the Outcasts managed to titter
regardless.
Aaron Kronos. He would tell you this even if you dont ask. Fafnir Scion a surprising
pleasure to know his name. And you are Riker, are you not?
Yes, I am. The mechanic nodded in approval before his eyes turned to slits and his head
skewed in confusion. He had no memory of ever saying his name aloud in front of her, so he
needed to ask. But how did you know my name? I dont think Ive told you. Maggie, did you
say something about me?
Nope. Not a word.
The blunt answer made him slightly offended, although it removed some doubt. Lattika
seemed uneasy, tucking her tongue into her cheek while looking for a good phrasing.
During my time spent in your headquarters, I eavesdropped on an unfortunate event. I
learned your name, your preferred expletives, and the fact that you and Maggie copulate
loudly.
Riker was shocked and appalled while Maggie only shook her head with a shit-eating grin, as
if to say, hell yes, we do.
Cor blimey, Mags, Archer managed, fiddling with the tear on his coat. I always pegged
you for a screamer but I never expected someone to confirm it.
Not her, Lattika assured and pointed at Riker. Him.
Oh by the Gods! Riker planted his hands on his chin, which then went across his cheeks and
wiped away the sweat on his brow, proceeding to recede to the back of his head. One time!
He despaired. I screamed my name out one damn time and it comes back to bite me. The
mechanical palm was now pulling at his sleek jet locks, but the distress in his head made him
pay no mind to the mild tugging sensation.
Archer decided to make things worse, because making things worse was the sort of thing
every Karaktaian prided himself over. One time he teased. One time that you can
recall.
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Oh please, said the exasperated mechanic, you say that like youre keeping track or
something.
Well actually
Somewhere from the depths of his breeches, Archer dug and conjured a small notepad with
dog-eared and yellowed pages, smeared with ink and footnotes, small doodles on the covers
featuring caricaturized beheadings, and various crude images which made Stella shake her
head after she peered over to see it. Riker rubbed at his temples with his index fingers while
Archer read the entries aloud, sometimes catching Maggies nostalgic expressions. The sniper
rubbed his fingers together, feet crossed over an end table as he rocked back in his chair.
The first day of Barnea month, incidentally also called the month of heat how fitting the
lovebirds defiled the tub yet again. This was at noon. Third day of Barnea month, the broom
closet. No noise, but they came out of the thing panting and high-fiving, as they do. This was
at two in the morning. Fourth day: my room. I have no evidence to support this but I caught
the fucker grinning at me oddly. The part describing what I did as revenge to yer forefinger
while it was in the lab for repairs has been redacted trust me mate, you dont wannae
know. Day ten, Stellas desk at ten-thirty.
My WHAT?!
Stellas desk at eleven. Stellas desk at eleven-oh-seven. Stellas desk at noon. Stellas desk at
Im messin with ya, prig! By the Gods, pull that broomstick outta your arse. Or put one in
it; after five hundred years Gods know your nether could use a good sweeping.
It was at exactly this point that Riker slammed his head against the desk and spoke in a
defeated tone: By the Gods, Archibald, why cant you just get a hobby?
Archer, really, you crossed the line two minutes ago, Aaron said, curling up his upper lip in
queasiness.
Trying to dispel whatever Archer just created, Fafnir turned to Lattika and spoke in a
pacifying tone: So you know the other Macros name. Thats an interesting way of finding it
out. By now, I assume you know what to call Archer.
All too well, she answered. Her thick eyebrows knotted together at the sight of Riker
bolting from his seat to confront Archer, only to be grabbed by his girlfriend and placated
back into a sedentary position. The cyborg gritted his teeth, shooting daggers at the rifleman
who was singlehandedly defending himself against Aaron and Stellas accusations. That man
had no true friends in this group. She wondered what made him stay. What made them keep
him.
And this was when her eyes fell on the dark Zeer, who had since stood up and gathered the
papers in his arms. He clutched them over his chest and looked at Lattika with prying eyes,
which he hid as soon as she reciprocated the view. He seemed ashamed, ready to shrink
himself into nothingness in order to avoid the oncoming question. His odd behavior only
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fueled curiosity, and it wasnt long until she asked about him, and the sieve-mouthed Zeer
looked helplessly at his teammates to answer the question.
Who is he? She asked, and worried glances were exchanged, bouncing from person to
person but ultimately landing on toes and walls, never even at the unnamed individual with
eyes black as suspicion.
It was Aaron who finally spoke up, swallowing hard but otherwise keeping his nonchalant
posture in check.
His names Pion.
No it bloody isnt, Archer said. His voice was rough as gravel; irritation went into seething.
His rage was never expressed in brash, cruel terms. It always came as silent resentment,
planting a seed of truth in a blatant lie and waiting to see how the liar would go about it.
Aaron stood his ground, without even flinching.
His name is Pion, he finished and leaned on the reception desk. Lucretia watched him,
wringing her hands while Pickering readily removed the parchment and Scrolls to a safe
location, away from the magnetic field generating between those four eyes. They stared at one
another as starving coyotes, determining which one had the strength to pounce and finish off
the other.
Why, Lattika wondered, did this mans name present so much grief?
As the minutes flew, she received her answer.
You know that aint his name. Insisting on it is just cruel. But thats what you are, Kronos.
You dont give a shit about any of us.
The cyborg tried to interfere, too familiar with this argument. Archer, is this really the time?
Stay outta this Voynik, Aaron said, lifting up his palm to silence him. The Macro shifted,
looked to the heavens for patience, and walked away to lean against the wall and rub his tired
eyelids. His ears rang with the din of the oncoming storm, which weighed the dusted room
until the grime started to suffocate and the darkness began to blind.
Aaron and Archer saw each other clearly. Each one red and horned in the others eye, like a
demon sent to test them. He needs a name, Aaron claimed. It was the name he came with.
It was a name given by that shit-faced tyrant. You know the bitch. You remember Billie,
dont you? This question was aimed at Lattika, who felt her blood curl and shift direction
once she heard the vile name. Billie, he repeated and smiled at her discomfort. She called
you Shit, didnt she? Shit, Shit, miserable naked little Shit. Thats how you came to us, didnt
you? She had you locked in a hotbox and starved half to death and all she gave you was a
fucking name you didnt want.
She already had her own name, Thorne! Aaron protested. We heard it! She denounced
Billies nickname. Pion has not.
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Thats because hes a mute, you fucking moron! The look in the snipers eyes was hot lead;
his teeth turned to fangs. You cant exactly ask him, can you?! How convenient for you. How
convenient that youre surrounded by your precious sycophants too weak or too stupid or
too fucking STITCHED UP AT THE MOUTH TO TALK AGAINST YOU! As long as
you have Mommy behind your back, everything else is a fucking dream! And we can all rot in
hell for all you care, and youll reach Zephyrs Field with Pions and Shits and whoever you
find in the dregs of Brimstone!
He came here answering to the name Pion, and I used it. His arms swung about hopelessly,
palms lifted as he shook his head. His breaths were shallow and frustrated, knowing that he
was fighting a losing battle against a man who mastered the art of loss. I dont know what
you want me to say by now.
Oh, fascinating. He came with that name. He chuckled darkly. He also came with whip
marks on his back and a rope on his wrists. Did you let him keep those too? He was a slave.
The truth burned something in the pit of Lattikas stomach and she turned over the dark Zeer,
who watched the fight without flinching.
He was a slave with chains and binds and a fake fucking name. Pion. Fitting that you kept
that. You Xexarians are a joke; you preach peace and love and you keep captives with their
slave names. Pawn. Thats what it means in your dead, precious tongue. Pawn. Because were
all pawns here, and youre using us for your little rebellion.
Archer Ive told you long ago, I needed to call him something! We all called him that!
They did, and now they all bit their tongues and cringed. All save Maggie, who blinked and
stepped forward. Pawn? The second of incredulity passed and was replaced by shock and
fear, bemusement and self-disgust. I I used a slaves name? All this time I yelled out for
him and his name meant ! Slapping her hands on her mouth she retreated, looking at Aaron
as shadows cast over him, and guilt ate away at her stomach.
The Xexarian tried to keep calm and dignified, but this proved hard when one of his best
companions watched him as if he had grown a second head. Maggie, its not your fault. You
didnt know.
No, but you did! Fright returned to her again, the same terror she experienced while in the
hot hull of her cannon, flashing lights and wailing sirens, screaming and hatches blowing
away to let the smoke in and choke her. Claws against metal and the buzzing of her earpiece.
All the voices screaming down, down, down into the abyss and plunging her heart out of her
throat. Except now she imagined herself as the lights and vapors, and Pion (pawn, pawn,
pawn) trapped in the middle of it with his hands on a handle and tears streaming down onto
his lap. Her fingers crinkled the ruffles of her shirt while she shuffled, looking to Riker and
Stella.
You she said to Riker. You didnt use it. You knew. You knew and you never told me!

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Stella hid her bottom lip in the hollow of her mouth and moved a lock of hair from her cheek
upon looking up. The Gods dont condemn ignorance. You never knew the tongue. To you
it was only a name. Nobody can see that as sin.
I dont care about Gods! She cried out, voice cracking between hysteria and misery. This
was a man I offended! A man of flesh and soul and and and I took his humanity away
from him. Harried footsteps carried her right into Pions torso, mottled with streaks of blue
and brown. Her wet, salty cheek pressed into his chest and she embraced him, hard and
apologetic, knocking out the air from his lungs. His hands were cold when he touched her
back. Apologies came drenched in tears and spit. Im sorry Im so sorry
Archer hunched his back and ribboned his fingers. His hood fell when he shook his head,
exposing pale complexion and eyes like a knifes blade. Oh, shut up already. You look a
blubbering mess for something you had no fault in. He liked you. There! I said it. He went
equipment-hunting with you because you respected him, and he fucking liked you for it, so
quit slobbering over him like a wounded mutt! You didnt know. But you know who did? He
stood up and pointed his bony finger, each accusation louder than the previous. Your
boyfriend! Riker scowled. And your leader! Aaron tapped along his forearm. And his
blessed matron! Stellas eyes were dim and tired, barely looking his way.
And I suppose youre so grand and wonderful for bringing him in! In with your gaggle of
whores and shitheads and invalids! You feel like a damn canonized prophet, dont you? You
give food to a mangy dog and suddenly you think you can walk on water! Archer
outstretched his arms, speaking to the inn as though he spoke to an audience on stage. Ladies
and gentlemen look at your mighty leader! Look at the man who sees us for who we are! As
pawns! Aaron resented his pointing finger but glared through the rising fury. As filth! As
sheep! Hed make us bleat and tell us we were great for doing it! Obeying him! Your mighty
Savior is as crooked as you or me!
Archer, sit down.
Rounding his mouth, the man stood up and cocked his shoulders, feigning surprise. Oh! He
tells us to be quiet and sit! Good gracious, sir! I ought to do what he says. And then hell
name me Retch or Grime or some other thing, and hell see me as a tool. Oh, but Ill be
thankful. Because he may not see me worthy of being treated as a human, but hell see me as
worthy of getting into Zephyrs Field which, by all we know right now, dont even bleedin
exist! He says jump and I ask how high?, and then he tells me it doesnt matter how high I
go, because hell have me jumping in a fucking lake to please some ancient prophesy!
You know what, Archer? Ive heard so many of your conspiracy theories against me that I no
longer give a damn. Say what you want! I care about my people! I would never harm them!
Right. Because there used to be twenty of us. Because there used to be riots, and arsons, and
rebellions taking away thousands!
I have my mission, and they chose to pursue theirs. I might have inspired them, but aside
from that inspiration my hands are clean of their blood!
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Oh, is that so? Archer cocked himself up and lifted an eyebrow, arms crossing as he stared
the man down. His voice was somber and ominous.
Tell that to Freya.
Pickering gulped. Maggie put a hand over her rounded mouth. Fafnir looked away from the
two and Lattika commented under her breath: You son of a bitch.
No bullet could have been fired faster than Aaron as he pounced. He lifted Archer up by his
collar, pinning him to the wall. His hands came together around his neck, squeezing as the
man gagged and heaved, clawing at the skin of Aarons palm. The Xexarians almond eyes
were nothing but remembrance at that point, nothing but Freyas smile and song which
disappeared in smoke. He remembered her final breath on his neck when he dragged her out
of the burning pub. Notes and declarations of death filled the scarlet sky. Tears ran and he
grieved with every fiber of his flesh. Those memories were the only piece of human left inside
of him, now that he came to the Outcast and strangled until his eyes began to twitch and the
memories blurred into bloodlust.
The Xexarian was kicking when Riker grabbed him by the waist and pulled him away,
lumbering back and knocking over chairs. Lucretia and Pickering hid behind the stairway
rails, crouching and looking from between the gaps as Fafnir commanded that this was
enough. It was not, not as long as Aaron still raged and Archer managed a smirk while
rubbing his sore throat.
Yeah, the sniper said in a raspy tone. Youd do that. Youd kill a man for calling you out on
your bullshit and youd say your hands are clean. Clean of what? Honor? He coughed,
spitting on the floor. You wouldnt even dare to go against the greats as your grandfather. He
was the Last Xexarian! Youre a flaw in the narrative! You never should have been!
I dont care what you say! Aaron cried out, rabid. Im the goddamn hero of Brimstone! I
was civil long enough let go of me! I can only take so much of your bullshit! You cant
tell me how to call Pion! You dont even know his real name! I saved his life when I found
him! And if that freak appreciates it, so should you!
Riker looked down to the kicking man in his arms and dropped him. His eyes met Archers,
and he nodded.
Archer Thorne, upon hearing Aaron Kronos call his best friend a freak, came down with the
force of a thousand warheads and punched the Xexarian right in the nose, blood splattering
his knuckles.
Aarons body was like a bag of sand dispersing over the floor. When he finally propped
himself up, he could see nothing from the red seeping through his nose, which he cupped with
his hand. Archer couldnt say another word. He stared, disgusted, before averting his gaze and
leaving the heavily-breathing Xexarian.

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The Zeer left the room as well, following Archer up the rickety steps. Maggie stayed for a
moment, biting her thumbnail before tagging along with the albino, a sense of urgency in her
step. Lucretia was the only one who came to bring the Xexarian to his feet. She supported his
back, right up until he faced Stella who looked like a raging bull standing proper.
Did did you see that?! Aaron breathed hard, awaiting sympathy. He drew blood!
He gazed at the pooling liquid dripping from his palm as some long-awaited stranger. Over
twenty years of his life, and nobody had ever punched him straight in the face before. A
painful ringing filled his ears. His teeth chattered. The longer he awaited Stellas response, the
less warmth he gained.
You told me that was his name, she tore into him. You had me call him that, over and over,
without telling me she was the one who named him. Five hundred years I worked against
slavery, and you had me dehumanize a living being out of convenience.
An instinct ordered Aaron to brace for something. The slap he received made him recoil and
fall deeper into Lucretias grip. Stellas face was tight with anger, the back of her palm
snapped like a pulled belt, yet her words stung more than her strike.
You piece of filth!
And then, when he finally stood up, she pointed at herself and jabbed at her chest with
growing indignation, checkered eyes foggy and white-hot. IVE RAISED YOU BETTER!
Her jaw practically trembled when she left him, hands tucked behind her back while she
sauntered among the droplets of blood, scattered papers, thrown chairs and toppled desks.
Bewildered faces met her eyes, and this failed to stir her. Translations needed to be found.
Relations needed to be corrected. Her body burned with a righteous fury, but her command
was cold as ice.
Get back to work.
They had no choice.
They deserved no choice.
/***/
He had gathered twenty survivors and a hundred corpses.
As dark as the day came, night crashed blacker, louder, into the perfect gold and silver
ornaments and calligraphy written in Gods ink. It faded, bleak and hopeless, as did his throne
and staff, his crown and marble columns. His Guards fell strong, some cringing and raising
their weapons above their heads, others turning to dust as they charged the metal. The
contraption had blown a side of his palace, obliterating all that was in its way, be it man, horse
or sacred artifact. A once mighty palace burned, too miserable to be pilfered, too barren to
matter to the starving scavengers. Shadows of his reign stared back from the walls as
disfigured portraits; the faces reduced to white ash. Glimpses of greatness were in the glint of
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his pedestal, the crispness of the uniforms upon skeletal carcasses, the redolence of cinnamon
and thyme appearing in fragile notes in between the smell of copper and burning oil.
Drums beat against the skin of his scalp when he traced a hand over the charred remains of his
throne. His palm was black with soot when he looked back at it. Fingers shook as he recalled
the power that this seat gave him. When Aura collapsed in front of him, and he burned that
girl with one touch. When he sent the Guards at the townspeople with great celerity, when he
saw himself as a God. His followers, two dozen of them, now cried with starvation and fear.
All but one, the small emaciated Elite.
Uncle, she began at the sight of his suffering. His fingers twisted and he clenched them; the
dust on his palm seeped through the cracks in his fist. There was nothing left to say. Days
have passed, the terrorists had fled, and the two faced a greater strike to the government than
all the wars and all the coups combined. Uncle Im so sorry.
Moonlight from the chewed-up roof gave the man an unearthly silver contour surrounding his
threadbare cape. Former King, current broken tatterdemalion. His voice still held authority
even if his knuckles shook and his breath was painful to bate. Dont be. He wiped his hand
away on his regalia, refusing to turn around and see her. Those responsible for this will soon
meet their demise.
Is that wise? She asked, a new courage growing inside her. Sobriety left her logical, quick
to act, and downright lethal as some deserter realized. The man was prophesized for great
things. The Gods can show mercy to the downtrodden, the weak, the fallen Kings but not to
killers.
The corner of the Kings mouth showed teeth, and he expelled a sardonic breath of laughter.
You take me as a fool, Onika. As he paced around the throne room to stop and look at the
starry gap in the wall, his niece thought of the dead brought into the living world, forced to
move and recall their death until the end of days. Old wives tales to be sure, but the manner
in which her uncle carried himself, lost and weakened but never defeated, made her rethink
those tales. He tucked his beringed hands on the small of his back and he watched the shifting
celestial mass with contempt. I will not perform the killing myself. Ive made this clear.
Still. You would be eradicating a race with your order.
If the Gods placed Kronos as the leader of Brimstone, theyre more moronic than Ive
believed. They will find a way. Everybody already denies that reckless carouser as their
Savior. Children in classrooms deny him. Men on their deathbeds deny him. And if the salt of
the earth had words within it, it would deny him too.
His eyes shone with a green, feverous light. Wisping flames came over his forearms, not
scorching or stinging, but assuring his logic with their soft hues of red which left a white
blight on his ebony skin. Red on a backdrop of the nights blue Onika had a hand on the
handle of her saber, knowing how fickle magic made him.

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The Gods will find another man, Onika said carefully, not sure if her words were
believable. Silas will not waste his blood. His Omnia will take him to Saga then what?
If the Gods fail to replace him, we will do it ourselves. His Tricksters Trait allows many
things. Morphing is one of them.
So will we send an impostor to take over the Scrolls and the Outcasts? The Gods look down
on those who try and deceive.
You sound defiant.
She knew what defiance brought on, so she bit her tongue and looked to the side. Aurus
appreciated her obedience, and continued to wordlessly stare at the stretching horizon.
A bloodcurdling shriek pierced through the palace and she turned sharply towards the crypts
underneath. Her feet were steady when she walked over dusted marble, melted and piled as
hardened hills of matte stone. It had been days since her last drink, and this gave her a new
admiration for her dexterity. The walls echoed with pain for some time until Aurus finally
commented on the noise.
Its growing louder. Perhaps Epsylon is finally nearing its satisfaction.
Another scream. Onika needed to shield her ears. The shouts were louder, more frequent, and
quite soon they would stop and envelop the court in a dastardly silence. A Zeers black
lifeblood that the Omniae required to provide their favors was hard to come by. And now the
entity wrung the Kings Hand for every last drop.
Those things came in a persons darkest hour, bringing a promise of a better life through
constant sacrifice. Some Omniae came as pets and wanted nothing but time. Others came as
Gods and required the skin off a Zeers back. Epsylon was nothing she had heard of. It was
Chaos. It was malice. It was death, doom and suffering in a clotted and pure form, at least
thats how her uncle described it. Shared between the twins, it never needed this much time
and life force to charge. But now Smee was dead, and Silas had to make up for the deficit.
He screamed again.
Once more, she felt sympathy for the devil.

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Chapter XIV: Light Em Up

Emotions, as blades, struck with varying intensity depending on how they were honed. Fear
for Aaron was a dagger to the side; dipped in boiling steel and flicked up hot and jagged,
ripping away the trust the Outcasts developed for their leader. Archer was a man of many
words, few of them kind, but no remark of his prompted strangulation. For a day they saw
Aaron as vile and brutal, a tyrant with thumbs digging into a friends throat.
Later came pity, after they thought over Archers words and noted Aarons face. The nose was
crooked to the side and facing up, a red handprint flashing on his neck and cheekbone. Pity
was a larger weapon, more like a saber. It was crafted in the depths of a blacksmiths lair, cut
finely and cooled for months before a soldier sheathed it into a scabbard. The prevalent
sentiment made the Outcasts view their leader not as a slave-toting despot, but more as a sick
pup with no direction and little sense. While the rifleman fumed and the elder Dryad stuck to
her business, the teammates exchanged commiserating glances between themselves. Once
Aaron entered the room, all of those orbs ricocheted to whatever work they could improvise.
No matter what Aaron said and did, all was met with silence. It was becoming obvious how
long a man could feign leadership before his guild of followers started to crack at the seams.
A couple of years of bearing nonsense through gritted teeth, followed by a week of havoc.
This was Kronos shelf life as a master of rebellion.
They experienced not only pity, but also shame and doubt. Kronos could see the emotion
bursting as their pupils dilated at the sight of him, and how they jumped through rings of fire
only to not speak to him. He couldnt protest. If he had any option, he would have stopped
dealing with himself a long time ago. Seeing he was not wanted, he exited the crowded place
and delved into his work. Clandestine whispers and muttered curses would be muted by thin
walls, and he pretended not to recognize the voices and insults.

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The ostracization lasted for but a few days, but seemed much longer under the pressure of
labor. Little food, sleepless nights, frazzled nerves and ancient parchments finally took a toll
on the collective energy. On the sixth night all scribbling hands worked on impulse, writing
more nonsense than facts. Most have slept, discreetly assuming that their efforts were futile
when their concentration had reached a new low.
Aaron never slept when others did. He walked about the inn that night, putting away ink and
paper, propping up the somnolent into their beds and untangling the ink fountains from their
numb fingers. Somebody in the back muttered and dragged a quill over a notebook, and this
was the only sound which differed from fait snoring and shuffling sheets. Candles burned out
to their last inch and Aaron extinguished them one by one, placing a hand to the side and
taking out the air in one quick draw. Smoke coiled in a fine strip into the ceiling of solid dirt,
radiating a stale, ashy aroma. One by one, the soft brown glow was replaced with the dark.
Aarons light footsteps seldom made the floorboards creek, yet he walked slowly just in case.
He drew away a sheet from underneath Lattikas hand. She slept with the quill clenched in her
fingers, now the color gray with ink smears. Peculiar were those who slept with a furrowed
brow, Aaron thought while she snored. Her head rested on Fafnirs shoulder; he lay prostrate
on the escritoire, arms tangled under his head. It was commonplace for him to pace about and
fret after dark, staving off night terrors. Aaron was glad to see him sleep, albeit the comatose
state was more a product of exhaustion than a personal choice. He moved from them,
shuffling the documents in his palms. Lattika sniffed the air at the slight shift of the
atmosphere, but remained asleep.
Meecrow slept on a chair beside them, wanting to keep a close eye on the Sitka before
tiredness took his consciousness as a captive. He had an elbow on the armrest and help up his
jaw in his palm, drooling over his fingers. The Xexarian crunched up his nose and glared
when he moved, stepping over the proprietors bedding which he left on the ground. Aaron
leaned down and picked up a mushroom-colored tartan blanket, noting that the goblin had no
use for it. He threw the material over his shoulder, concepts in one hand and the stairway rail
gripped in the other. Moving up, he noted the faint candlelight from the unhinged door all the
way to the left. And inside, he heard faint murmuring.
Maggie and Riker retired long ago to Maggies sleeping quarters, and even though Kronos
could pick locks very well by then he decided against disturbing them. Both of them needed
rest. Maggie in particular, since she worked as hard as three Outcasts as soon as she was
determined to go through the ever-growing mound of grandiose prose and sacramental
procedures. Aaron had no doubt that Archer choose against residing in the same halls he did.
The Savior had no intention of looking for him either. This left only two Outcasts
unaccounted for, and he had a very good inclination that they were in the chamber Stella
picked as her own.
With his stomach in knots, he creaked the door open.
Two pairs of evil eyes met him; both Stellas and Pickerings. Pion or whatever his name
was stood by the wall with a cow-skinned envelope in his folded arms. His black eyes fell
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on the ground when Aaron took note of him, and immediately Stella took away a small pin
which her student kept inside of his hands.
Here, she instructed the dark Zeer. Take this as well.
Nodding once, the man unclasped a front pocket of the envelope, dropping the small ivory pin
inside one of the folds. His hand moved to sign something before he realized that only Archer
could understand the gestures. The ginger albino seemed to shrink as he slouched his
shoulders.
Did you need something, Raem? Stella called to the visitor, one hand on her work and her
glasses pushed to the very base of her nose. She tried her hardest to appear blas, even though
Aaron and everybody present knew that she was internally fuming. Wordlessly, Aaron went
ahead to give her the documents he clasped in his hands.
Give those to the courier, she said, gesturing at the Zeer. Im trying to collect everything in
one place for now.
Blinking once, Aaron went around the matron and handed over the stash, all while trying not
to watch the runner as he snatched the goods and stuffed them into his sachet. Once the Zeer
finally had what he needed, he waited until Stella dismissed him before walking out of the
brightly-lit abode. Pickering followed, offering Aaron an offhand apology when he bumped
into his shoulder.
Stellas abode was admittedly brighter and roomier than the rest. Her bed was not a mattress
on steel rails, but rather a carved chestnut hulk embroidered with golden carvings of small
animals, acorns and pixie wings, all tangling and intertwining into an intricate yet tacky
mosaic. Her sheets were unused and unsullied, pristine white and signified the Dryads
stubborn rebellion against sleep. The bed was pushed up against the wall, four paces from the
mahogany writing desk on the adjacent side. It held quills, six thin books and about three
large ones in the two shelved it had. One stack of writing was arranged neatly just under
Stellas energetic hand which took notes in fanciful, loopy letters. The walls and floor were
equally slovenly, but covered with snowy bed covers that hung on nails and hooks in all the
corners of the room. Ten white orbs, as if arranged on a line, glowed and brought daylight to
the bare bones of a study. The difference in lighting was so jarring that Aarons corneas
flashed purple and green until he adjusted to the light. This was when he started to pick up
small details and niches of the customized bedroom. Bottled focus-increasing elixirs sat on
the foot of the bed, along with a Syth statuette of a wolf. Purple Wisteria flowers were stuck
in an opal vase and stood at the edge of a nightstand. The white carpet, the antique vials, rose
cups with green tea adorned the room, and Aaron could not tell if the Dryad has simply cast a
teleportation spell on the whole of her Librarium. And once he caught sight of a familiar
framed photograph the browned film depicting a gleeful Stella and a Xexarian baby pulling
at her platinum locks he began to think that she very well could have.
The sternness in her voice made him feel nostalgic for the moment captured on film. More so
when she took the dark frame and slammed the photo down on her desk, to discourage any
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leeway of sentimentality. Its late, she said and took off her spectacles. Her eyes were red,
and she had nothing to soothe them with. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she attempted to
castigate. You have no right coming in here acting like youve done nothing wrong.
But I havent! Aaron wanted to shout, but common sense prevented him from spewing what
she would consider a blatant lie. Looking over his shoulder, he muttered a faint apology
which seemed to agitate her even more. Im Im sorry.
Its not me you should be apologizing to, she said, rubbing her forehead with her balled-up
palm. She left her glasses folded beside her, swallowing a groan. The migraine was
worsening, and everything she wrote thus far was jumbled and scattered in her mind. Im
disappointed in you, not mad. Not mad anymore. But that man, she pointed at the door,
was completely utterly dehumanized. You had no right. You should have called him
something else. You should have done better
Aaron ticked an eyebrow. Are you feeling okay? Youre slurring your words a bit.
Im fine! She insisted, flinching at the volume of her voice. Her eyes burned when she tried
to reread the final few lines of her work, but gave up on the effort after the sentence read as
some distant nonsensical humdrum. She pushed the neat stack away and dug her elbows on
the flat desk surface. Fine, she tried in a soft tone. Im just winded.
Well, Aaron spoke, tentatively moving to her seat. Maybe you should take a break. I mean,
youve been here a while and Gods know youve been working harder than everybody else.
Stella had planted her face into her crossed arms by now, wanting to shoo the drumming
against her scalp. It only diminished while her eyes were shut. No break, she answered.
We have too much too were almost done I cant make, take, a break not now.
Aaron couldnt help but to smile fondly when her fingers finally relaxed and uncoiled. He
grabbed the blanked from his shoulder and went to drape her, and did so in one quick
swooping motion. The gesture gave her enough comfort to hum in half-protest, half-thanks.
Her breathing slowed and she went against reason, taking a nap right on her desk. One by one,
the flashing orbs of light flickered and dimmed, and one even went out as she entered the first
stage of sleep.
Seeing that, Aaron pecked her on the cheek. Night, mom. He left with the spheres still
illuminating his path somewhat, and was extremely careful when closing the door. She would
be much more willing to argue once she rested well, but for now he was glad that he avoided
a shouting fest. Truthfully, he doubted either of them had the stamina for it. With a sigh, he
released the door knob, turned on his heel
and saw Pickering Green looking up at him with deep purple eyes.
Aaron greeted him with a start, never before looking straight at his round face, especially
when it looked this adult and serious. Working alongside Stella had worked wonders for his

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nerves, to the point where he was nowhere near as jumpy as those he dwelled with. With a
crooked grin, Aaron muttered a faint hello, which was not reciprocated.
Master Kronos, Pickering asked with a tilted head, could I talk with you for a moment?
Uhh sure. The young Dryad made way back to the reception, possibly anxious to exit the
foul inn. Aaron misjudged his small legs and needed to speed up to keep up the vigorous pace.
Pickering did not seem to recognize his haste, although his small fists clenched and his eyes
were hard and determined. It took Aarons inept attempt at predicting the nature of their
meeting to bring him to reality. If this is about me not doing my work, I have to
Oh no, I think your work is quite satisfying, all things considered. Mind you, only Stella is
an expert in demology, and we have no priests or linguists to help us decipher what we have.
Youre doing fine, in regards to your means. His grass-green eyebrows connected in thought,
remembering why he meant to speak to the Xexarian just as they passed the sleeping pair,
Fafnir and Lattika. I wanted to I needed to talk to you about the fight.
Kronos bit his cheek once he exited the inn, leading them into feet upon feet of tunnel,
through which they seemed to pass for hours. Lit only by a handful of flickering torches,
Pickerings facial features seemed older, unsmiling and staid. Suddenly, Aaron found it
increasingly difficult to talk to him proper. He took his dear time forming a reply.
Well about that
I dont blame you.
Pickerings blunt interruption took the Xexarian by surprise. It was the first opinion he heard
which wasnt hostile or directly offensive. This surprised him. You dont?
Dont get me wrong, Kronos, pouncing at a teammate and choking him in inexcusable. His
voice was fire and ice, his lips a tight seal when Aaron mawkishly steered his gaze. But I
would not go as far as saying that Thorne never had it coming. That man, he ticked a thumb
behind him, has been nothing but a pain ever since he came here. He infuriated Lady
Forrester, and he spoke ill of the Syth you came with
Sitka, Aaron jumped in. I suppose well call her Lattika now, actually.
Pickering shook his head, a violet tint crawling on his cheeks. Lattika, yes. Sorry. He
laughed to himself. Look at me, accusing somebody of disrespect when Im also Sighing,
he reminded himself to stay on topic. The Xexarians attention was wavering already.
Regardless, he continued, I will not say you were never in the wrong, but Throne was
hardly a saint even when he defended the dark Zeer.
Aaron noted the subtle avoidance of mentioning the slave name. It was unobtrusive, but just
sharp enough for Aaron to pay attention. The saliva at the back of his throat turned to
sandpaper, then glass.

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When the two of them emerged from the undergrowth into the glinting fireflies and hovering
specks of light, and the neon trees bustled and glowed with cyan at their appearance,
Pickering rubbed his cheek and sighed. The grass felt warm under his bare feet, and the air
was cozy and enveloped him like a blanket. The Xexarian beside him seemed as if he sat on
icy pins. There was guilt inside of his soul, and Pickering knew that it gnawed at him without
mercy.
Archer had he started again while brushing away a leaf from his brown tunic, Archer
had no right to speak of Freya. Her passing was tragic but it had nothing to do with you. You
did the best you could, everyone knows that. Sweet Serena, he knows it too. You have
wronged the Zeer and needed to be reprimanded but bringing her into the conversation was a
low blow. He wanted you to attack him for it. And now youre being besmirched because you
reacted as he manipulated you to? That is unfair, Aaron. I hope you understand that.
Aarons sharp nails dug into the pillows of his palm, digging until they left razor marks.
Keeping his poise, he controlled his voice which came out monotonous when it was bound to
be cast in a low, weeping tone.
I called him a freak, he said. The scene replayed in his mind again; Rikers metal on his
torso, the fire in the bridge of his nose, Archers bloody knuckle, Stellas rings on forefinger
and thumb which blackened his cheekbone and temple. Painful electricity ran and rippled in a
current under sensitive, tiger-marked skin. He pressed a hand to his cheek and burned it. I
deserved this. I deserved all of this.
Pickering knew how to distinguish composure from ease, and gave a sympathetic smile. We
all err. We all say things we shant in bouts of fury. Palms open, he rose up his arms to the
level of his chest before letting them fold back to the sides of his body. It happens. You owe
the man an apology and that much is a fact. But even if we dont see eye-to-eye on most
things, this doesnt mean youre some monster. Youre brash and vain and foolhardy, but in
the years Ive known you I have only seen you try to improve Brimstone. That is too much of
a responsibility for one man to carry. In those circumstances, a slip of the tongue is sometimes
just that a slip. You get up, smooth it over and get on with your life.
So what are you saying? Aaron crossed his arms and looked under Pickerings eye. I
should give myself a break?
I believe youve just answered your own inquiry, Pickering nodded, still smiling. I know
its hard to believe, but I think of you as a good person. Despite how much of a rube I
consider you at times.
Aaron gave a weak-willed chuckle. Whered all this eternal wisdom come from? Wheres the
blubbering mess of a Dryad I see every day?
It was the first time that Kronos had heard the shorter man laugh. It was a warm, friendly,
lilting sort of snicker which he stifled with lips pressed tightly together. His teeth flashed, and
this put the Xexarian at ease, for once during the night. To be honest, Im much more
comfortable when I dont feel the need to impress Lady Forrester. He walked over the sward
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before them, and the companion followed by his side. With a clouded mind, he breathed into
the turquoise sky dotted with pixie dust rising overhead. It made the air smell like the library;
age, thyme and crinkling leather symphonized in mid-air, scratching the inside of Pickerings
nose when he inhaled too much. That Forrester is really something, he said as he ignored
the itch. A devious smile crept over the side of his cheek. Ill tell you this much; if I wasnt
her student, and if I were a hundred years older, and if she were a hundred years younger, and
if she were into younger men, and if she were interested in men at all
Ho-kay, Pick! Getting a little too comfortable here.
S-sorry Aaron, he giggled. I suppose the lack of sleep is getting to me. I tend to ramble.
I like hearing you ramble, Aaron admitted. It makes you more human. Uhh, Sheeban.
Dryad. Whatever.
The comment was appreciated. Pickering looked towards an old tree settled in the midst of the
forest, which he recognized as his home. Yearning for his bed, he yawned discreetly into his
palm, promptly apologizing for it. Before he could say his farewells, he cupped Aarons
shoulder and gave his very last piece of advice.
No matter what happens, Kronos, those people will still see you as their leader. Leaders
dont always make the right choices. Youll need to accept that, but you also need to know the
people who rely on you. Familiarize yourself with them. Theyre the ones who matter the
most, arent they?
He nodded.
With a short, friendly goodbye, Pickering walked straight into the woods. He pressed a palm
to the tree bark and phased into his home, waving to the Xexarian one last time. Aaron
reciprocated, though his smile disappeared and his palm went limp as soon as the man was out
of sight. And then, looked at the silence and emptiness he walked into, he reached for a
smokable.
A firebug, burning as a pyre inches away from Aarons face was kind enough to stop long
enough for the Xexarian to press the joint to its orange-tinted side. Whirring, the insect flew
off into the leaves, and Aaron placed the tube of crushed neon leaves on his lips.
The first wave of smoke billowing from his nostrils was yellow; the color of Brimstone from
far, far away.
His back must have been made of string and steel, tense like the wiring of a lute as he set it on
a tree bark. Legs shaking, he steadied himself before realizing that the permeable surface
would not act as a portal and engulf him whole. Leaning on the tree relaxed his tense muscles
and he tilted his head up to watch its crown canopy the sky, catching pixies and firebugs
nesting in its branches. Smoke zipped and coiled through his lungs, catching fresh breaths and
coloring them with a tangy pigment. Each exhale more vibrant than the last, the neon built a
fog inside of Aarons body and released anxiety. Three long, languid huffs later, and the
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Xexarian was hovering. No sensation of dread twisted his stomach into knots when he tried to
think. His mind was pure and clear. He was at peace again, after weeks of hassle.
I cant believe weve made it this far.
He began to think of all the Outcasts he sent on their missions over Brimstone. Callahan,
Birch, Alay, Marchwood, even Kawala Lax those rebellious youngsters saw him as an allknowing deity and followed his every word. This was before he began to doubt himself; while
he still saw himself as Raemskal and no Kronos. Every word had meaning and purpose, he
carried visions of the Field. He spoke about the image he envisioned for hours on end,
detailing blades of grass and the murmur of a watery cascade. The Outcasts listened, they
wrote and preached. His speeches inspired a fire in the desolate hearts, and gave life to the
downtrodden. This was before his words were written by somebody else. Before he could
only get any entertainment through petty theft and hell-raising. Raemskal was as much of a
leader as he wanted to be, as much as others expected. He had a family of twenty freaks and
geeks from all of lifes pathways, together to spread the Saviors prophesies. They went on to
deliver their words and gather more towards his cause.
Raemskal knew their lives, their aspirations, loves, fears, strengths and secrets.
Kronos, he concluded with a frown, could not even know their names.
He dropped the joint on the grass and put it out with the ball of his foot; twisting and turning
until it was nothing but dusted scraps of paper and ash. Almond eyes hadnt moved from the
glowing branches, and his cold knuckles found warmth in his pants front pockets. Heavy
shoulders dropped when he sighed.
Those twenty people mustve lead good lives by now. Their leader was more competent he
taught them better.
As some primal defense mechanism against depression and over-thinking, Aarons mind shut
down entirely while he examined a blue songbird tend to its nest; a blank, dead-eyed
expression on both of their faces.
Pickerings voice jolted him out of the daze. A-Aaron! The Dryad flailed his arms, voice
skipping along with his legs when he rushed to him. Aaron, quickly!
What is it? What happened? The purple-skinned student bent his knees and cupped them
with his palms, breathing heavily in great strain. In a coarse tone, he delivered a slow, panting
information.
Some- somethings happened with the premier. He h-he requires your urgent
appearance. Gasping again, he took two short breaths before standing up straight and
nudging his head to the direction of Plamens abode. Cmon, he breathed. Theres no time
to waste!
Geez, alright, take it easy. An attempt to soothe Pickering was interrupted with a yowl of
pain, ending with the Dryad snatching his wrist from Aarons nicotine-laced palm. With a lip
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raised in contempt, the Dryad started to run to Pickerings oak. Aaron kept up in an easy
stride, having no trouble moving along with Pickerings stumpy legs. Whats going on,
Pick? He asked as he pushed away a twig which almost impaled his forehead. Is Plamen
mad? Oh Gods he is, isnt he? Its about the Scrolls, right? How bad is it?
I dont know, Pickering admitted. His throat constricted when he looked into the dark
brushwood, knowing there was still a long way to go. Something in the air made his voice
grow deep. But it sure as Hell cant be good.
/***/
Darkness consumed everything. Color in the room came from the orange lacquer on the
meeting desk, and the luminous skin of Dryads who inhabited the room. Aarons brown limbs
and hair black as ink made him blend in the dark corners while two strips of color watched
him; Pickerings hunched purple form, tangerine Lucretia hiding behind her fathers hip, and
perhaps the most ominous object in the abode needed to be premier Plamen. His body burned
bright as the fire coursing under his skin, but the looks he distributed were colder than Birch
marble. He was sitting at first, upon his throne with a back which pointed high and arched as
some old warlocks glower. Upon seeing the Xexarian phase into the darkness, however, it
took only one curt greeting for him to stand and walk behind his seat. Heavy fingers clutched
the gold-ornamented pedestal, fingers covering the two deer decorating its top. While
observing his fine features; posture straight but tense, jaw strong but trembling under his thick
red beard, Aaron could tell that this man suppressed a great amount of emotion.
Plamen could lash out at any given moment, and this made the leisurely pace which followed
all the more frightening.
Though Aaron could not recognize the flooring, Plamens footfalls echoed like dropped
bombs when he moved and marched to the sides of his spot at the desk. Lucretia followed
him, always behind and watching the adjacent Xexarian with worried eyes. Aaron could not
provide her comfort with an assured grin. The man himself was already afraid, and inched to
the walls he transitioned through. His spine turned into a furious viper which craved escape,
and his body was bound to the ground by nothing save for conduct. And while Aarons bated
breath pressed down on his lungs, Pickering had not reacted. The young Dryad student placed
his fists at the small of his back, back and eyes straight. Strong as a stone. Cool as granite.
Aaron tried to take his example.
The Xexarian had forgotten how booming Plamens voice sounded, reverberating in the dark
mist. Kronos, my friend. He said in a tone which was less than amiable. It is good to see
you alone. Do you know why Ive brought you here?
Opening his mouth to speak, Aaron couldnt formulate any sort of reply. Even when he looked
to Pickering for a clue, the latter merely nudged his shoulder at him as if to say, go on and
answer. Does it? He attempted, eyes still stuck on Pickering like he had betrayed him.
Clearing his throat, he shifted to Plamen and his daughter. Is this about the Scrolls?

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In part, dear boy, in part. Though mostly about your companions. Please remain standing,
he instructed when Aaron tried to pull out a chair and take a seat. The Xexarian knitted his
eyebrows but pushed the chair back into the gap of the towering desk. It screeched loudly
enough for Pickering to wince.
Aaron recalled what he had heard of great orators. Ask questions, never allow fear to cloud
your judgment, and never take a word at face value. His chin struck up, perhaps so he could
appear taller in this room built for giants. What of my companions?
You mean what of the Syth? The murderer? The gunman with no courtesy? The half-breed
and that metal giant she drags along? His thick eyebrow rose just as Aaron crossed his arms.
Meaty palms flattened against the surface of his desk. They produced a thud. Each one of
them is a liability. Each one unwelcome in our realm. In over twenty years of your residence
here, I hoped you would know our stand on their sort.
Im sorry you feel that way, premier Plamen. Aaron spoke as one hand lifted up the
darkness above. Luckily for both of us, my companions are restricted in a goblin estate. They
bother nobody.
That must be excruciating for you. It is widely known how much you dislike goblins. You
deem them filthy, stingy, crass and unfaithful to the core but the same could be said about
every person you brought into our Realm.
Lucretias orbs flashed at the Xexarian; expression on her face apologetic as her stomach
twisted in a knot. Yet she stayed beside her father, unable to move or speak or protest. Despite
Plamens cold stares and stiffening knuckles, Aarons composure was unchanged. Some new
strength boiled in his bones, and cemented his sinewy form. It was the hard product of loyalty
to his comrades, and absolute detestation for anybody who tried to slander against them. He
had not flinched.
You may speak how you like about my friends. Gods know I have no power over you oh
wait. He looked to the side and grinned, I believe I do. Pickering cupped his chin and
looked to the ground while Lucretia tried to conceal a smile. Though he did not show it
outright, fury burned beneath the premiers temples. A vein on his forehead twitched; he
needed to narrow his eyes to keep it from showing. Aaron continued; You may be in
command when it comes to politics, but I am Ruler of the Free People, and the Son of the
Wind. My words are next to holy to all people of Brimstone. The folk I brought are crucial to
my cause, and play a vital role in deciphering the Scrolls I brought. You cant kiss my feet
when I do something which pleases you. Not if you will chastise me right after a conflict of
interest.
It is not chastising, fool. Plamen insisted as his nostrils flared. Your companions have
overstayed their welcome. You cannot hide in Encantadia. You may have public support in
Aura, but it will vanish as the others hear the price of your bounty. In Encantadia you have
even fewer allies. The Dryads talk and slander your kind, some are plotting treason. It is
dangerous to stay in the realm which hates all things human.
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Well its a good team my team isnt human, he said, teeth flashing. They were cast out
from the regulars for their ways which contradict the human norm. Thus the name; he smiled
at his own cleverness, Outcasts.
I do not believe you are taking your situation seriously. Plamen rolled his shoulders back
and placed his knuckles behind his back. His footsteps were long and hard, striking the
ground. The floors sounded like they were made of cold marble for one second, and broken
glass the next. Black fog cloying the air made it difficult to distinguish the atmosphere, and
Aarons mind perceived what it wanted. The meeting hall sounded like whispering townsfolk
muted by a wall. Air smelled like copper. The premiers ornamented robes flayed and swished
like dancing flames upon a starry sky. Albeit magnificent, his garb made him appear no less
menacing. His scars turned white as lightning when he declared; This is no longer a matter of
petty distrust. You are putting yourself at risk. You have brought the coordinates and fulfilled
your destiny. Tag along with your group if you like, but your part in the play is finished. You
were never a hero, Kronos. You were a tool for the Gods. Listening to voices of the dead for
guidance, and riding on Forresters coattails. After a stroke of luck, you have the audacity to
speak to me like you are still in control. Allow me to be clear; you would be dead if it werent
for those Scrolls. Be grateful for fulfilling your mortal duty most men dont accomplish that
in their lives. Now it is time for professionals to handle the scripture. I implore you to leave
this realm and take those incompetent cretins with you, before tensions grow higher.
What of Stella? Aaron asked with a voice heavy with mockery. You cant wait to cast her
away, can you?
Lady Forrester may stay. Gods know shes a menace and the bane of my very existence, but
Hell if she isnt an expert in her field. The rest of your crew will never bear such honor.
Neither shall you.
The Xexarians jaw was tight; bitten fingernails scathed his thumb as he fiddled his fingers.
Before he spoke, he gnawed the inside of his cheek until he drew blood. So now what? Do
you expect me to run before any work was done? And leave the Scrolls in the hands of
corrupted leaders? If that is the case, I never needed to steal those from King Aurus palace.
We will organize the scriptures and be on our way. This is not my sanctuary, so dont worry
about me squatting for too long.
You are not the problem. We have accepted you. It is those imbeciles you call your friends
who are the problem. Since you insist on leading them, I suggest you lead them away from
civilization human or Dryad! If you chose to abandon them in the desert somewhere and go
on to live your life as a legend, you are welcome to do so as well. In any case, you are
finished here.
The Outcasts have made my movement what it is today. I would have died a hundred times if
it werent for them. They are the voices of the people I represent. Did you really think my
duty ended when I emerged from the lake with a piece of paper in my hands?! Brimstone
needs me! The people need me, and not just to find Zephyrs Field! They follow me, and I
must lead them!
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Then lead them out of my damned territory.

Plamens voice was a knife against ice and slid over the surface, quick and blunt. Youre
delusional if you think you are still useful to the world. As are they, for failing to see how low
their beloved hero has fallen. They will follow nobody other than you, is this correct? In that
case, we either need a replacement Xexarian to take them out, or we need to make you
cooperate.
Aaron scoffed, tightening the grip of his forearms. Good luck with finding one of my kin.
The mans face maintained a serious expression after he stuck out his chest, stomping on the
ground. To him, the gesture reverberated as a gunshot inside a temple of the Creator Gods.
The Outcasts stay where they are.
It was unclear what vile thoughts coursed through the minds of those attending. All Aaron
knew was that, while he tried to steady his breathing, the premier watched him with a calm
mien. As though he calculated risk or appreciated unexpected moxie, the man remained with a
tilted head and hooded eyes. The straight line of his mouth had not swayed or turned, and he
only spoke after he stepped back and nodded at Pickering.
Ive warned him.
The purple-skinned Dryad nodded and sighed. A waste of your time, premier Plamen. His
fists tightened when he rolled his dark sleeve to the base of his forearm. We should have
done this first.
His fingers tangled against the Xexarians throat, constricting the gullet and pinning the man
against the hard surface hidden in the dark. The mist consumed them, clenching Aarons body
and pulling air from his lungs. Pickerings teeth were spiked; his lips unfurled as though he
was smiling. Aaron gasped and clawed the Dryads hands, his face and hair, only to be met by
a stronger grip.
Lucretia screamed in confusion and tried to run to his aid, only to be knocked upside the head
by her father. Pulling her by the torso, he took her to his hip. She attempted to free herself,
arms flailing to the Xexarian while her father pulled her back with a stone expression.
Aaron! She cried. Dad! Do something! Hell kill him!
Plamen only nodded to the assassin as the latter held the man, watching color drain from his
face and foam rise in his mouth. Aarons eyes went to Lucretia before turning into glass
marbles. She watched them roll into the back of his head, showing whiteness streaked with
red tendrils. After the girl shouted again, her father put a hand over her maw. The father and
daughter were hidden by pitch black.
As Pickering took away the last drops of Aarons life essence, shadows started to shift across
his sneer. They came in currents, flashing like spotlights, and Aaron felt as though he was
submerged in water. His lungs imploded under the weight of chains; his skin was pale and
gray. The longer he tried to claw himself free, the more evil he saw in the eyes of the betrayer.
Dementia, despair, malice, anguish
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Silas.
It was the Kings sycophant, the toadying Hand with a mind sharper than sabers and as much
mercy as a bloodhound. Silas, who stood at Aurus golden throne, the always cool and
calculating Silas, now standing with dark bile dripping from his fangs while Aaron fell to his
knees. The mans pale skin browned; coils of ink swirled across it. More appeared as tiger
stripes, and in the mist his raven hair switched into hues of the richest brown. Almond eyes
came together as he injected his dark Mana with one final clench of the fists. Aarons eyes
opened wide upon the realization that he was looking into a mirror, a terrorist with an
intention to kill, a militant with a hidden agenda. Though warped, sneering and distorted,
Silas still bore his resemblance. Aaron scratched the mans hand one last time before
plummeting.
His breath lingered above him as white smoke, attacked with whichever force Silas had
summoned to aid his killing. The color white meshed with cyan in a deafening blur, and the
amalgam of energy was to become Aarons final memory.
The death which came was quick and agonizing.
/***/
Whiteness was what Silas saw as well.
His was over hills and landslides; peaks of snow and sheets of frost. The wind cut through
him, immediately shifting the color of his fingertips into blue. Black air ousted from his
throat, deep and dark and troubling, coloring the world gray. He watched his fingers, still
clenched in a deathly grip. His form shook with both the cold and bewilderment, and his eyes
jumped from his palms to the black barren trees stretching their claw-like branches into the
dusted sky. Aarons neck fell from his grasp and landed in the void.
How? Who?
Frost Peak howled around him, and he dared to turn his head. He neednt even look all the
way back, as he already saw who disrupted his execution. Straightening himself, he gave a
primed grin, holding back bemusement.
Silver Hair, he said to Stella Forrester, who stood barely twenty feet away from him,
platinum hair flying over her hard face and billowing in the gust. We meet again.
Hopefully for the last time.
It was as though the Gods of ether aligned and chanted, howling and singing, reverberating
through the echoing walls and corridors of snow drifts. Her dress was light as gossamer,
almost like some nightgown tied around her neck and draped over colorless skin, translucent
in the brightness and shimmering along. She stood with her fists clenched, her stance wide
and chest out, as a soldier of war standing before a potent warlord with nothing but her
courage to protect herself. Feet bare, they stood still as white clumps wedged between her
toes, eating away at their skin with its razor ice teeth. There was no movement to her stand,
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apart from her platinum skein. It waved and coiled as a planted flag upon a pole. Her build
was stone and ice, grit and tenacity, a silent oath to the warriors of yore never to let an enemy
flee from his crimes.
It mattered not how brave she appeared to the spirits of the mountains. When Silas saw her, he
saw a foolish idealist and a matriarch without a cause.
The last time I saw you glare at me, Silas told her, you had a tricorn, a lions heart and a
boys haircut. I never thought Id see your famous resolute again. Smiling darkly, he made a
step to her footing, and he shifted his temporary Xexarian form into his Zeer self. It is a
shame that this will be the last stand you make.
How did you come into Saga? She asked without a hint of hostility. You have no means of
making a portal.
Teleportation doesnt matter to those who speak to the God of Chaos, he said and
outstretched his arms. The purple-trimmed sleeves of his robe enveloped him. His body was
broken, branded with mottled patches of black and blue across his arms and chest, black bile
streamed in a fine line from his nose and clotted above his teeth. Eyes concussed and
unfocused, jaw trembling in pain. Epsylon had taken each drop of his life force to grant him a
new ability, and he appeared ruined as result. I asked, and Epsylon granted. He limped
forward, rubbing his shattered wrist. He had set a price which I was ready to cash in. He
brought me into Encantadia, and my Tricksters Trait handled the rest.
Aaron Kronos was chosen by the Gods on his nameday, Stella insisted in a deep tone. He
is irreplaceable.
The boy has long outlived his purpose. He fetched the Scrolls as an obedient dog he was
predestined to be, and now Brimstone needs a competent Savior. What others think of him is
none on my concern, and we all know your reasoning was poisoned with motherhood. While
her eyes narrowed, he leaned in to clarify. Each of us is to be replaced. You and I, Aaron
Kronos, my King and country. All lives are fleeting glimpses of reality, and are as easily
destroyed as they are molded. But I will not see the idiot destroy Brimstone in my lifetime.
Aaron Kronos was Brimstones final hope of salvation, she persisted. And what would you
do if you took his appearance? The Gods do not show Heaven to those dabbling with
darkness.
Oh, but I dont dabble, he said as strips of smoky clots began to run around his knuckles.
His muscles tightened and energy boiled his skin, shifting a misshapen globe of dark Mana
inside his palm. He had not looked at it, but caught Stellas eyes shifting to the plasma. She
was no craven but not a fool either. Even in this state, a Zeers magic could trump hers and
render her to ashes. Silas knew what thoughts of mortality ran across her astute mind. Ive
mastered the darkness, he spoke. Ive tamed it and all of the powers it carries.
Malice is a parasite, not a slave. It will take what you have and leave you for the flies.

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True, Silas agreed. Before it does, however, it helps me do incredible things. It can shift
continents and dry the ocean; paint it red with the blood of heretics. It can build hills of bone
and bodies. The void could consume false prophets and their supporters. You claim to see
Gods, Forrester. Has a similar thought never come to mind? Imagine the irony; a treacherous
schoolmarm, maddened with jealousy, seeking to destroy the person she saw unfit to represent
Brimstones future. All the years spent molding his young mind and taming a wild spirit
crushed and forgotten after a brief encounter with the jowls of envy. Poetic, is it not? A plot
worthy of an early Scroll.
Stellas teeth gritted. Make no mistake, Silas. I am a pacifist to the core. But try to meddle
with the will of Gods and I will strike you down with a righteous fury.
His lips rounded in amusement as his fingers clenched around his orb of ire, elevating it to the
level of his head. He observed it for a while, as if it were some priceless artifact, and it shifted
and rolled expelling a black dust.
Very well, Forrester, he said and the Mana stopped in place. I accept your challenge.
Eyes flaring wide, Stella rolled across the snow and escaped the orb by an inch. It fumed and
melted the spot where it fell, exposing a block of ice in lieu of dirt and grass. Her body fell
numb to the cold yet she still moved. Running, she escaped two more orbs he cast at her, and
disappeared in an electric glow when he went on to cast the third.
Cursing under his breath, he turned and tried to find her in the brightness. As he cast his spells
as medicine balls, heavy, crushing his hands and straining his tendons when he cast them, he
mocked Stellas strategy and barked insults. She came and went, about two feet apart each
time. The Mana produced a sound among the howling snow; almost as a whispered slash of a
dagger across the throat. The world of gray turned to black, painted with oil that came from
the snow, wisped into the air and landed straight into his palm. The dark energy returned to its
conductor as slithering leeches.
Is this your grand plan, Forrester? Run and hide? You are nothing like the pirate I knew. You
are nothing! Of all the trades you wished to go into, you chose to teach! Your mind is brittle
and your skill is lacking. To think you are our former Saviors matron the Gods must be so
displeased.
As she appeared again, Silas reached out his arm to cast his spell. It flung, running on fury
and ice. She caught it, an inch before her face, and coated it with a bright white energy
flowing from her fingertips as milk. It was subdued, chained into the light, and she cast it
straight at Silas who evaded it with a side step. The tamed orb struck a hill, and Frost Peak
moaned in dissatisfaction, shaking the ground they stood on. Silas looked back and then to her
again, enraged.
I will not fight you, Silas. She said in a calm voice. This violence must end.

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How noble of you. Altruistic, even. Your blind optimism and kindness will be the death of
you someday. His arms went over his head again, forming another stripe of black. Ill be
more than happy to lend Death a helping hand.
Dark matter was no longer thick and rounded. Now it was thin as a leaf and sped in her
direction faster than she could move. As darts and spears, the projectiles raced. Running feet
flattened the snow beneath her, and in the dense mounds she sank and fell prey to the cuts.
They struck her and poisoned her blood, lacerating her cheek. Her hair tangled around her
neck and fell over her as a greasy cascade, and pearls of sweat burst over her brow. As she
teleported onto low branches and leaped through the white, Silas jeered and struck faster.
The most heroic sailor to cross the high seas! The keenest mind in the entire magical realm!
The poster child of mercy and light! Look at me, Forrester! Look at the man wholl take that
all away from you!
Stella turned sharply and caught a jet dart in her palm. It bled and seared until the weapon fell
out of her fingers as molten snow, and she threw it at her feet in disgust before running again.
Niveous carpet cracked under her feet.
Youre only running because you know how weak you are! Silas heckled while he cast his
spells; some avoided, some deflected, some thrown back in a coat of light.
Im running so I could let you live! She said as she stopped, her breath hitching at the back
of her throat. Her chest heaved as did his, but he still pursued as she fled over the hill. Stand
still! There will be no more killing today!
You delusional bitch, would you stop preaching?! We both know youve had blood on your
hands! We know youve been ruthless as sin! You are nothing but a hypocrite! You went
against every teaching! You have no decency! You have no honor! His Mana came upon her
as burning spokes too fast for her to perceive all of its forms. You are the most hated woman
in Encantadia! Youre an exploiter! Youre a conniving chess master!
Light she carried in her gut was not powerful enough. She tumbled, crushed under the weight
of his power. Mana drew out her energy; she trembled, weakened and pleading for the release
of pain. Snow crept up in her mouth, tasting like corroded metal. The water seeped down her
throat and she choked while the weight of darkness crushed her spine and dug her deeper, into
the dirt, into the turmoil, under sleet and ice and snow. His deep eyes savored every moment
of her suffering, and he poured acid on her wounds with his viper tongue.
Maybe youre not all I thought you were. No. No, you definitely werent. Youve fooled me
like youve fooled everybody into thinking you were some paragon of virtue. Like your
adoptive runt convinced Brimstone that he was inimitable. The devil doesnt exist, the Kings
always lose and Stella Forrester is an admirable person. He tilted his head to the sky and
smirked as Stella struggled to breathe through the foam coming at her mouth. All fairy tales.
All lies you tell your students. Do you know why Brimstone hates its teachers? None are
credible. None tell the truth. You speak of Kings as a former slave, a sailor, a prisoner and
whatever else you were in your miserly five hundred years. When he genuflected, the arm
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with the broken wrist leaning on his knee, he looked deeply into her checkered eyes and
wondered, laughing to himself, why this woman was ever intimidating to him. She would die
in the snow, poisoned and alone, choking on air. The good does not win. Evil does not win.
You need to make choices for yourself and yourself alone. Martyrdom is easy but it rarely
benefits you. A life lived for others is no life at all, and I think you know that.
Stella hissed and coughed as her body gave into the rubber squeezing her organs. Her heart
was ready to burst, and her lungs were tapped dry. This is how Aaron died, she remembered.
He looked her way with glassy eyes before she dragged his attacker, too late to matter. Her
thoughts went to Serena, Rowena, Morato and May, Gods of justice, Gods of war, the
Defender and the Liberator, people of fact and fiction, silently begging them for strength.
You had a miserable life, Silas said as a fact. You relinquished freedom for knowledge.
You cast away riches for kindness. You never experienced mirth. Your lessons are lies told
from a flawed perspective; your students hate you and see you as a fool. Yet you wake in the
morning. You live the life you chose when many would have cast it away. He reached out to
touch her chin and he cupped it, observing her features. So sharp, so pale, so fragile it took
the will of a thousand men to keep him from crushing her jaw in his fingers. Instead, he
allowed it to dangle as a feather in his grasp.
You Sheebas can live a thousand years. Another is born only when another dies. You could
present your life to a Sheeba more worthy, more loyal and logical than you. But you are
selfish and stubborn, and you take something from this life. Yanking her chin he heard her
grunt, and his lips pursed while she shook in anguish. What does this life offer you? Why
cling to it? What can a washed-up charlatan like you want out of it?
And then, in a flat voice which rang in her ears, he gave one last line.
What do you want?
Stella spat on the snow and glowered at him, nostrils wide and lips pressed into a line. Her
chest heaved, and the poison within receded into some manic, repressed state of frenzy.
Activating it at last, the rush gave her a seconds worth of civility. This was long enough for
her to tense her fingers and say:
I want my son back, you piece of shit.
Summoning the strength of light, ether turned to hellfire in her grasp, and the blow knocked
Silas several feet away. The mountain rumbled and growled when she stood on her feet,
cheering for her, applauding her body. Something flared inside of her stomach, and jumped
through her palms to strike him. He kicked her away and pushed back, yet no matter how
many punches he threw and how much Mana he used, she would duck and dodge, returning
his lunges. Teleporting behind him, she attempted to overcome him. When he broke from her
chokehold, he grabbed her shoulders and threw her over his head. Stella watched him with a
clenched fist, screaming when she returned to the strife. Her light blinded him, and for
moments he was battling some invisible force of nature. His punches were made heavy with
malice. Her hits glistened in heat, burning flesh when she struck him. Darkness crushed light,
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they clawed and scratched and scathed, their eyes burned righteous and her teeth glared white.
The bird of prey locked beaks with the dove of peace, and both seemed evenly matched.
Stellas orb of light threw him back, and when he regained his balance, he shifted into an
attack position. A cone formed in between his palms, spinning as a tornado while she glared
and wiped away a drop of blood from her lip. Ice old as time itself melted under their fury,
and the black trees seemed to grow and tear the sky. Ravens flew overhead, circling the two
and knowing that one tasty corpse would fall in the snow that afternoon.
This ends here, Stella announced as she threw her arms to the side, craning to gain
momentum. A strong heat radiated from her flattened palms, feeling heavy and strong.
Silas in turn chose to cast his spell ahead, straight forward as in archery. Thats the first thing
weve ever agreed on.
She reciprocated the assault, and so the two forced collided in a vortex, creating a tube of
alternating texture. When the light burned brighter darkness was hindered to a line, just as
black ink on writing paper. In turn when darkness strengthened, light would be pushed back to
the sender, and Stella shifted her feet before stepping forward. There was no room for error,
no place to collapse. They strained and pushed in a game of elemental tug-of-war, and not
even the mountain knew who had the advantage.
The ravens dispersed, squawking in panic. An oval appeared between the two opposing sides,
creating a fusion of all things contradictory. Life and death, night and day, white and black
and all of its nuances, stretched to all dimensions, shifting to both sides. There was no true
kindness in this world, and evil seldom came from wicked intentions. There was no life
without destruction, no fall without a high. And they realized this while they fought: they
battled as two criminals, two outcasts, two opposites who shared more in common than they
wished to say. In the end this was not about morality. This was pride on the line, masked
under the guise of goodness. The earth shook underneath them, objecting their battle but
allowing it to continue, as if it amused the Gods to see the petty quarrels of mortals.
Finally, in that wasted world of gray, it was light which burst across the sky.
When Silas woke, his limbs were cold and his head burned. The white of Stellas spell came
on him as sunlight, cooking his organs until they were molten, and soon the frost froze them.
Compressed, stiff and aching, not even his greatest efforts could thaw the ice and free himself
from this paralysis. His eyes were opened so he could stare, and the first image he saw was
Stella Forresters blurred visage. She too was bloody and tired, yet her body was whole and
her mind sharp enough to curse him.
The melodic voice hovered above the misty snow, in harmony with the winds bellows.
I am not like you, Silas, she swore where all the Gods could hear. I am proud and callous,
but my heart was with the people. I repented when you have not. My intentions were good,
never selfish, and I care not where they led me. The world is a cruel, desolate place, but I will
not contribute to its misery with terror and nihilism.
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Her fingers were beringed with spheres of gold, starlight and hoops on thumbs and
forefingers. She extended them, to the sky, as though she would snap and flee. This, he
thought, would truly be in her character. The Zeer wanted to laugh, but no sound came across
his mouth. Instead he coughed up red frozen droplets which landed on his robes, and to Stella
this was reminiscent of a shadow wearing ruby jewels. Her head moved up.
I have no power to decide your fate. If the Gods are vile, they will let me kill you, and allow
me to return home with my vengeance. I fail to believe in vile Gods. No God of mine will let
me end a life on this mountain.
Her hair danced and shimmered, blending with whiteness. Silas head was light with the cold,
and he could no longer tell noise and vision apart. She blended with a memory of her old self;
the proud lass with a cutlass and a moral obligation to her fellow slaves.
Our sails were made of bed sheets our riches were nothing but life my brother loved you
with every inch of his being, and I feared you, Gods I feared you, and then you left to chase
your dream of change you learned while we were tortured, and you put a blight upon us for
learning more of the worlds machinations than you for that, I will never forgive you. But if
it werent for your betrayal, I never would have found my Omnia.
I thank you, Forrester, and I thank the Gods for making you the bitch you are.
If the Gods are good, she said in a formal tone before snapping her fingers, the mountain
will kill you for me.
She disappeared, but the sound of her fingers reverberated across the stone, which cried in
pain and protest. They hushed the noise, shedding layers upon layers of snow, as cloth-ofsilver falling from the body of an undressing maiden. The rumbling was deafening and Silas
watched whiteness pure, shining whiteness bury him alive in an avalanche that made him
close his eyes and accept demise in suffocation.
Epsylon could not save him now. Silas had nothing to offer him.
And after the snow clogged his last passageway, clotting up the hollow of his mouth when he
tried to scream, it was clear that the man would never know of revolving power again.
Seconds later, the mountain turned deathly silent, cleaning away all evidence of discord.
/***/
I I tried to save him, she cried as she cradled Aarons pale body. Limp legs dragged and
hauled dust and dirt on his trouser pants, but there was no strength in her body to keep him
higher. Instead she struggled, stopping for pauses while apologizing in abundance. D-dad
wouldnt let me. I called for help
You did well, Stella replied curtly, standing above them. Because of you, Silas is gone. We
neednt worry about his tricks anymore. If, of course, the Gods were good.

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But but Aarons dead! This cant happen! This isnt supposed to happen! What do we do
now?
Stella, piqued by Lucretias blubbering, propped up her spectacles to the base of her nowcrooked nose. You must keep the Outcasts, as well as Pickering Green, at bay. Your father
must not know of this place either.
Lucretia looked around the chamber Stella had teleported them to; hidden somewhere in
Aarons cave, murky and filthy, too caliginous to distinguish its importance. The room Stella
searched for was but a foot away, and this is what she promised for the last quart of an hour.
He wont, Lucretia promised. Its hidden well and weve gone through a dozen corridors
already. Im not even sure where we are. And then, after looking to her mentor, she asked in
a small voice: What will you do to him?
A swarm of bats came out; their leather wings flapped against cold stalagmites and hit
Lucretia over the side of her head. She yelped, shivering at the feeling as tears came down and
dried on her cheeks. Stella had not reacted. Instead, she chose to look ahead and march, a
monochrome crystal tucked into the soft of her palm.
Is it not obvious? She asked and stepped over a rock pile, the cloth of her dress swaying as
she strode. I am going to orchestrate a trade.

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Chapter XV: Remember Me

The cave of Ryluth the Puny held the scent of riches in itself, preserved well in the cold stone
cut by the dragons fiery breath. Emptied and hoarded by scavengers and avaricious Dryads,
gold and glamour were gone and what stayed were materials deemed useless by a race which
produced food out of nothing. Now they flourished, away from prying eyes and sticky fingers.
This treasury was a clandestine dwelling, uncovered to Stella in a faithful dream. It stretched
beyond Aarons meditation grounds, through an underground moor with water cold as ice,
over glowing remains of faeries who passed, spiked stones who cut into flesh and then
dripped salt into the wound. The walk was strenuous, even more since one made it through
while carrying a corpse on her back, and the other held a thousand thoughts which burdened
the mind. Not a word was said during the hours spent walking. Aarons body was colder,
stiffening still. Lucretia wanted to cry each time she would lose balance and need to adjust
him securely. When they reached the grotto, her back was dull and her feet were only bone
and calluses, but her lips rounded in awe and she thought nothing of the pain.
Seeds, rare plants and fine fruits remained in the area, some rotting and some ripening in the
orange glow. The seeds fell into the cracks in stone and matured into shrubs, fed by the water
running underneath. Over centuries, they grew and started to support the limestone, branches
spiraling and twirling into any formation they could. They made hoops, knots and roofs
overhead, and all were kept together by olive-green round leaves that shimmered and frosted
over. Fruits hung from the trees; fruits of light and flame, ripened with great age. Heavy and
filled with nectar, they summoned whoever was present to grab them and take a bite. Some
fell due to their mass, and splattered across the walkway. The rotting crops made the area
smell as peaches washed in river brine, and the air tasted sweet as result. Saccharine, honeyed,
cloying in nostrils, making Lucretia gag if she took too deep of a breath. The air was syrupy
from the cold; a waterfall dropped from a bubbling fountain coming from the wall, water
seeping through the golden mouth of a white statue. It was a face carved and jammed into
stone, with thick, hard hair spread to resemble the rays of sun. Its eyes were blank and
emptied, most likely holding gems and irises before. The water gathered in a pool, cemented
in a circle which was painted green with the falling leaves. They scattered, falling into the
water, on the ground, on the marble table in front of them. There was no stone to be seen; only
water and green, and even the marble slab appeared almost organic in the midst of the selfgrown woods.
Torches, latent at first, burst in flames when Stella walked beside them. Lucretia stopped and
flinched as one burned dangerously close to a low stem, yet it seemed as the obedient flames
went out of their way never to touch the wood. The ring of fire dispersed the bats who rattled
the leaves and vines netting the walls, and they flew away screeching. No darkness was left
inside; none save for the grief in their heavy hearts. It was at this moment that Stella
examined the achromic crystal shard which was once the proud centerpiece of her ceremonial
rod. It was sharp and thin in her hand; fragile as a white glass blade. Her reflection was
distorted in its many facets; she spun the crystal in her hand to examine them all.

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Her thin, long finger pointed at the marble block sitting in the middle of the room. Put him
there, she ordered, and Lucretia placed him on the surface. When he was up, the frail Dryad
was breathing heavily and rubbing sore muscles, and almost cursed at her teacher when she
said that he must be flipped on his back.
Is this a burial? She asked as Stella sat at the foot of the fountain, gathering white water in
the palm of her hand and washing her face in swift, rubbing motions. Is this a Xexarian
ritual?
If you paid attention in any of my classes you would know exactly what this was.
Her throat was scathed with the amount of snow she swallowed earlier, and the water she
drank only made her feel more pain. Gritting teeth and clutching her stomach, Stella breathed
out a muted, illegible oath. The twisting in her gut and her hot red gullet subdued later, and
she stood on shaking legs. Statues from the walls stared back at her, blind eyes taking in her
silent unquiet. Her white gown was muddied; platinum hair pushed back and tangled with
sweat. Long fingers, pampered and bejeweled, had blood on them and shook with exhaustion.
Even the checkers in her eyes widened to the degree that most of her pupil appeared fully gray
they looked around the watery cave, unfocused.
She stepped inside the pool, almost tripping into the water.
Lady Forrester! Lucretia looked away from the body and jumped to her teacher; water
splashing around her dress when she caught her at the stomach. Sweet Serena, are you
alright?
Forrester nodded, shivering while the shard shook in her clenched fist. F-fine, she blatantly
lied. Just tired.
The tangerine Dryad opened her mouth and closed it, craning her head up as she heard a
commotion. Every feature of her went wide as she tried to decipher it, yet Stella gathered
nothing from the noise.
She placed the crystal inside on the fountains mouth, noting its detailing; the pores on its
face, the fine lines across its lips, the teeth which grazed her hand. Momentarily, the stream of
water stopped flowing, and the murmur of the stream went quiet. The cave dripped and
echoed Lucretia considered this an unnerving change.
Theres a reason I invited you here, Stella said in one breath, long and wounded. Her
student helped her across the pool, one small step per word. Youll find out why, but now all
you need to do is think of an escape.
Im not running away from my realm. Sad eyes scanned Aarons blue limbs and tears
pricked at her lashes. She cleaned away some with the tip of her finger. Aaron has been my
idol all these year. If he is to be buried here, Ill help you.
Though appreciative of the promise, Stella shook her head. This was just as her weak leg
stepped over the wall surrounding the fountain. Thats not what I meant. Aaron She
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looked the heavens, the looping branches and a faint jade glow of leaves. Though the torches
burned bright, the cave was still cold enough for her words to expel like steam. Aaron will
live.
As Lucretia lifted her eyebrows, Stella shot her questions down with a cold, bold look. It was
ice in eye sockets, resolve concentrated into a long stare. Nothing of the sort can be said
about his companions Gods know he needs them. They must return to the human realm. You
must teleport them when I cannot.
Teleport them?! Her voice rang about the grotto, shuffling leaves. Her heart was a
hummingbird, almost flying out of her chest. I cant teleport anybody. I never did. I dont
even know where they are, where anything outside of Encantadia is!
You studied with me you studied for decades.
But Ive never been there She clumped a fistful of her gown, keeping it against her hip.
Her fingers were tame but she felt no more secure, and her other hand pressed against the
doyennes arm hard enough to draw bruises. Despite the ache, Stella had not reacted. The
student clung to her, too worried to object. Youre supposed to know the places. Youve been
everywhere, you know Brimstone top to bottom. I know it from maps to an extent but where
do I even go? Where do I take them?
You will know.
But how? How do you know theyll go back? Or that hell live?
I know. And so will you.
How?
The question was never meant to end. Yet it was interrupted as the crystal burst out of the
mouth and into the tallest torch above the entrance. Covering her ears, Lucretia stepped back
with a start and watched the flames glow white, flickering and crossing from one towering
match to the next, until the two of them stood in a ring of white fire. Water ran through but no
longer in a continuous stream; it ricocheted and jumped, as pins and needles, from the pool to
the treetops, and then to the stone ground. They fell, in streams of white, strips of blue, echoes
of green. As a picture done in watercolor, the water painted a scenery, a moving figure of a
Dryad not much other than herself. Lucretia stood in the midst of the sight, looking on as her
body turned blue and moist mist fogged her eyes. Aaron beside her was dark, his body
saturated and blurred. Stella was white and dimmed with a blue tint, and looked at the scene
with a new interest. They no longer stood in a cave, but rather in some magically altered
reality; a retrospect of time. The woods in the outskirts of some kingdom on a hill. Trees grew
in the sky. Grass shifted with the direction of wind. When Lucretia asked for an explanation,
getting lost in cold colors, Stella was less than helpful.

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Youll know plenty of Brimstone, she said with a weakened smile. Her head turned to her
student, no longer seeing her as the premiers daughter, but rather for what she was a fresh
mind fit for an education. Ill teach you everything about it.
The cave disappeared. Stella and the fountain, the crystal and corpse gone in thunder.
Lucretia was trapped in the past world, lost and spinning, wondering who she was watching.
Two figures, one short Dryad girl and a tall Xexarian in his physical peak, walked the road
and looked through her as though she were made of glass. Momentarily, Lucretia thought she
was watching her future with Aaron, and the thought made her eyes misty. After making the
false assumption, she heard the Xexarians distant, unfamiliar voice which raised further
questions on her part.
Get the lead out, Stella! He called to the Dryad, who only now Lucretia saw was dressed
all in white. We have to get to Whitecastle before nightfall. His long cane struck the cold
soil, wetted with rain.
The small, skinny Sheeba saluted him and ran to walk by his side, rain falling down her
plump cheeks. She couldnt have been older than seventy. Yes, Mister Dedal!
The Xexarian scoffed. Weve talked about this. My fathers name was Mister Dedal. Call me
what I told you.
Yes, Alistair!
Atta girl.He shook his head and laughed, pointing at a marble tower reaching beyond the
forest they entered. Thats the place, he said with a smile. Itll take two or three days to
reach it on foot, love. Doesnt take long to cross the woodlands, but the hill beyond it is a
bitch to climb.
Stella chuckled, feet splashing in the large puddles pooling on the ground. Perhaps this was on
purpose, seeing she went out of her way to step into one. Thats a swear! Her gangly limbs
swung on both sides while she strode along through raindrops. Will we set up camp for the
night?
If the weather gets any better, sure. Alistir shrugged and adjusted the thick, bulging
backpack over his shoulder. We might have to find a cave or something. Dont want to get
the tent wet. Blasted things sprung a leak. Its like sleeping under a faucet when it rains.
Whats a faucet?
Its, er, something from Damask.
The young Stella gasped and pressed a hand to her rounded mouth, watching him like hed
killed a man. We dont talk about Damask!
Alistair groaned, releasing an exasperated breath he held.Oh, come on, its been five hundred
years or something!
Its still too soon.
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I didnt say nothin about Damask but the name!

Stop saying Damask! Tiny Stella cried out, stomping her foot. Pouting for a moment with
her hands crossed over her chest, she watched Alistair with narrowed eyes until he shrugged
and allowed her to carry on the conversation. Youre right about the cave. We need to dry
off, after all. You cant live to be The Last Xexarian if you catch pneumonia and die.
Alistairs laugh was throaty and sincere, enough to draw a smile on the girls normally serious
expression. His cane struck the soil and his baggage became lighter; the two practically
sprinted out of the rain and into safety offered by the promise of a cool, dry cavern. Dream
on, girlie. Theres hundreds of us left. Thousands! Itll be centuries before anybody can say
the phraseThe Last Xexarian with no jest. Please, Stella the Xexarians are everywhere.
Were like flies.
Flies are gross, Stella said right as Lucretia sped after them, pushing away leaves that
never rustled and trees that bent like rubber.
Alistair tussled the small Dryads hair, to much of her protest. Yer gross, girlie.
Lady Forrester! Lucretia called after them, unable to perceive that she called for the
attention of a faerie child. My Lady Forrester! She could have ran for miles; her feet were
rock and glass, boiling with every step. Her lungs constricted and she could hardly breathe,
clawing through the world of blue. It distorted under her claws, and shifted into a different
reality. When she finally caught up and reached out for Stellas shoulder, the young version of
her mentor turned to the side and screamed, clinging to her guardians forearm.
Poachers!
Stellas world turned black.
Disoriented and deafened by the shouts and galloping hooves, Lucretia covered her ears and
jumped in the undergrowth, shaking as masked men with lances and chains came around
them, their carriages thin and red, the iron teeth on their masks drenched with red. Horses
cried, foaming at the mouth and striking the ground with a force some Gods would envy.
Whips cracked on the sky; sharp ends slamming against the cages they transported. Four
carriages tore the forest apart, each controlled by two masked thugs, each holding five
prisoners tied at the ankles and grabbing onto whatever they could hold. All were of magical
descent, as seen from glassy checkered eyes, crying faces hidden at the back of their necks,
dark scaly skin tied with algae, conjoined legs severed with a hacksaw so the mer-creatures
could walk on land. Prisoners screamed, some in pain and some in alarm, and the poachers
silenced them by whipping against their confines, sending them away from the bars, shaking.
Alistair took his cane with narrowed eyes and raised it above his head, running to strike down
the assailant. One fearsome blow slammed against a brigands ear, leaving him unconscious.
The came went behind his back, defending himself from a whip that coiled around the base.
He pulled his weapon sharply ahead the man holding the rope went down as a fired
slingshot. The two men running to his aid were met with a gust of air from Alistairs palm.
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Stella! Run!
She wasnt fast enough.
It was a chaotic spiral Stella and her mentor were trapped in. Devious, towering, fast. The
tangerine Dryad lifted her head to see Alistair fight them away, casting blow after blow of
wind while Stella panted and tripped over ingrown roots of cedar. It was the side of an axe
that hit Alistairs head and made his eyes go concussed, and he fell just as a man with glass
for an eye lifted her by the ankle and took her to the whinnying horses. His heavy boots
stepped right over the brave Xexarian.
Another little mage, the poacher said while pulling her goat ear. Another had a fistful of
platinum hair in his grasp when he hauled her into a caged carriage, with several moaning
Dryads, goblins and imps. Shell be fit for Marchwood he decided after dusting away his
gloved palms, locking the cage.
Stella pressed her face against the metal bars, calling out for her guardian who could not focus
his gaze on the mad world spinning around him. The captured imps clawed at her skirt, some
attempted to pry her away. A spear smacked the bars in front of her nose and made the metal
reverberate. She fell atop the exhausted, bruised bodies of her kin, rubbing her bloodied upper
lip. A whip cracked and the horses started to run again, faster than rapids, quicker than wind.
The last she saw was her Guardians body left behind in the rainforest, coiling and shrinking
the longer the horses sped.
Alistair! She called out, and was hushed as a goblin covered her mouth. Biting it, she called
out, loud enough for the land to shake and her cage to rattle. ALISTAIR!
If Lucretia had blinked, she would have missed the kidnapping. With wide eyes and a wider
mouth she gaped at the galloping dot on the horizon, then turned to the fallen Xexarian who
came to and punched the ground before standing up, running hopelessly to his protg. Not
even with the wind to guide his feet could he ever catch up with the brigands, yet he chased
them until he fell from exhaustion. Lucretia attempted to follow, though much slower and less
focused than he.
Come back! She shouted to Alistair or Stella, she could not tell for sure. Come back!
Come back I need you!
She slammed her face against Alistairs back when he stopped with no warning. When he
turned, she could see the very image of an older, bearded Aaron Kronos looking her way.
Beads of lapis lazuli were wedged into his thick braid, clinking like bells when he moved. The
tigers marks over his rigid body enveloped him, twisted and moved, as though the memory of
this man faded over time, and the exact pattern of his skin was forgotten over the centuries.
Its her life, Lucretia understood, heart beating fast. These were Stellas memories.

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Dont focus on me, Alistair instructed. It was the first time this reality acknowledged her.
Now even the trees and vines took on their real texture, their true colors. Take in the
surroundings instead. Youll need this knowledge for whats to come.
Alistair disappeared into smoke wisps, and the world transitioned again.
The color blue was prevalent again, though not as a blurred vision, but as the crashing
cerulean tides, frothing white while they clashed and sculpted the ravine. An ocean mist,
tasting like brine, salted the earth. White noise, murmuring tides, the sound of axes against
whetstone and a weak slave hymn, all harmonized into a calming experience, broken with the
ringing of the bell.
It was another world of blue, Lucretia thought when she turned around to see the slaves
working in the courtyards. Blue lips, blue veins, blue faces as some fell from exhaustion
under weights of wooden crates filled with fish innards. A body fell and toppled over a box of
the foodstuff, sending horn sharks and scissorfish across the dark grass. The body was an
imps and he, failing to do his strenuous work, chose the ease of death over the burden. He
had a loosened noose around his neck, as did the other slaves. As the Guards clad in wool and
copper saw him fall, they came to take him away. One tightened to noose across his neck,
slashing brown marks inside the skin. Hauling the body over his shoulder, letting it hang
inches from the ground, the Guard and some of his companions walked over to the giant
marchwood, the isles eponymous tree.
Lucretia wanted to vomit at the sight of it, and pressed a hand on her quivering chin. The
wood itself was taller than any treetop in Encantadia, a mile high in comparison with the men
hanging from its branches. All Dryads, panes, goblins and some centaurs, each with dead eyes
and bloodied palms, hard skin as black as jet covering the soles of their feet, skin hanging
from their lashed backs in strips and the smell Gods, the smell reeking stale and rotting.
They were on display as chunks of meat at a butchers shop, hanging by their necks as a
warning to the working folk. About five or six hanged from the lower branches, but the high
crown of the tree was unreachable, and bloomed with fists of red leaves, clumped together as
clotted blood. They did not shake in the wind, hard as stone when together. The marchwood
leered over the islands denizens from a cliff overlooking jagged stone, expressing death,
doom and warning from all sides. It was not rare that a corpse would fall or a branch would
break, so the spiked stone bottom was now colored an unhealthy brown. No living slave
looked away from their work while the guards heave-hod the fallen one, first tying the short
end of the corpses rope with a velvet strip hardened by threads of horse hair, and then cast the
velvet across the first branch with empty space. Spitting in their palms, two strongmen
reached and grabbed at the hanging line, pulling the corpse up while its legs flailed and shook
like a puppets. When the imp was high enough, the rope was tied to a bar of metal wedged
into the black tree, and after it was secured, the slave masters returned to shouting directions
at the remaining workers.
Forrester! One of them called, a stout man with a breastplate depicting an eel with ruby
eyes. He had three fingers left on his gloved hand, and used two of them to point at the mess
the dead slave left behind. Clean that!
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Stella had grown up in this reality, Lucretia could say with certainty. Not so much in height as
she did in psyche. Platinum hair trapped in a black bonnet crowned her oblong face, cheeks
sunken by age or hunger, perhaps both. She seemed thin under her garb, and the noose around
her neck hung like some medal. Her arms had gotten larger from hauling crates and tanks of
whale oil, burned to heat up the large castle of salt and stone sitting in the middle of
Marchwood. Her tunic was purple, stitched, torn and mended as patchwork with threads
which itched and chafed her skin, held to her body with a leather belt with a buckle made of
graying lead. When fastened tightly, its end hung so low that it almost touched the ground,
and she had it cut off with a hacksaw. There was wisdom in her eyes which never came from
books or lessons at this age, the small slave knew enough of life to work and keep her body
whole and her face only bruised, not cut or sliced.
Get the lead out you lazy slut!
She approached the fish with a quick step, throwing herself on her knees while she began to
sort the dropped wares. The three-fingered guard came behind her and smacked the base of
her head as he strode, which she took in passing and focused on her job.
Lucretia looked around her, taking in the blue, the starving, the miserable souls working and
hauling, standing in lines for their daily bread, falling to their knees to meet the masters
whip, screaming while they were lifted to the marchwood if they were caught slacking or
stealing Marchwood was silent but shrill, hours of nothing but the waves followed by
seconds of unquiet, when the keepers cackled and the slaves pulled at their hair, jumping onto
the jagged rocks to put themselves out of despair.
As one working mother did so with a crying babe on her arms, Stella only cocked up an
eyebrow, indifferent as the guards ran to overpower her, and put her back to work.
Father will send both of you flying, and if he doesnt, I hope you become smart enough to
put yourself out of your misery.
Lucretia thought she had heard a recollection of her words, but as she looked down, she
noticed that she inexplicably made her way to the young Stella Forrester, who placed the lid
on a crate while watching straight into her eyes. The tangerine Dryad looked behind her back.
Thats what you told me, isnt it? Stella asked, showing the gap where her front tooth
should have been. Ive had it worse and refrained from suicide. Not that you care. Youll
never know the meaning of misery.
Youre talking to me.
Stella furrowed her brow. Youre standing in front of me, arent you?
I dont understand. Are you real? Or a memory? Why did you ignore me in the rainforest?
With a heavy sigh, the future Lady Forrester stood on her feet, dusting away the dirt on her
lap. Im not important, she informed her student. It was odd, to say the least, talking to her

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at eye level, as one brat to another. Brimstone is important. You must know its worth if you
mean to save Aaron.
But Ive never even been to Brimstone. Lucretia shook her head vigorously as she saw all
the guards, slaves and tides stop in place, frozen in time. I I dont know anything about
it!
Then its a good thing Im a world traveler with eidetic memory. Gesturing outward, Stella
removed the rope from her neck and threw it on the ground. But youll have to run through
my memories much quicker if you mean to find what youre looking for.
What am I looking for?! Her voice was a weeping shadow of a brash and cocky intonation.
Scowling, Stella crossed her arms over her chest, looking up at the sky. Thunder boomed
above, and night spread over the thick white clouds, injecting each with the color of the void.
Youll know, she promised, when you find it.
When Lucretia looked down from the overcast, the young slave Stella was gone, and
Marchwood was in flames.
Blowing out the window frames along the screaming lords and ladies of the court, fire spread
and boomed, powered by the oil, guts and glory. Blood of the burned whales was smeared
across the vine-tied twisting tower, cries of the runaway slaves echoed through the storm. Feet
of the oppressed, freed from hanging trees, shackles and chains, all clattered against grass and
stone, over the ground that took in the taste of death. Marchwood was purified with a new
revolution, brought on by the mages who fought at their strongest when faced with restriction.
Fire manipulators, those like Lucretia and her father, freed these folk upon unleashing their
dormant might on the guards who fueled their rage. No longer would they suffer the curse of
long, subservient lives for the short-lived, ever-changing human oppressors. Unbroken,
untied, unwilling to stay passive; these masters of flames wreaked havoc on the Marchwood
island. Others, not as adept with their abilities, took opportunity to escape their holders,
jumping onto whalers ships off from the cliffs. Some leapt to salvation and freedom. Others
to a bloody death.
Liberation, revolution! They screamed and jumped, falling to a watery oblivion. The air
was salt and ash. The ocean nothing but ice and empty promises. Fighting against the tides,
they cut through waves with work-hardened hands, leaping and jumping, clinging onto
floating debris. Bodies stayed in the water, shivering until they sank or until they caught a
breath of air, and shouted with their fists high: FIRE FOR THE BURNED!
Break the chains! Called out a voice and tossed out a lead ball from the window, which
landed atop the crates of fish they hauled. Bodies fell, though not from exhaustion. They were
heavy with determination, struck down by a spear. A Guard attempted to take down a boy a
Zeer boy with full cheeks and unsullied clothing before an axe to the guards forehead
stopped the strike.

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Falling to his knees, the attacker growled while his eyes rolled to the back of his skull. The
slave who saved the kid dug her foot into the back of the guards neck as he fell, pushing it
away and yanking out the weapon. Bursting, the wound splattered her tunic and pale face. She
put out a hand to him, the small weapon behind her back when she spoke in a collected tone.
Come on, she instructed as he reached out his fingers. And when she looked back to
Lucretia she insisted in a tone so cold, so deadpan that it cut deeper than the curve of the axe.
This does not concern you. Look away and run!
Another child took her hand, identical to the Zeer she saved. He picked up the kneeling boy
by the scruff of his neck, forcing him to stand and run along with them. The ships leaving!
He called out as he saw the vessel turn on the water; slaves clinging onto its sides and falling,
swimming to reach it again. It was set to depart, and soon.
The tangerine Dryad never found out how and if they reached their boat. Immediately she
sped, clumps of her bejeweled dress rocking in her sweat-drenched fists, rolling in the
desolate crowds of the bent and broken, of the doomed and freed. Across the cold wet marsh
her feet lead her to the precipice and she coiled back, looking at the crashing tides with a dry
mouth. Spinning back, she saw the young Stella Forrester, standing in between the two darkhaired slaves she saved from death by pummeling. The boys whose names were Silas and
Smee, according to the cries of the slaves already on the ship jumped with their garb soaring
in the air, wisping like flames on a windy day. Stella was set to join their fall, and instead
stood with a face like a stone.
I wont tell you twice, she spoke, stepping forward. Keep. Moving!
Her skin was fire, and the rush of air, paired with the cold chains of the ocean ripped her skin
apart. She screamed with the fury of fallen Gods, thrashed her limbs to escape the watery
grave, all while Stellas palm prints burned blood-red marks in the places where she pushed
her. Under her collarbones, where the arms met her chest, the hard-skinned and sinewy hands
pressed down and took Lucretia into the embrace of the endless abyss. This world would not
harm her, she reminded herself as she lifted her head above the surface, gasping and coughing
brine into the now sunny skies.
This world of Stellas will not kill her, but it could still hurt like all Hell.
Slashing through the blue, her arms turned to heavy oars, and despite never setting a foot in
the ocean now she was gliding through it, diving and leaping, until her feet struck the vitric
shell and she ran, feet slapping the water, elbows tight against her waist, lungs bursting while
she dashed across the waves. There was no telling if this was normal in this universe, time
was quicker than rising mercury, the people were either flesh and iron or paper and shadows,
all depending how important Stella Forrester deemed them. As some God she made the
universe out of fragments of light, and left Lucy to maneuver it, lost and alone, with each plea
for help met with disdain. Where was she running? Who was she running from? She could not
say and couldnt bear to look to her side, too aware of the atmosphere that could wage a war
as easily as it could make the birds soar.

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The timeline stretched on both her sides; she saw a galleon with eight sails, woven with lilac
and Wisteria flowers, booming cannons and a mesh of ropes from which its pirates hung and
chanted. One stood at the prow, the booted leg dug into the curved edge, the top of her foot
resting on the shoulder of the bare mer-woman figurehead eaten away with age and salt. Her
arms crossed over her chest, whether in defiance or chastity, her legs were tied together with
vines webbing as a membrane. Made of polished plaster, the dull white eyes were not unlike
the pirates, who scanned the sea with her checkered orbs and barely restrained a smile on her
visage. A lean limb folded over her jutted knee. Her brown coattails flapping in the wind.
Platinum hair, cut short as that of a farm boys, framed her face from under a tricorn hat
slightly too large for her oblong head. She nodded to the islands they approached and pivoted;
her footfalls were heavy, as though the insides of her leather boots were stuffed with lead.
Portside! She called out in a voice like a banshees, and only then did Lucy look towards
her teacher. Swinging on the rope, ringing the brass bell, the matron looked barely two
hundred years wise, and her spirit boomed like that of a centenarian. Were coming in
sharp! Climbing atop the netting, to the observation deck, her smile persisted while the ship
zoomed to the Isle. Lucy sped up, keeping up with the ship. They were neck and neck, and the
small Sheeba was ready to outrun it.
Captain Smee! Stella whistled at a Zeer dressed fully in purple. Captain Smee! Awaiting
orders!
Speed at three knots!
Aye-aye, Captain!Answered the helmsman.
All men on deck!
AYE-AYE, CAPTAIN!
You too, Forrester! Stomping his foot, he gestured sharply at the ground while another Zeer
in a black garb and no stripes to vouch for his rank stood beside him and hollered at the
Dryad. Youre first mate, not a bloody seagull!
But one could argue she was a bird in part, the way she soared across the labyrinth of netting
and landed feet first.
She looked so happy, Lucy thought and hurried to another moment in her life. The sea made
her cheeks almost red, her eyes sparkled and the energy she held was not of magic, but of
physical might. A lions heart, a boys haircut, and a voice that rattled the woodwork of the
ship she knew so well the young student could not believe that this was the very same
matriarch who condemned rambunctiousness and lived a life of seclusion. Some new
knowledge washed over her, and she knew not how to react to it.
Stella was, in the most magical sense of the word, human.
And all too human, as she watched what she did with her crew.

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Plundering ships, cracking chains off of slaves, threading the isles with a red hot fury,
scorching the earth so nothing could grow. She was salt and fire, compassion and mead,
everything to the world and nothing for the people who disrespected her. The swashbuckling
pirate held her chin high and her weapon higher, never admitting that she was in the wrong,
no matter how many homes she destroyed trying to find the slave master in hiding. Her
fingers were dotted with gold; her garb was silk and velvet in lieu of burlap, and as she
travelled the world around her became just a little less colorful, and more monochrome. The
civil folk no longer existed their homes were houses of holy or the Devils domain, and
when she walked to them, they were either blessed with heavenly light or burned to the
ground. And while she carried on her reign of bias, frothing at the mouth and slicing down
guards like they were butter, she had the gall to chant the name of Gods and reach out to the
skies. They became black and streaked with lightening, booming louder the longer Lucy
watched the parade of torture flashing before her eyes in clips.
I speak for the Gods! Stella cried, held back by Captain Smee. She elbowed him in the
chest and jumped to set a torch to the Marchwood hanging tree; fist raised high while pirates
rebelled. The Gods see me! I see them! I will lead you to salvation! You will find freedom at
my feet!
Liberation! The crowd agreed, pitchforks and knives piercing the sky. REVOLUTION!
Fire for the burned!
Stella cheered, clapping and marching while the tree that was once her inevitable demise
collapsed onto itself. The corpses hanging like rip fruit fell and cracked upon collision, like
crumbling toast. Their bodies were bagged, to keep the smell at bay. Purified by the hellfire,
odor was no concern of the landlords now. Especially since slave holders occupied most of
the bags, falling from the ravine and onto the thrashing black sea. Marchwoods red leaves
withered and shrunk, leaving onyx and ash in the midst of roaring orange wisps. The Dryad
threw away her torch and it danced; the wind fanned the flames up, up and then they hissed
when they met the soaking bodies floating on the surface.
Stellas eyes rolled back until all Lucy could see was white the world around her fell and
shifted, until the tangerine pupil could only focus on the pirate liberator and her talk of Gods.
Liberation for what the man never gave us! Revolution for my brothers! For my sisters! I
talk to you now; I see your bleeding souls! You are nothing in the eyes of greatness, but you
are everything in eyes of the Gods! They speak to me words of escape words of prophesy!
I will guide you to the Field! I will dab your tears dry! I will rush across the gates of Hell and
claw your way in if I have to! I call upon you, the white and black! The red and brown! The
yellow and pastel, those born on this earth and those who are yet to discover it! She
pounded her chest in one blunt strike; her curled fist left a mark on her body. It blackened
further while her torn shirt billowed in the wind. Madness was in her bloody eyes, pink in
rage and dried with dust. Her knuckles were stiff and her ears straight up, listening to the
howling wind, to the roaring tides, to the folk who had nobody to listen to but her. I was a
child of a fallen Dryad. He took his life away, by his own hand, and I was punished I, a
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descendant of his, born outside of my magical realm! I saw this as curse, but now I see now
I see the blessing etched in the white of my skin! I am chosen! I am divine! I will protect this
nation, and all those in it! You will meet greatness, and you will know of life true life! Born
in demise, you will rise to glory, and in glory I will be your ruler!
Stella Forrester! Shouted a pirate with a red glass eye. Our Light, our Voice!
Stella, please! Shouted Silas, the thin pirate with a lacerated lip and a bloodied nose he
had earned those after she elbowed him in the mouth to escape his clutch and reach her
podium. His fingers were white and bony, his voice ragged with desperation. Youre mad!
This must end!
His twin, Captain Smee, tried to pull her away by her waist, and still she stood firm as a
statue, unwavering. The wind was cold as ice and the slaves whistled and hissed, wanting
their Savior untouched. Some ran to her rescue, fighting, smothering, killing those standing in
front of them, only to touch her hand or pull at her platinum hair. One caught her hat and
yanked it from her head a fistfight ensued, to declare its rightful owner. In a trance brought
by vision and a noble crusade, Stella rocked on the balls of her feet, her fist up into the sky
the malicious, capricious night sky.
Epsylon speaks to me! Power goes to the people! It revolves it revolves forever, and it will
come to me. I will take it and hand it to you, to give you liberation! My light, may it always
shine for you, and may the flames of the Marchwood tree heat the souls of your fallen
ancestors. Your reparations are their souls at ease, and your afterlife is safe with me, the
champion of the mortals, the courier of Gods!
Liberation!
Revolution!
Fire for the burned!
Again! Livid smoke flew from her nose. Silas and Smee struggled with her, but she still
had her fist to the sky, her jewels shining with a faint golden glow of fire. AGAIN!
WORSHIP ME! Her demand was half a plea her voice shook, along with the ground.
Liberation, revolution, fire for the burned!
WORSHIP ME!Another strip of white split the sky apart, and the din of thunder rocked the
crowd, who screamed in ecstasy.
Was this the stoic, the altruist this heretic mad with power? It couldnt have been. It
shouldnt... the Gods would never, the Gods would never! And they couldnt, and they didnt,
and they protested loudly, through elemental chaos. Another shard of lightning inched closer
to the Marchwood tree, ready to rip it apart.
Liberation! The crowd roared.
Revolution! Stella encouraged them, salt trails rushing from her eyes.
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FIRE FOR THE !

Lucretia screamed when lighting struck Stellas rings, chiming as her hair burned, when her
eyes concussed, when Silas and Smee clung onto her with chattering teeth, pressing on her
form is a clenched, sick reflex. A foul smell, burning and rotten, filled her nostrils and she fell
back, covering her eyes from the whiteness which rendered her checkers gray. Lashes
fluttered, her chest heaved, and she fell on her back on some abstract surface before she could
look ahead and see pitch black silence prevailed, and Stellas bizarre world of mayhem went
away, to Lucretias endless relief.
The fine hairs at the back of her neck turned sharp as needles when she hears Stellas aged,
wise voice behind her.
It was Gods intervention, the lightning. My madness was transferred, but the visions were
not.
Lucretia rapidly turned her head to face the source, but saw nothing but burns and white ink.
Knuckles gone raw, with jewels wedged in the V between the ring and middle finger. Skin
fine as paper, shredding down to the base of the wrist. A slope of a white back, tarnished with
gray rives, zigzagging in patterns across the spine, over the biceps and firm thighs. As
severed, floating body parts flew across the black, the student slowly began to attribute them.
The whip marks and furrowed burns were vile, disfiguring and severe, as though some wild
beast with claws of ivory mauled her teacher. This was when she recalled the gloves on her
hands, the width of her dress, the scent of powder wherever she went
Did it hurt?
Like Hell, was her honest response.
Nodding once as the limbs and torso disappeared, Lucy faced nothingness with a stony
expression, her tears already dry. She brought her knees to her chest and embraced them,
rocking back as she tried to see if the area echoed at all. It did not, and this made her even
more ill at ease. So the Gods spoke to you.
Not to me, responded Stellas disembodied voice. Through me. I would be a tool, a helper
in a greater plan. I was told long ago that my life meant little, and that it had to be sacrificed.
But I had not listened. I believed speaking to Gods made me some sort of a fallen angel. And
then, a Goddess in her own right.
You disobeyed the Gods
Others were never privileged enough to hear them in the first place. I believed earthly rules
never applied to me. I was like you, in a lot of ways. Stubborn, high and mighty in the face of
conflict. I thought I was some saint, a Savior, when in reality I was merely a cog in the divine
plan, and was lucky to be informed of this.

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Did you ever have any trouble with this? As though she could see Stella tilt her head in mild
confusion, Lucretia cleared her throat and said: W-with people believing you. That you speak
to Gods?
I have experienced doubt and loathing many times because of my experiences she said in a
guilty tone. I was shunned, incarcerated, banished from my home my friends were infected
with my Madness, and never forgave me for the ailment. Epsylon took them while I still had
Equiar who forgave my blasphemy, and Serena to light my path
There was a small pause, during which Lucretia stood on her feet and watched the walls
change color from black to the warmest shade of brown. She made a couple of careful steps,
wringing her hands while she walked.
But it was Serena who led me into Aarons village after its decimation, and she lit the dust
beneath the floorboards so I could salvage the last crying babe. The Gods gave me a task, to
uphold their will. They gave me means and enough years to gain wisdom.
Lucretia bowed her head down, forcing back a tear as she heard Aarons name.
Most importantly of all, they gave me my son.
Her eyes went wide as she heard a faint crack of a door and her eyes grew wider still when
she saw a child, a young boy with tiger stripes across his limbs, holding onto a gilded knob.
His smile was small but she could see the gap in his teeth, the fresh freckles over his
cheekbones, his raven hair scooped and collected in a loose braid. He called for Stella,
looking around the black while ignoring Lucretia completely. She was cold as a stone, scared
out of her mind, and watched the young child bring in color with every footstep. The floor
was now painted with lacquered wood wherever he stood. A dream, she though to herself.
Stellas faint recollection, which seemed a touch more colorful than the ones before.
Stella? He called out for her, one palm raised above the line of his brow. He persisted with
the search for a moment, maybe two, before he lost his patience and let his body hang to the
side. Stella, where aaaare yooou?
The Xexarian had not received a response. Instead, he received a Dryad dressed all in white,
scooping him up by the side and swinging him around haphazardly as he protested in between
splits of laughter. Immediately, the scenery changed into the interieor of an old, abandoned
and dilapidated inn; the two laughed, fell on the bug-ridden beg, chased each other over the
rickety floorboards, ran and ranted when the younger one chose to climb a barren bookshelf in
the corner, swinging from the ledges as some limber monkey. All this while they ignored
Lucretia trying not to get in their way, side-stepping and twirling like a ballerina to evade their
horseplay. The old Stellas voice, spinning in the background as on some record, fell deaf on
their ears. Her words echoed in Lucys head as clock tower bells over a cobblestone road.
The Dryads do not take kindly to outsiders. They wanted to drown you, but I wouldnt let
them. I hardly knew you, I had no impression that you would grow up to be the most
influential figure in Brimstone. I only knew that a society willing to drown a child, just for
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differing from the rest, was no society I wished to be in. So we ran, remember? Pickering
cried when I left Encantadia, and nobody else shed a tear. I was hungry, homeless, alone
except I wasnt. You kept me company. You assured me I was doing right by keeping you with
me.
It was not a room at the inn, Lucy noticed this as soon as the stage rotated around her. Now it
was becoming furnished, with bits here and there, from all corners of the world. Portraits of
historians and great men, potions and potted Wisteria flowers growing in clay pots attached to
the ceiling with chains, thick rugs and many dusty books adorned the abode. A tattered leather
armchair was in the corner; a tartan blanket and a pair of reading glasses nested in the armrest
while their owner sat on the firm bed with clean sheets, trying to tell a tale of heroism through
a play of shadows and colors, to the joy of the tot lying under the blanket. His feet kicked
under the sheets, his jaw slack and his almond eyes sparkling whenever something exciting
occurred.
Do that again! He said as the heroine in the story summoned her pet hawk. Stella obliged
with the widest smile Lucy ever saw (she had hardly any idea her lips could stretch that way).
As the bird of prey landed on the girls gauntlet for a second time, the child could barely
contain his enthusiasm. He reached out to touch the projection only to misjudge that it had
the intangible texture of mist. After falling out of his bed right over Stellas lap, he cursed the
floor as he hit his head against it. Tut-tutting, his matron picked him up by the armpits and
placed him into bed. For this, she earned a small peck on the cheek.
Gnight, mom, he said and covered his head. This melted her heart.
Lucretia listened to the whispering air. It held her teachers voice within its chilling inlays and
undertones the color of amethyst. In the beginning, she struggled to hear the buried thoughts,
but as they linked a chain of remorse, the words were virtually booming under the base of her
skull.For once, I didnt care what the Gods had to say. I had forgotten about them as much
as a pious disciple could allow herself to, without being called a heathen. Each year, they
said what will happen to us. Each year, at the Festival of Light. They spoke terrible things,
visions of the task I needed to fulfill. My soul nearly shattered. Not from exhaustion, but from
defeat. I tried to defy the Gods before, and they made me pay dearly. And now now they
went out of their way to make me give my life to you. No no, thats not the right phrasing. I
already did give my life to you. How could I not? You were my world.
She helped him pack for his journey to Gods-know-where. His suitcase was open on his bed,
filled with corduroy and linens, some sheets of paper with speeches lovingly handwritten with
ink, a hat in case it was hot, boots in case it was cold she clasped the case tight and reached
to find the leather bind, to secure the contents further. Meanwhile, the young Xexarian,
already established as The Last Xexarian at his age, sulked in the corner and refused to look at
her. He complained about travelling to Birch, about talking to Alistair, about needing to make
a speech even though he was terrified of public speaking. Stella gripped his hand and
promised him it would be fine, that she would stand by his side and whisper the words if he
forgot them. The boy was Brimstones hope, after all. Such prestige could not be wasted, and
he could stand to comb his hair before the sermon this time.
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The Xexarian complained. He, the hero and the Son of the Wind, did not want all the titles.
He did not want to be a hope for Brimstone. He wanted to be a hero, just like those in Stellas
stories, just like those in the scriptures, and like that play they watched last night! Yes, those
were true heroes, not some boy up on a podium, prattling what Stella wrote and the Kings
Hand approved. There were dragons to tame, false Kings to slay Heaven stood for a million
years, and could be left alone a million more!
Stella pulled him closer and embraced him tightly, assuring him that he was already a hero
to her, the greatest hero of their time. He accepted this gleefully and finally hugged her in
return.
Lucretia couldnt help but to notice that the room was even more decorated now. Vases, pots,
kettles and cupboards, all designs more detailed than the last time she saw them, up until
where she could see the building dust inside the rosewood inlays on the coffee table, and how
the bed sheet hem frayed and tore away from the cotton on the left side.
Reaching Zephyrs Field was our ultimate goal, and I prayed and wished with all my soul
that we would see it together. I hoped the Gods made a mistake when they said I would not
walk by your side once we reached the pearly gates. And this, not because I wanted Heaven,
not because I was tired of the mortal plane. If we reached the Gods domain, I would not live
a thousand years. You would not live a hundred. We would be equals in age and life span. I
would always know you lived long enough to leave this accursed world. I would not outlive
you. The voice was strained, choking on tears she was too proud to release, holding back
emotion drawn out by the lifetime presented in seconds. One moment, a boy could scurry and
sing and play like a pup. The next moment he would be off into the wild, vulnerable to it,
vulnerable to all the pleasures and blights it gave. People hurried into the inn; all ragged and
battle-scarred, misfits and renegades who found a home within the hollow room, stuffed littleby-little with dishes and clothing, shields and swords, ray guns and tanks and towering
cannons. The contents morphed, people too, but the universal constant of this room was Stella
and her child who lead the Outcasts as Brimstones most dysfunctional family of freedom
fighters.
I would not outlive you, Stella said while Aaron grew before Lucretias eyes. I would not
outlive you, she said while the number of people in the inn dropped down from twenty to
eight. I would not outlive you, she whimpered, when the Outcasts headquarters were left
barren; the cannon and the team teleported into an undisclosed location, leaving dust and
empty chairs behind.
But I have.
The voice was no longer present, and only now existed as a silent reverberation; a muted
record playing in Lucretias mind while she stepped into the circle where the cannon stood.
Sequoia floorboards seemed darker and polished in the spot it occupied; the dust collected at
the rim, thick as her thumb, gray as her matrons eyes. Her feet brought in the soot onto the
middle of the moon-shaped space

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 then she looked up to the walls.

Copper and rust was the primary color, and the round laboratory took on itself the color of
fear a ruddy, dark pigment worn to brown with neglect. The area was round but stuffed with
machinery until it resembled a square, tight and stuffy, too narrow to walk about without
knocking over a toolbox, or flicking a switch. Paintings of great thinkers Dennison, Hughes
and Whitehill, as far as Lucretia could recognize were framed in twisting copper branches,
knitting together and crocheting a pattern similar to that of her classroom desk. The hues of
the portraits were mushroom and beige, stained and shred after years of disrespect for the arts.
This is why Lady Hughes, posing with her chin on her hand, had a thick black line of oil
across her neck in the diagonal line identical to the cut of the whirring apparatus pushed
slightly to the side. Neon lightning was contained in a tube, dancing and whirring, spinning as
a tornado inside the concealed chamber, burning hot and warming the area. It emitted a faint
glow and illuminated the switches and dials, tubes spinning like clockwork, meshes of white
and brown, rust and polish, chiming bells and murmuring engines. The boxy contraptions had
iridescent spheres on them; the colors within shifted like the rainbow inside a bubble, and
held inside of them chemicals and crafted weapons never fired before. Cogs and gears
connected into circuits as complimenting puzzle pieces. The machines were bloodied with
corrosion, an orange tint washing over their panels facing the walls. It was at this moment that
Lucretia wondered if these machines surrounding her were organic, and forced to serve
Aarons crew against their will. Towering and clumping together, pressing her form without
even moving to her, the laboratory became the fuel for nightmares, too alien and too strange
to look away from, and all too new to stare at without feeling claustrophobic. Lucys jarred
eyes took in every last ominous dial calling for doomsday. Her heartbeat matched the ticking
bombs in the making. Her veins matched the twisting electrical cords and her breathing as as
hot as the air surrounding the vessel of lightning. This room was forever in her being now;
aggressively burrowing its shape into the deep recesses of her mind, pulling apart her
memories whole to fit inside. Pounding, her head carried the weight of this new place, and all
of a sudden her body was surging with rust under her skin, and copper on her tongue.
I see it Lucretia said.
When Stella took away the crystal shard and clasped it in her hand, Lucretia still envisioned
the memory of the laboratory. Standing hunched, fists clenched and knees bent, the young
Dryad barely contained her excitement, dread, and endless relief of finally finding what she
needed to find.
I see it now, she said. Tubes and cogs, wires and bombs, ticking, ticking Its all clear
When she turned she saw that her matron had taken off her gloves to place her hand into the
torch fire. Her hand was white and pink; the skin on her fingers no longer raw but now
covered with white ash, forming a bump in the place where her ring dug deep into her skin
and was never extracted. The gem fell off, but the band remained, and rippled the bubbling
skin. Stella took away the crystal, now fully white, and held it to her hip.

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Doesnt that hurt? Lucretia was afraid to point at the raw palm, the mangled, misshapen
digits.
Like Hell, Stella said, wiping away a salt trail on her cheek. Her eyes were swimming in
lines and pools of exhaustion, narrowed in misery when they saw her son lying on the slab.
Serena had told her she was to give her life, to give everything for him
Yet she never expected this. She knew this is what the cruel Gods planned, but the extent of
their cruelty was always questioned, always reduced by the benefit of the doubt. Her hand
shook around the hot crystal and her eyes showed weakness; tearful and swollen, locked on
his striped body. Though she was composed, and held herself with a dutiful air of grace,
nobody could look into her eyes and say that she was not in mourning, that she was not
suffering loss as great as anybodys. Her pain was strong and roared inside her, and this
Lucretia knew.
This is why her tangerine hands came around Stellas white knuckles, keeping the white shard
so it wouldnt fall from her palm. When their eyes met, Lucretia asked what she could do for
her.
When Im finished, get Aaron and his team to the laboratory. The only other person aware of
its location is buried under fifteen feet of boreal snow. Put your magic to good use. Most
importantly, make sure Aaron gets out of Encantadia before anybody else sees what I have
done.
Questions, as rubble, piled inside Lucretias mind, yet instead of asking for an elaboration she
merely nodded. For Aaron, she would leave her stubbornness behind and do as she was told.
Her matron respected her obedience, and nodded as she walked to Aarons cadaver.
You remind me of myself, Lucretia. Even if weve never agreed on anything, Ive always
admired your resolve.
Normally, Lucretia would have taken offense to being compared to Stella Forrester, the frigid
and stubborn doyenne of Encantadia. On this day, however, the comparison was the highest
honor that could have been bestowed upon her. When the white mage stood above the
Xexarian, her face stiff and the pointed shard risen above his blackening chest, a cold lump of
coal dove from Lucys throat and into the pit of her stomach. There, it festered and boiled,
making her look away right as Stellas arm lifted to impale him.
Their minds were still connected, possibly with the flickering flames, maybe by some other
mental bond forged by sudden understanding and words of trust. Inside of Lucretias head,
Stellas recollections flew, speaking in familiar tongues of slave masters, pirates and Kings,
trying to hold her down and break her spirit. They climbed and doubled over one another,
varying in intensity while holding the same message; she was an Outcast, an outcast from
birth, she should die hated and alone, she should die in rags and filth, she should die of
poison, she should die of flames, she should die, she should die, she should die!

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You delusional bitch!-LAZY SLUT!-You are a disgrace to all of Saga!-Go back to

Marchwood!-Youre holding him back. He doesnt need you!-You are no different from a
shivering lunatic in an asylum!-BURN IN HELL YOU COW!-Put yourself out of your
misery.- Slaves are not men once a dog, always a dog. -What does this life offer you?
Why cling to it? What can a washed-up charlatan like you want out of it?
And then, as the shard cut the skin and muscle, Lucy heard her Ladys voice through a
clenched jaw, gritted teeth, and an untied and honest tongue;
I want my son back.
Her checkered pupils met above her nose. The impact was blunt, like flesh against stone,
when she collapsed over her childs carcass. Once again, madness was silenced.
/***/
Twittering overhead, birds of golden plumage descended upon the new mounds shoulder,
across the rise of her back, on her raw-knuckled hands which pulled at the grass blades. The
birds took strips of hair in their beaks, curious about the phantom straw and its diamond glow.
Talons dug into creases and wings flapped in confusion, later in fright after Stella lifted her
chin to shoo them. Her eyes spoke of wonder and pain when she threw them over the warped
hills, the sea of golden grass, the spirits of the forest jumping and losing themselves in the
shrubs. Those restless eyes agitated the swallows, and they swept up, up, to the white sky,
writhing as feathered serpents.
Using her left arm as leverage, the Dryad pushed herself up to view Moksha further.
It was beautiful, and made her heart stop beating.
Soft and sinuous, the grass moved on its own accord, regardless of the path set by the wind.
Her fingers sank within the strips of wheat-colored blades, softer than any silk she wore.
Warmth consumed her body, enveloping it tightly as a glove, building up a sense of calm and
wonder. The pasture spread over for miles, it seemed, yet there was instability on the ground,
as though she was standing on ice. Moksha was often described as a floating isle, sailing on
the white mist which came cloying its edges. The far corners had a milky quality to them;
smooth and glimmering, hazy to mask the beasts jumping from them. Animal spirits, in forms
of deer and antelopes with bells on their antlers, leapt and frolicked about, hunting for
whichever prey they imagined before disappearing in a glow. They sank into the golden grass,
came up to the sky, disappeared in the mist and ran again, free as Gods roaming the world.
Nothing hindered them, no laws and no gravity, and Stella was touched at the sheer lightness
of their movement. Unrestrained, coming undone, they were flying around her while she still
struggled to walk. Melodies of the spirit world bubbled from the smoothened edges of this
Xexarian afterlife. They rippled, transforming into voices and whispers, the gentlest notes of a
clavichord brought in the footsteps of the phantasm deer. It was everything she imagined
everything described in the books and she hadnt recognized it.

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The grass was described as the color of the desert sky in the Third Scroll, verified by the
priests of Ardyle. She had always imagined it blue, as consequence. The significance of her
arrival had increased tenfold; failure was no option now, when the fate of Brimstone depended
on her finding Aaron. Her heart was swelling inside of her chest, and she pushed a hand to it
to keep it silent. Moksha was no Heaven, no Hell and no purgatory for the Xexarian souls. It
was an ethereal state, a Limbo where the souls of the departed would wane and reflect, exist
among free spirits until they decided to disappear for good. Only other living Xexarians could
communicate to those detached spirits. Stella hoped, begged the Gods that Aaron was still
within Moksha, and not transfigured into plasma and gossamer.
She called for him, taking a step. Aaron! His name carried for miles, echoed and frightened
the animals. Startled, they disappeared left and right, dipped into the ground so the voice
wouldnt touch them. Noise came, spun, cut through the grass and pushed through the white
fog, only to tip from the edges of the flying world. The name was lost in silence. AARON!
Stella was beginning to think she came too late.
Panic was not the emotion she was experiencing. Instead it was grief, it was loss, it was being
lost in itself. Wheat fields forever. Wheat fields and jumping deer; the bells upon branched
horns chimed, smaller than beads, but in her mind they clanged as a calling to a funeral. Misty
eyes failed to see another figure. Moksha was empty of all Xexarian life now, as it had been
some time since the others died. Being the ill-fortuned people of a free nation, the Xexarians
were notorious for never staying in one place too long. Stella took a deep breath and called his
name, praying Aaron could have stayed this long.
AARON! Nobody answered; nobody heard. Aaron!
The Gods have given her one task in her lifetime to protect the Last Xexarian through any
means that came to her, even at the cost of her life. And then, as she stumbled and helplessly
scanned for her child, it was clear that they had trusted the wrong person. Her chest was tight,
and she felt as though they had trapped her in an iron maiden. The final attempt was said in a
whisper, while her bottom lip trembled. At that moment, even the deep stopped fearing her
words, and instead watched her with curious eyes. Stella recognized those gazes as affections
of pity.
Raem
Nothing appeared, and she turned away.
Her cupped hand under her eyes was meant to collect her tears. It remained dry as a bone, and
she moved it as soon as her hoary ears picked up a small, familiar sound.
Mom!
In a whirlwind, she turned and saw her child Raemskal in his purest form, as a child she
knew before he was dubbed the Last Xexarian, while he still answered to her name, while he
loved life and tales of history. He appeared as a child of seven, his hair too short to braid yet,
his eyes full of life and wonder. Small hands grasped the horns of the antelope he rode on;
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smaller fingers played with the bells. As soon as he saw her, he jumped from the phantoms
back and rushed to the Dryad. The smile on his face could have made Frost Peak melt.
Mom!
It has been too long since he hugged her as tightly. She was at a loss when he crushed her ribs,
but when he looked up with those adoring eyes, reciprocating the gesture came as reflex. With
little effort, she lifted him off the ground and spun him. Raemskal! Her laughter was
infectious. Ive missed you!
Mom, Im getting dizzy! He cackled and she lowered him, knelt in front of him, cupped his
cheek while he smiled into the palm of her hand. His skin was smooth, stretched tightly over
his cheekbones, and she felt the fine downy hairs spread in a patch next to his ear, the grainy
texture of the tiger-like markings over his neck. Running an index finger over his undefined
jaw line, she remembered how tolerant he was of her affectionate touches. Years after he
became aware of his legacy, every contact was met with hesitation, rolling eyes and
embarrassment. These moments became a precious rarity as a result, and experiencing them
again made her feel a wave of wistful nostalgia like walking into a beloved family house,
stripped bare of furniture but not of family portraits.
Unable to speak of her arrival, she shook her head and looked to the sky. Sweet Serena
Aaron looked up as well, curious to see if the Goddess of Light lingered above them on a
tether somewhere. As he watched, Stellas gaze lowered and she smiled at her child. Thank
you. Whether those words were addressed to the Goddess or the Xexarian was a fact which
remained indeterminate. Sobering up quickly, she took Aarons Raemskals narrow
shoulders and commanded him to look at her with one wordless gaze.
Im Im so glad I found you here.
Proffering his arm behind him, he pointed at the galloping deer, jumping out of Stellas line of
sight. Theyre telling me to play with them some more. Do you wanna play, too? Were
gonna have so much fun here! We can be explorers again!
Laughing softly to herself, Stella promised that he would have many opportunities to explore
elsewhere, in Brimstone, where his friends and allies await him. She wondered if this much
younger version of her son remembered his duties and responsibilities. Had he any
recollection of the mortal realm? Surely he remembered her well enough to call her his
mother, but to what extent did he choose to reflect on his memories? The boys remembrance
was clear as day and fresh in his mind, as his smile receded into his mouth at the mention of
Brimstone.
Cant they go on without me? Id rather stay here, with you and the animals.
She didnt even need to move her head or say a word. Her lips tightened, and he already knew
that the answer would be negative. His eyes were downcast as he mulled over her expression.

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Thats not fair Im not happy there anymore. I dont want to worry all the time, to feel
guilty whenever I mess up. Im free here. Its almost as good as the Field isnt it? And they
wont miss me too much, either.
Of course they will. They love you, and need your guidance. Youre the only one capable of
performing such a task. Think of the greatness, the riches, and the rewards that will come to
you after you make this historical step. Reaching Heavens Apex is no small feat, Raemskal.
Or are you Aaron Kronos now? Perhaps its time for me to let you go
Your power to unify the downtrodden will change the world as we know it. This isnt only
about Zephyrs Field. Its about the Outcasts, the unfortunate and the long-forgotten. Aaron
Kronos is a warrior for justice, a hero to all! Dont you like being Aaron Kronos anymore?
There was a time when you only wanted to be known as such.
The boy extended his hands to both sides, ambivalent about the name and trying his hardest to
word his opinion on it. It was fun at first. But everything became so serious. People started
fighting over it, I lost my friends because of it. Im not even sure who my friends are,
anymore. I like the people I know, but I wouldnt trust them.
His speech, wording and rationale came off as fairly simplified, dulled down to the very
basics of a childs understanding. Perhaps this was a coping mechanism. Xexarians were
always known as people of pleasure and blitheness. Their afterlife would bring calm to their
souls in a way. Foregoing an adults manner of thought seemed to put him at ease. You really
were much happier before all this, werent you? Of course you were. We both were.
But life goes on, through the will of the Gods. We cannot dawdle and look behind us. We have
no such luxury.
You have friends who believe in you, and companions who would give their lives to aid you.
You have made a bigger impact on the world than you think. For once, the little people of
Brimstone have a voice.
Cant they use their own voices? He seemed irritable, as if continuing on with his life was a
mild inconvenience keeping him from playing. I dont like all the responsibility. I never did.
Whenever something bad happens, its always my fault!
And whenever something good happens, Stella interrupted, people chant your name and
write songs in your honor.
Raemskal bit the fingernail on his thumb, thinking about the music. He liked the songs, he
always has. Many bards who wrote those ballads in his honor all met their demise for being
his companions for too long. His thoughts wandered over to Freya, her melodious tunes and
her quick step, the jolly in her laughter taken away at once by a fire. If he had been quicker
if he had rushed into the building a second sooner

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His head began to hurt, and the animals lifted their heads up and fled when the ground started
to shake. Stella placated him when she took his head in her palms, and the troubling thoughts
of Freyas death were silenced, just barely.
You cannot blame yourself for everything the world gives you. Youll go mad if you do.
There are plenty of people willing to call you awful, terrible things. Theyll say youre
incompetent and weak, unskilled and whatever other lies they think of. There will always be
people who will want nothing in their lives but to harm you. Pulling him closer to her, she
pressed his cheeks to grab his attention. There was boiling determination in her gray eyes. His
lips parted in awe. People will be cruel, and they will find any way to hurt you. Dont ever
let yourself be one of them. No matter how much difficulty you face, dont ever give up hope.
Stand for your convictions because they are yours. Fight for your life, because its yours. You
make your own choices, and you pay your own debts. You cant help everyone, Raem. And if
you try to, you will only make a mess of yourself. Focus on your destiny. Not only because
youre the Last Xexarian, or because of some some omnipotent being who wrote the
vellums and parchments we use to follow its dogma.
She released him, and left dark prints on his cheeks. He rubbed them to regain the feeling in
his face, and stepped back when she stood on her feet again; proud and stoic, akimbo with
arms on her hips. Her expression was no longer weepy or wistful, as there was nothing but
will in her eyes. She extended her hand to him, and he hesitated before grabbing it.
Pulling him closer, she made sure her next words would be clear and powerful. Youre
somebody the Gods chose because you are worthy of seeing their expert creation. You are
strong enough. You are good enough. Most importantly, no matter how you might feel about
the name, you are Forrester enough.
He nodded once as she smiled.
I raised my son as a hero. And I couldnt be prouder of him.
It was the second time he had hugged her, and she felt the drape of her gown go wet with the
salt of his tears. She hoped they were joyful. There was no time to enjoy this sentiment, as it
was almost time to send him back to the living. Now go, she clapped the side of his back
and turned him away from her, to the fogdog glowing in the mist, above the edge of the
floating island. The path was laden with barrows, free spirits and clanking bells. He looked
ready to run, to leap back into life and face reality as he wanted to; as a hero in his own merit,
as Brimstones inspiration, as a man who lived for nobody.
Go, Stella commanded, stepping back to make the departure easier for her. Run as fast as
you can!

He ran and fled, arms flailing and feet walking on air. A ball of energy, a gust of wind, rapt
and ready to grab life by the coattails and ride it out until victory, glory, whatever it had for
him. Stella could hear the rustling of the grass wherever he planted his footfalls, see the flash
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of his ochre skin. Inch by inch, mile by mile, her son disappeared out of her sight, and the
noise of his glee was replaced with the howling wind augmented by the faint, ringing bells.
She sat criss-cross on the ground and planted her arms in between her thighs, on the many
creases of her gown. She watched the land of gold and rye, the land named Moksha, and
smiled to herself at how her mission came to an end.
Her boy only looked back to shout something in gratitude. She had not heard him, but the
echoing wind and the chiming animals distorted his words just enough for her to hear
goodbye, mom, and she could live with these being the last words hed say to her.
She was amazed to discover that she lived in a world where the word goodbye actually
meant I love you.
A tear came down to her cheek, she wiped it off. I love you too, my son. The words were
barely audible, and she believed that this was something he already knew.
In seconds, Aarons body would accept the crystal shard, as well as her soul and lifeblood.
Her lifetime would fuel him for years, decades to come. In return, all she needed to do was
give away her life, and offer her Dryad spirit in exchange for his. Things were better this way,
she decided as the lukewarm sun illuminated the platinum in her hair. Her eyes were blinded;
cataracts spread as spider webs around and through her pupils. Raw, bony hands shook and
grew cold, and she rubbed them absentmindedly while she considered her accomplishments.
The doyenne of Encantadia. The former premier of the land. An ambassador, a tutor, a mother,
an astute advisor, a planner and coordinator, an iron woman with a fulfilled vendetta, a
woman as soft as she was abrasive, as dark as she was light. Her history dragged her further
down the road of her achievements, and she started to wonder how many triumphs she had
forgotten about. She was a beggar and thief, a freedom fighter and a mad zealot, a student of
Brimstone history, a slave, a runaway, an accomplice, a murderer, a wanderer. She spoke to
Gods and they spoke back; she spoke to people and they ignored her. A chill crept up her
spine, turning it to waning ice. Though she could have done many things in one lifetime, she
was satisfied with her exploits.
She was a Zephyr, a goddess, a saint, a witch, a sorceress, a sinner, an illusionist, an artiste
and a philosopher a woman through and through, and a lover of life.
It was because of her that Encantadia had the Festival of Light. It was because of her that
Aaron didnt suffocate in the ash and smoke. It was she who caused the downfall of the
Rotarum brothers. Could she have done more? Should she have done more? In five hundred
years, many were able to do great things. In her physical prime, she could have easily lived
centuries more. But no matter how long her list of accomplishments was, the Gods had
pegged her as a woman on the sidelines, giving a fighting chance to those greater than her.
It was an unfortunate destiny, she thought as her white knuckles turned to bone. Yet those
were bestowed upon many, and she was not inclined to say if she was worthy of them. She
looked far, far into the precipice, long after Aaron jumped off from it and into his freedom. As

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the spirit tore her, piece by piece, taking her body to fly away with the wind, she hoped that
she had done well with the boy.
He would outlive her.
At the very least, this notion comforted her during her final moments of sentience.
Her hair was the first to go with the breeze. Layer after gossamer layer, her body peeled from
the hard muscle, first as a shell and then as a dragonfly. Wings burst out and she fluttered,
succumbing to her mortality, accepting beautiful entropy. Jewels carried no weight and
disappeared, as did her silk gown. Skin shed from her body, bloodless and wispy, and she felt
nothing while she vanished in a flurry of light.
Her eyes were the last to go with the spirits of Moksha, to the white sky. The last image she
saw was the afterlifes endless plane fading into darkness.
Deer and antelope frolicked in their empty world again. The bells on their antlers rattled and
rang, empty of substance.
/***/
The zest for life left as soon as he saw Stellas lifeless body slumped over him. When he tried
to move, glass stabbed him in the chest and made him howl in pain, clutch his sides to see the
gap in which something was growing, healing, and pressing his skin together until he could
hardly breathe. It was Lucretia who helped him pull Stellas body away, and who helped him
on his feet. Youre alive, she said, matter-of-factly, with no particular warmth or coldness to
her voice. A person she admired had died before her eyes, and was then replaced by a notable
woman of esteem. It made no difference in the end. She witnessed two deaths, and this left
her numb to everything else.
Come on. She gave him no time to grieve, not even as he tried to comprehend what had
happened. The visions of Moksha were deleted from his mind. Stellas hands, her speech, the
speed of his gallop towards humanity all gone in an instant, when her sacrifice dawned on
him.
Despite Lucretias protest, he took Stella in his arms to take her out of the cave. Her body was
heavy, limbs flailing while he carefully stepped forward. His head spun and his knees shook,
yet he composed himself.
He was a Forrester in some part, after all. Not in flesh and blood, but in spirit and gut.
A Dryads corpse shone in death, as some beacon of moonlight. This was a piece of
information he would have otherwise found very interesting, had he not been in the position
to care for the body. The white glow radiating from her skin helped the two navigate to the
caves exit, and they walked in a deathly silence, heads down and weary beyond words.
Lucretia was the first to see the exit, and the first to speak to Aaron.

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I hope you were worth it. Her voice was equal parts fire and ice, and Aaron could not reply
proper.
He wished he was. The longer he wished, though, the more he doubted it.

Chapter XVI: Exile Vilify

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She had been told to put her magic to good use.

She had been told to keep Stellas death a secret from anybody willing to pry.
She had been told to keep Aaron safe, to memorize the location of his hideout, to save his
team and bring them to safety, to place the weight of the departed doyenne on her shoulders
and carry it as some beast of burden. Save Aarons Outcasts, keep quiet and, by the Gods,
dont let Pickering find out!
The resurrection ritual had taken longer than expected. Aaron and Lucretia set out from the
undergrowth, Stellas listless corpse hanging from Aarons hands. Squinting while their eyes
adjusted to the burning mid-morning sunlight, they walked right in front of Aarons entire
team; Pickering stood at the back before he saw them, and then pushed between Riker and
Maggie to look. His lilac eyes were glassy, almost transparent in the yellow sunlight, and their
vacancy complimented his pallid complexion, his trembling jaw, his shaking hands.
My Lady His guileless feet halted when he wanted to run; his stupid mouth dried up as he
wanted to scream. Fingertips still jolting with an invisible energy, he reached over to Stella
and winced, pulling his arm back when he witnessed the wraithlike glow hovering across her
body. The young Dryad witnessed only a handful of faerie deaths in his lifetime, but he knew
of the eerie shimmer of corpses, and he knew how the Sheeban graveyards struck out of the
soil with sloping mounds. They collected the milk of moonlight, painting the graves white
until the ground looked like it was aflame. Stella Forrester was reclining before his eyes the
beautiful, genius, altruistic, world-loving, flawless Stella Forrester and she too took on the
heavenly light across her silken skin. His cry of anguish was muffled by a palm pressed to his
mouth. By the Gods no! He clasped his hand and began to cry. No!
Behind him, the Outcasts reacted, their reflexes were muted with familiarity of death. Pion
and Fafnir lived lives paved with doom and disaster, so they could look at the scene with no
shock or disgust. Sitkan warriors never touched the dead, and the Karaktaians had them
burned at makeshift pyres so as not to move them. Lattika and Archer scowled at the sight of a
man cradling the body like some groom might have held a bride. Revulsion overpowered
sorrow at once, yet the sentiments leveled the longer they thought of whose body the
Xexarian carried. Maggie was the last to realize what had happened to the matron. Part of her
still believed she was merely unconscious. She grabbed Rikers shirt and buried her head in
the nook of his human arm; he folded it around her. She expected sadness to come, but it
never did. At that point she was mostly tired; tired of losing, tired of giving away, tired of her
team growing smaller, growing apart.
Rikers wide-eyed, stoic shock was based around something primal, perhaps selfish as well.
Among the lot, he was a man-machine, a technological marvel that was lucky to be alive at
all. Dryads were perfection, long-lived and healthy, barely mortal. Witnessing one of them
cross the great divide made him fully aware of his decomposing body, his frail human
constitution mismatched with rusted gears

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Death was inevitable, and that was the truth he could never accept. At that moment, this very
truth was staring into his core, promising the same fate down the line. He wished that Aaron
had shut her eyes before picking her up. They exuded death, and it felt thick as smog inside of
his chest.
None of them gave a second thought to Aaron, who in reality used every ounce of his selfcontrol not to drop the body and flee to a far-away location, where death never existed and he
had no expectations to meet. Blocking out all visceral sensation holding back looks of panic,
odium, woe he decided to follow the example of the greats and carry on as if the world
wasnt crashing around him. In a word, he was numb. Pickerings blubbering never reached
his ears.
My Lady! Stella! He fell on his knees, shoulders jolting as though he tried to shake away a
cumbersome knapsack. Quivering hands covered his face and his voice cracked, but nobody
believed he was truly crying. His words were too eloquent, his eyes too clear. Who did this
to you? Stella, you promised you promised me the Gods were wrong! The visions meant
nothing! We would have lived a thousand years, my Lady! We would have you would have
lived! We would have found the Field together, and you would have loved me! You needed to,
Stella! You had to love me!
Lattika and Fafnir exchanged a glance, filled to the brim with fright, and without a word they
stepped back in unison. The distance made the sobs bearable, though not for long, as each
heaving sigh and weeping declaration of undying love came harder, louder, more desperate.
The small Dryad spoke of camaraderie, of marriage, of children and old age they should have
met together. The amount of detail which went into the lament made Riker cringe.
You cant leave me now. Not after everything weve been though! He cried into the ground,
pounding his fist against it. Nobody stopped the tantrum; nobody dared to speak through the
agony in his voice. You love me, you love me, you had to love me! I was always there, I
always cared for you, even when you abandoned me even when you abandoned Saga
even when you had nothing left, you had me! Why didnt you live, Stella?! Why didnt you
live for me?!
The Gods outrank you, Green, Lucretia said, ice in her voice reminiscent of the matron. She
made Aaron look to her in surprise, and normally she would have swooned over the attention.
Now she had more important matters at hand than inane follies of love. Her arms folded over
her struck-out chest. Move away, and let me do what she commanded me to.
You dont know what its like to live for somebody else, he said, and looked up at her with
red eyes. Disgusting bile with the texture of adhesive ran from his nostrils. His round face had
swollen up and his eyes sank deep into it. Skewed lips roamed across his trembling chin. The
formidable outburst was rendered wet and pathetic by the onslaught of tears. Stella loved
me! I loved her! I would have given her the world! She was perfect
He heaved, voice catching on a shard of ice in his throat. She was perfect for me!

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Lucretia leered, blowing air out of her nose. Get a grip, Pickering. You dont have the
slightest clue of who she loved. Her eyebrows knotted above her tired eyes, which stared at
Green and spewed contempt all the while. Whats more, you didnt know anything about her.
If you did, truly, youd never say she was perfect.
The trees withered and the arid heat began to suffocate Maggie. She rubbed her throat,
looking at sparrows flee from their muddy nests, squawking in panicked bursts. The flock
flew in twos, haphazardly at first, and then Maggie noticed that their flight corresponded with
Pickerings heaving. Cold sweat burst at her brow. We should we should take her home
Encantadia was her home, Pickering said in a dull voice, never for a second looking behind
him. How could you do this to her, after all shes done for you?! It was unclear who he was
speaking to.
It was her sacrifice. Lucretia was persistent. This was her plan.
Clenching his teeth to the point of grinding, Pickeering bent his knees and covered his ears.
Frantic cries carried hysteria, and evicted the remaining creatures in the woods. Lies, lies,
LIES LIES LIES! You did this! He pointed at Aaron, who looked as though he was
sentenced to be hanged. If it werent for you, if it werent for you He growled now; a
beastly, guttural noise. When he recovered, he still pulled at his grass-colored locks with one
hand, checkered eyes spinning in madness. To think I comforted you! You did this to her!
You you MURDERER!
Aaron isnt a murderer! Maggie spoke up through the rustling leaves, the squawks, the
thundering skies turning a grayed shade of orange. Branches twisted at their tips, ebony black
and crumpling. Her cherry locks flew in a cascade around her pallid face, and she felt as
though she was caught in a fire. Youre losing your mind. Pickering, please, listen to him!
Im not taking orders from a fucking half-breed! Stay back and shut up!
An arrow ran into her heart at those words. Her mouth dried up as desert soil.
Riker grabbed the Dryad by his throat, lifting him off the ground as if he were a wet rag. Their
faces meshed, and Pickering scowled at the mechanics stiff expression, his gritted teeth.
Metal fingers poked through his neck.
You better watch your damn mouth, Riker warned. Just as he prepared to say another vague
threat, an unbearable heat began to coil through his bonds. Inches of titanium were inches of
magma now. The gears were ash and cinder and the heat spread from his fingers to his wrist,
then the mechanism in his forearm. It whirred and bellowed, steaming until the pressure
almost burst through the paneled layers of metal. A fire raged and stuffed his limb, every
second more unbearable. When the sensation reached his organic flesh, the spot where the
neck met the shoulder, Riker released Pickering from his grasp and reached for the grafted
skin on his chest. It bristled and bubbled, boiling from the inside.

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Dont you dare touch me, DONT YOU DARE TOUCH ME! Pickering freed himself and
clenched his fists, glaring at the towering Macros searing pain. The dew on the grass turned
to steam around them, and the ground scorched to nothingness where Pickering stood. His
movements were no longer stiff, his voice not meek, and his skin no longer lilac. Animated,
ferocious and red in the face, Pickering continued to rage at Aaron and his teammates,
spewing profanities right and left. Youre all murderers, all of ya! Half-breeds and Sevvys
and the Syth, THE FUCKING SYTH! It makes me sick! His index finger swung from
Maggies to Lattikas, and he audibly gagged. Your freedom fighters make me puke on the
best of days but this! This is fucking vile! No wonder your world wants you dead you
lying, stealing, MURDERING son of a bitch! The sky painted itself the color of hellflames.
Insanity came and swept Pickering in a wave of grief, and he exploded into a chaotic fury. It
reminded Riker of a timed bomb, and Archer experienced war flashbacks of land mines in nomans land.
Lucretia knew better than the rest of them, especially seeing how the mans skin was now
painted red as the dying sun. Tightness shuffled inside her chest, and sweat broke out of her
tangerine dress in tacky wet patches. The air was too thick to breathe so she held her breath
until she felt dizzy from suffocation. Under her legs, it felt as though the whole of Saga sank
into a void, and it very well might have.
She remembered that multi-liners, as Stella called them, would be Sheebas with multiple
powers coming from a certain Dryadic bloodline. The Sheebas themselves were only unified
by name and territory this was a place where the blood mixed in a melting pot, and the
worlds most powerful mages could resign with benign, pastel-colored faeries of the woods.
Pickerings multi-lined appearance was deceiving, and the memory of his clan crept into her
mind. On her fathers side, he might have had intelligence, passion, bigotry even. Yet on his
mothers side, he held the genes of the most bloodthirsty pyromancers ever to pass through
the realms of magic.
Stella stays here, he demanded, arms contorting towards Aaron and her. Even if I gotta
force her outta your charred dead hands!
The first thing she saw was hellfire flying from his palms.
The second, a flash of cyan.
She was in the laboratory then; wincing in pain as she landed on a sentry gun, cracking a rib
which felt close to bursting right out of her side. Cluttered among her were the Outcasts, all
weary and stupefied over the abrupt change of surroundings. Lush green was replaced with
brass and cogs, and they looked around to see who made it to the headquarters. She had no
such luxury, and this she recognized when she looked into Pickerings now-vermillion eyes,
spinning as he crawled to her, pouncing as his body burned as a torch and his maw spread,
revealing pointed teeth ready to burn her, kill her, tear her skin apart - !
The stuff of his flames caught the base, and those who made it out made a hasty retreat. Cyan
complemented the flash of orange flames, and immediately Riker and Maggie worked on
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extinguishing the fire. Aaron ran outside, almost dropping Stella while he carried her out over
his shoulder and
this is just like Freya I couldnt save her this is just like Freya theres fire and smoke
and Im not fast enough not fast enough I cant save her Im too slow and I cannot
save her I wish I could I wish I can but I cant, I cant, I CANT! I killed them, I killed
them, I killed her!
He stopped as he reached the gray iron sky of the Barren Lands, and looked up to the Gods he
believed were watching from above. Ayers, Equiar, Serena, Rowena all of these were empty
names which meant nothing to him now. He now saw them as cruel Gods, and cruel Gods
went against his faith. His eyes were made of glass when he watched the heavens, wondering
what Fate decided for him. What possible destiny could justify the death of all these people?
The thought of Lucretia fighting Pickering somewhere in the great unknown never occurred to
him.
/***/
His head was pounding. Flashing lights pulsed into splotches of color, all shaking and
glowing like specters in his mind. His blood raced to reach every twitching muscle in his
reborn body, and fuel every nerve which burned with the power of flames. He was strong
stronger than the titans who shifted the world and pulled it up from the oceans. The sparks in
his fingers alone held more fury than erupting volcanoes patiently honed for centuries. War
drums banged in the inside of his head, and he had tasted something in his throat, equally vile
as lust and every bit as sweet as vengeance. Swallowing hard, he stood on his feet and faced
the Dryad girl, Lucretia, the only one standing before him and retribution.
She had taken him to a place unknown, where vines interloped into hammocks and supported
the blue skies, where alcoves dug in the undergrowth acted as shallow graves to whichever
explorer fell from starvation. The stench of the wild, the untamed, the unbroken it lingered
and choked him. He kept his distance, showing Lucretia his teeth.
Take us back! His voice was nothing but frenzy, and her gaze was lividness incarnate.
Pickering would then know that fire could never burn an unfeeling stone. Take us back! The
lush brushwood he was tangled into burnt away from his person. Ashes dusted his red face,
the unkempt wisps of hair, the burlap tunic he wore. This spawn of earth and flames looked as
though he could torch the world, but sounded as though he had burned himself in an attempt
to do so. Take us back, take us back, take us back, damn you!
His demands went unnoticed.
Lucretia! Are you deaf or something?! Take us back to that to that killing piece of shit!
Stella wasnt killed, she sacrificed herself! Aaron was the murdered one! Murdered by you
an assassin who looked just like you! The Gods told her to give her life for him and she
obeyed.
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Bullshit! All I know is that the moron is out there celebrating after Encantadias finest turned
into worm food! And that bastard wont even let her body stay in her homeland! Take me back
to him! Take me back so I can grill the piece of shit! His body was set alight again; his body
carried the flames as a torch, as a lighter about to blaze humanity. An amber-colored cobra
slithered to safety when she saw him burn, and the rainforest took upon itself the color red.
The tree sap appeared as blood, and trickled ominously down the baobab trees as liquid
nightmares.
Within this single day, Lucretia decided that she had outgrown dreams. Pickering did not
frighten her. She was the daughter of premier Plamen, Stella Forresters trusted student,
Kronos rescuer. Most importantly of all, she knew the truth. Whether it was love for Kronos,
respect for her tutor or abhorrence towards Pickering Green, something made her narrow her
eyes and hunch, clench her fists and keep her stance wide.
Pickerings rage made his tone high, and his eyes incredulous. Youre mad, he said and
laughed, only choking out one guffaw before returning to a deadpan note. I dont think you
understand how serious I am. I will destroy you. I will burn you if you dont do as I say!
Veins at the side of his temple twitched as he laughed and jittered, his head shaking wildly in
disbelief. You arent serious, you cant be! You cant be. You cant fight me youre
powerless! Disobeying me right now, its madness. Its suicide! Lucy. Lucy, its suicide.
So was Stellas death.
This struck a nerve, and he winced at how bluntly she delivered the verdict. SHUT UP!
Spastic movements turned wilder, more erratic than he could control them. Licks of flames
danced in his eyes, and the dry grass surrounding him turned to nothing but black powder, dry
and dead. Shut up! It wasnt. She didnt! Youre fooling yourself. And youre an idiot for
letting Aaron fool you! She was better than him. She knew that. Shed never give her life for a
worthless piece of shit like Aaron Kronos. No, Lucretia, dont you dare spread those lies.
Youre a liar! Youre a liar and a fucking fool, just like your father!
Youre the fool for thinking you had any relevance to her. Her eyebrows were wiry, and he
only noticed this on account of them always pressing together, always stiff when she looked at
him. You have a right to grieve, but so does Aaron. She was his mother, Pickering. She might
as well have been.
No, Lu, he killed her, he killed her! You dont kill a mother. No, no, No, Lu. Stupid, stupid,
stupid Lu. Horrible, horrible, HORRIBLE!
The ring of fire pushed her aside, and she struck a leaf-covered slab of granite. In a circle, the
flames formed as foam around the crown of his head, bursting with clashing waves. Hues of
orange and red and flaming white burst up into the sky and then lowered, then spread out with
the speed and intensity of his words. The blow knocked her off balance and she steadied
herself, one hand on the sizzling stone. Her hair burned, smelling of toast and oil. Ill ask you
one last time, Lu, he said and approached her while she stood up. Feet unsteady, it took her a
couple of attempts to straighten her back enough so she could look intimidating. In the end,
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her power didnt come from her constitution, but rather from how she was still willing to
stand as others burned her, broke her, and belittled her in their murderous rage.
One last time, Pickering reminded, popping up an index finger. You teleport me to Aaron
Kronos, or so help me God, Ill craft a blade out of nothing but your nails and teeth, and Ill
use it to skin you alive! He marched with all the vigor of a soldier on a rampage, ready to
hunt and destroy. Fire in his eyes never allowed her to think fury had fully consumed him.
There had been a calculating, scrutinizing aspect to his movements. Even when his teeth
clenched hard enough to draw blood from his gums, he still had inquisitive eyes, a steadied
tone, and a gaze that would not keep still. A small part of him never knew such sadism could
exist within, and perhaps this one part feared his unleashed powers. It was silenced, however,
by a surge of vendetta waiting to be fulfilled.
Ill hang you like a dog! He spat acid while he spoke, each word sharper than a chiv. Im
going to hang you by the ankles, naked and charred, from the top of the tallest tower I can
find! Pointing up to the sky, he pulled back his finger and slapped her across the face. She
closed her eyes and continued to stare from beneath her knotted eyebrows. Her balance was
not shaken, and this pulled him further off track. Pacing, flinging his arms in exasperation, he
relished in the goriest details of her death. Ill cut the rope to see how you splatter on the
ground. Yes, yes I will! Ill leave whats left of you for the beasts and theyll use you how
they like. For feeding, fucking ha ha! for whatever use they would have. Youll die, you
will, Ill kill you! Ill kill you how you deserve to be killed! And that wont be even close
what Ill do to Aaron when I track him down! At least theyll find you a tooth or an eye or
bone marrow. With him with him theyll need bloodhounds and telepaths to find whats
left of him! Ill make the Xexarians fucking extinct! Thats what Ill do!
Breathing fast and hard, he pulled himself backwards. Cradling his head in hot, sweaty palms,
he panted and finished his thoughts, without even looking her way. Gods could only imagine
how hideous he looked to her; what dread coiled through her blood.
We dont need to do this, he said, placating himself with bated breath. I can leave you be.
Ill have Aarons head on a pike, and youll save yourself the trouble of coming back to
Encantadia as some burnt remains in a lockbox.
Youre a monster. Her trembling bottom lip made it nigh impossible to speak, and the final
word brought her tremendous pain. This was the same Dryad boy she once found pitiful, weak
and docile. Pickering never thought of himself as some tyrant or beast, yet there he stood in
front of her, promising death and spewing hell as an arcane dragon. As he realized how he
seemed, he straightened his back and finally made eye-contact. Strange, she thought, how he
still slouched even at his best posture.
I loved that woman, you know? I loved her, really. She was everything I cared about. There
was a weeping quality to his voice, and he dispelled it by clenching his fist. It was then that
she realized he didnt know how to handle himself. He was frightened beyond frightened,
and still he needed to continue with his charade, to act as a torturer and aberrant. She knew
full well that those sentiments on Stella were true, and that he had neither the power nor guts
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to do half of what he listed. Momentarily, she felt inexcusably sorrowful, almost pitying him
again.
This passed when he growled and plunged for her neck, pressing hard on her side while his
face was so close he could count the red veins in her eyes. Get me back to Aaron Kornos,
you bitch, get me back to Aaron Kronos! Stella deserves that I bring her to Encantadia! She
deserves it! And Ill give Kronos a quick, painful death, and everything will be fine we
have the Scrolls. We dont need him! We wont! Itll be fine, it will be, it will be, it will be as
soon as I KILL THE SON OF A BITCH!
At that moment, she moved the two of them, and they were spiraling in a vortex of cyan,
falling on the ground in a new location the first which came to mind.
It was the Isle of Marchwood, with the run-down castle and the ebony tree trunk. She looked
at the tree first and Pickering second, right as he began to form an orb of flames within his
two palms.
Ive warned you, he said. But you never listen to me.
The fireball he cast broke through time.
She could not make barriers of light or towers of earth to protect herself, but the one ability
she had was jumping. So she did; across the blazing inferno track he set for her, over the cliffs
heading to an ocean death. She escaped from his sight, teleporting through space, bringing
him to the tops of the towers where he flailed and lost his balance, growled and lost his flames
in a mist. At one moment he stared down from the top of the burnt Marchwood tree, cursing
while he yanked a rope from a branch and cast it at her; a flaming line of hemp. In the next
moment he was in her place the object he threw collided with his mouth and burned his
tongue. With blood in his throat and the taste of cinder under his teeth, he continued to search.
His attacks were scattered haphazardly, wherever he saw her.
Evading his attack, maneuvering expertly across the area forever-mapped in her mind, she
was familiar with every mount, hovel and hiding place. Cyan ribboned the island; her
movements twirling and leaving a trail, soon followed by licks of orange fire. This was the
first time that she realized she had an advantage that there was point to her tiring journey
through the memories of a madwoman. When she ran out of places to run, when the island
fully burned as all seven Hells combined, she whisked them away to another place; to one of
many harbors she saw in Stellas visions. For a moment she began to look for a majestic ship
with wisteria flowers on the sails and a platinum-haired seagull sliding down the ropes. But
she was brought to reality when Pickering cast another ball of fire the merchants and
fishwives and sailors scattered quicker than sand.
Hold still! Pickering demanded and lunged towards her. His palms straight, he pushed back
and forward again; clumps of boiling rage zoomed to Lucretia. She moved away, and the
flames enveloped a feeble old man who dropped his cane and fell, eaten away by the blaze.

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Lucretia turned to see the sight. Mouth parted and chest heaving, she could not believe that
the Pickering cared for nobody. These were humans, true; all non-magical and hopeless, but
still their suffering cut through Lucys heart like a saber. The smell of river brine lingered
even as she transferred them to another place, a snowy mountain high on the edge of the
world. There were still people here, and Pickering couldnt care less about their demise s he
cast his spells.
The human world became nothing but fire. She ran without a clue not, lost in the hues of fire
and blue. Childrens laughter turned to screams wherever they went, some Guards in Callahan
turned their rifles at her, villagers in Karaktau picked up their pitchforks and lunged at them.
One cut the side of Pickerings body the Dryad didnt bleed, barely felt the sting, and still
bothered to press his palm against the farmers face and burn it away in front of his horrified
son. Lucretia saved the mans life as she zapped Pickering away, though she knew that the
man was left mutilated. The grief and guilt made her legs iron and her lungs empty, and after
an hour of running away, Pickering finally caught up with her, somewhere near muddy waters
where the smell of sulfur skinned her nostrils.
It was there where she could no longer recall her memories. All ports were alike, all humans
faceless. The towers of Aura were no different from the filthy vestiges of Sepulchra, the
waters everywhere were murky and laden with monstrous mer-creatures inhabiting the husks
of sunken ships. Her head was spinning and she breathed fast, unable to recall another detail.
If she only concentrated enough, she could sever him away from her, lead him to another
location but the only place on her mind was the laboratory, and she could not deliver this
monster to Aaron. Not now. Not after everything Stella went through to keep him safe.
Whats the matter, Lucy? Pickering asked with his teeth clenched. His skin was a sickly
orange now; his flame burning red. The strip of fire on his index finger burned as bright as a
lighter, yet it threatened to hurt much, much more. Smiling darkly, he answered his own
inquiry. Youve reached the end of this line.
She didnt respond, but the fear in her checkered eyes spoke volumes. She looked behind her
to find something a stone to cast, a discarded dagger, anything! but instead of finding
something, she lost her balance and fell over a root. This was all the time Pickering needed to
come close, to widen his fire and stare at her with eyes as grim as gravestones. There was
blood on his breath when he leaned over her, savoring her trembling, enjoying how she tried
to scuttle away. Her foot was caught in the undergrowth, and she was pinned between
Pickering and the infested lake. The smell of rotting eggs made her shrivel up, but no more
than the sight of Pickerings burning hand.
Its over, he said to her as his forearm burned like a torch of flesh. His words stiff, they
were forced through his clenched teeth. He seemed to have aged several centuries; deep lines
furrowed his stiff brow. Take. Us. Back.
This is it, Lucretia thought. Ill die without ever kissing a boy.

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If she would die that day, she would not die without a final word. So as she steadied her eyes,
she gulped away her fears. The human realm seemed clearer now; much more forgiving.
Somewhere in the depths of the lake, a whisper bubbled out, and an idea came when she
looked at Pickerings stance.
Congratulations, cousin. You have bested me.
Her foot slipped out of the orchid-covered slipper, and her freed foot gave a surreptitious push
against the branch.
You have earned this victory, and heres your PRIZE!
Kicking him swiftly to his inner thigh, she toppled him to the side. He prepped himself up on
his arms and turned to her, and this was moments before he was grabbed by the wrists by a
tentacle, coming from the depths of the sea. Burning the tentacle away, he could not see the
next one coiling at his wrist, his other wrist, his neck. The whispering grew longer and the
kraken pulled him further into the water while Lucretia ran several feet away, out of the
creatures reach. Screeches were heard from the lake as Pickering was pulled into it, but she
could not tell who made them.
Do you know where we are?! Lucretia called out while Pickering thrashed and kicked in the
creatures grasp. Do you know what that smell is? Thats Calamity Cove! The faux holy
ground filled with krakens and mermaids and hydras! After Aaron found the Eleventh Scroll,
this was the first place in the human realm which she willingly learned about. She told him of
it earlier in the day. There was a reason her recollections brought her there, she knew it, she
knew it! Pickerings rage bubbled and roared, he screamed at her whenever his head rose
above ground. If you were really a star student you would have known these things!
Ill kill you! He cried, the water extinguishing his flames. Ill burn your skin off!
Face it, Pickering! Youll never touch me. And you know why? Because youre nothing but a
pretender! Youre a brown-nosing suck-up! Youve acted like yourself for a couple of hours
and youve nearly gotten yourself killed! You cant function in this world, Pickering Green!
You cant think for yourself if it doesnt get you attention! You might have been the smartest
person alive back in Encantadia but out here youre a moron! She lowered her brow. And
thats why Stella could never trust you.
Those words made him jump. He freed himself from the shackles of flesh and suckers; he
jumped into the sky. His arms were spread as the wings of an eagle, and he was ready to
pounce, to destroy! He couldnt care less about Aaron now; he only wanted to shut her up, to
make her pay for tormenting him. She was the one loved by Plamen, the one Stella trusted
despite everything, the bitch who had everything while he had nothing. But no more. Now he
had true power, and he would use it to his will, and he would make the world bend the knee
for him!
And now I know exactly where to place you.

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He would have struck her down gladly at that point, but Lucretia Almeda Plamen had other
plans.
Before he came into the cyan, he was spinning in air, gathering his might, watching the
monster beneath him as it slapped at the still water, looking away from the barefooted and
grinning Dryad hiding in the lush bushes. The vortex came over him as a blanket, and he
kicked and punched as he tried to free himself. Eventually he did, and fell into sand, face-first
with his fists clenched.
The dust slipped through his finger and he turned around to see where he was, where she was,
where she could have been hiding. Heat hotter than the spells he threw at her weighed above
him, and there was nothing to see but endless sand dunes and wavy air. There were no towers
for her to climb, no caves to hide in. No people to burn, no oasis, no mirages, no plants or
animals or anything they encountered. His head lashed, desperately, and he sought her as
threats of execution clawed his brain but never left his chapped lips. Finally he realized that
she was gone cutting him away into the wide unknown, a desolate desert wasteland where
nothing lived and nothing died. Was this supposed to be funny for her?! Was this some cruel
joke? He lived a life away from everything he liked away from power, away from strength
and confidence, inches away from the woman he loved who left him, returned to him, died
before he could make her love him in return
And now he was out here to die and starve and Gods-know-what-else, because of some
outburst? He stormed through the sand, kicking it in a flurry. He fell on all fours, punched the
hills as beige slipped out through the skin of his fingers. She called him a worm him! A
worm! He looked into the burning magnesia sky and screamed louder than he ever did, yet his
voice had nothing to echo against. Instead it burst, anticlimactic, and scattered over the arid
hills. The man was alone, defeated, stripped away from needed justice.
As he clawed at the scorching desert sands, clenched fists shaking while his nostrils flared, he
managed to make one final oath, one final threat.
Ill kill them, he swore and looked at the miles upon miles of desolation set around him.
Ill kill every single one of them.
He might have been in that position for a minute more before he cast away his sandals and
walked south. His were the first footprints to set into the sands, and they burned with a new
vendetta the likes of which the Gods of Kawala Lax have never seen.
/***/
Kith ran through the curving underground, scanning the crypt he and the Guards hid in with
Aurus. The surviving Guards were lying in cells now, crying with pain. They came out of the
rubble with their limbs and facilities damaged; those who did not bleed out during the first
night continued to lie in their piss-covered bedding while they shook with a fever and
screamed upon encountering another nightmare. Life no longer mattered for those souls, since
they knew they no longer had it.
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If they recovered, they would not return to their families. Instead they would walk up to
Aurus throne and defend their King from the rabble looking to cast stones at the fallen
monarch. Sabrina and Onika were up on both sides of the throne, along with Smith and a few
others who served as a human force-field. Hours ago, Kith had been with them before he was
sent to the lower grounds, fighting back the urge to retch at the scent of death. Some beggar
took a bag stuffed with nails and cast it at the side of his head. It still stung him, as his
headache increased once Sabrina shot a bullet in the mans eye as punishment for assault.
The last person he had helped was Calvin. His shoulder was fastened back into its socket, but
the rest of his arm grew infected. Yellow bile covered the gaping wound, crumpling like dry
caramel which smelled of the sewers. Kith poured copious amounts of whichever rubbing
alcohol he could find in the palace remains, and once the medicinal supply was tapped dry, he
broke into Onikas cabinet and brought out whiskey, firewater and brandy to tend to the
injury. Firewater did nothing to clear the Guards bleeding skin, and the patient claimed the
whiskey for himself.
Ill need this, he explained, to dull the pain when youre forced to saw it off.
With his lips pale and his complexion green, Kith struggled to speak in a clear voice. He
promised that it would never come to an amputation. The wounds would be clean and the
bone would heal if Calvin gave it time. Yet as the night grew colder and the man broke out in
blisters, falling in and out of drunken consciousness while banging against the wall with his
good fist, Kith realized that the man had little time left to spare. When he visited the patient in
his cell for the last time, Calvin hissed out a plea that somebody would put him out of his
misery. He called for death, but he received Sabrina with a sword instead the sight of her
made death preferable.
Hey, Calvin said as Sabrina tied a compressor around his arm, right above his elbow. Kith
watched behind her shoulder, afraid to move closer to the man who smelled of the graveyard.
His words were proud, sardonic even in the face of despair.If I die, could you promise me
something?
Kith would have happily said that the man wouldnt die, but the sight of Dess armed with a
bastard sword and a torch to cauterize the wound made him unsure of his optimism. So
instead of forcing it, Kith nodded at his request.
Tell Onika she couldve done better, he said, swigging the final sip of whiskey from the
bottle. His words were slurred and he turned to the redhead upon dropping the glass on the
ground. And tell me youll beat the shit out of this bitch if she cuts away an inch more than
she needs.
The look Sabrina gave him suggested she was thinking of parting his neck from his shoulders.
She pulled out a foul-smelling kerchief from a bowl standing by her, and squeezed it until a
waterfall of transparent liquid trickled down to her boots. Her fingers coiled with frustration.
Stay quiet. Her sword shone in the candlelight as she wiped away traces of blood and
grime. The less you talk, the less youll feel.
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Calvin grinned at her just enough to bare his teeth. When Sabrina took the mans fist into her
palm, measuring the place where healthy flesh met the infection, Kith felt his stomach churn
into his throat. In three speedy steps he rushed out of the makeshift infirmary, stepping on the
faces of the Guards who didnt last the night. He needed to lean on the walls to keep himself
from fainting, but by the miracle of willpower he made it out until the butcher was out of his
sight.
Jarred and deeply saddened, he marched into the deepest end of the crypt, hoping that
Calvins pained screams would not reach him.
They have, however, and the bellows of agony made the man vomit over the cold stone floors.
As he doubled over himself, heaving and wiping away the chunks sticking on his hoary chin,
he pressed his forearm to the walls and wondered about his life. Among these Guards he was
an equal in all aspects when it came to improving rank, yet there was no denying that he was
privileged as soon as he mentioned his name and origin. He was Lady Karalynns grandson,
as well as the son of King Alazars ward and one of the largest business moguls in Callahan. A
man such as him was destined for greatness, for a life of luxury and satisfaction. But the boy
was too sickly, too stressed for the military elite. This was where his cowardice and anxiety
lead him instead out of his homeland and into a domain of war. His father always rose to the
occasion when it came to matters of conflict. The Kiths made their fair share of enemies; the
Greenleaves, the Chaputs, the Lemaires all houses of good fortune and prestige, some far
outranking theirs and some barely coming close. His mother handled currency as some cooks
handled potatoes and venison. His father calling him a stoic barely did him justice. The
man wouldnt flinch at the sight of blood, wouldnt run when his army men screamed in
anguish. But Emmett Kith was never brave like his father, never rational as mother, and it was
cruel destiny that had him with a sword in hand, patrolling to save another countrys King.
Good people have fallen when he did not. Better soldiers, better marksmen, better men in
general. Whatever game the Gods played seemed vicious and odd, as if the game master came
drunk to the session and orchestrated the events with no reason. Feeling ill, Kith sat into a faraway corner of the long ebony hall, and pushed his knees against his chest. This world was
mad, he thought, and he could not survive long within it. He could not run from his duties,
under penalty of death. Yet he could no fulfill them as a true soldier, because people like him
were the first to die. The longer he thought of his existence, the more he shivered. At best he
could serve the false King until Aurus was old and insane, while he grew gray and senile as
well. Perhaps the palace could be rebuilt, and Aurus would reign supreme again. Without the
gold, without the Scrolls, without any allies this could never happen. Every Guard knew this
sad truth. Yet Aurus was much too proud his pride would do him in some day, someday
soon.
And when he went, so would all the people who had served him.
Sighing, Kith dug his fingers into his red mane, fondly remembering Callahan and everything
it offered him. He would have died to feel the warmth of his librarys fireplace, or tell jokes to
his friends within the kitchen staff but these boyish fantasies were pipe dreams, and he
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knew this too well. His gaze was set, blank, on the heavy spikes of an opened iron maiden. As
Calvin roared in the distance, Kith imagined the thorns piercing his skin. The man felt only
relief at the thought, and this frightened him.
Psst!
He waved away the hissing as a trick of the wind, or perhaps a ring in his ears. It came again,
and he looked to both sides before he saw Lady Smith peering from an unhinged door of a
solitary holding cell; the one which jutted out of the palace with its high roof, bringing out a
feeling of claustrophobia to all who entered. Holding the door opened, she summoned him
with a come hither motion of her finger. Her hair was unwashed, her eyes sunken into black
holes and marred with red blotches. She hadnt slept at all these days. How could she, with
the threat of death lingering over her since the first day of Aarons sabotage.
Kith! She called over in a loud whisper, beckoning with her hand. Come here.
With that she slinked back into the room. Kith stood up in silence, listening closely for
spectators and eavesdroppers before he followed her in quick, harried steps. She ushered in
and shut the door, barricading it with a crate filled with straw. The room he entered was black
as pitch, and only lit up by a candle on a tray, burnt down to an inch. A cracked window at the
very top provided little light during the night. Even the stars seemed trapped.
What are you doing here? Kith asked while maneuvering around the furniture, afraid he
might trip over something. Shouldnt you be with Aurus?
Im not spending another second with that beast of a man unless he personally asks for me,
she said, placing the fourth and final crate to barricade the door. The next person to try and
walk into the room uninvited would need a battering ram. It was not much of a protection
against intruders, but it was a good buffer against careless wanderers, and this would be
enough at the time. She turned and gave an unappealing grin, as though the person behind it
lost some of her sanity. Come here, she paced towards the end of the room, stepping over
lead pipes, baskets and sheets. I need to show you something.
She took the tin tray underneath the candle and balanced it, illuminating the path. Mice
scattered across the floor where she trudged, and Kith pressed a hand over his mouth as some
ran across his feet. The sight of mice had always made him uneasy, but Jocels death made
him more wary of the things. There were times when he would let sleep catch him at his post,
and he dreamed of those buck-toothed creatures covering him. Bumps crawled over his skin
as he imagined the scuttling, the gnawing, the biting the fleas
You dont look so good.
Squinting at the candlelight, he made out Smiths fine features hidden behind the white glow.
Her jaw was stiff and her lips askew; her look of aggravation was born out of worry, though
he didnt recognize either emotion in her hazel eyes. She told him he looked pale, and he
pretended not to hear Calvins wails of pain in the background.

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Im fine.He gulped. Just didnt get much sleep. This was a lie, and the man was too jittery
to pull it off without suspicion.
Having no time to reflect on his words and draw out the truth, Lady Smith took the words at
face value. None of us sleep anymore. Better get used to it. She shot him a sidelong glance
for good measure, and then walked to her find.
Hold this, she said and gave him the candle while bending over to fiddle with a board on the
floor. The handle was broken off, but the inlays were hard to miss cement poured over them
now scratched away with a chisel of sorts. This left scratches and dust on the ground, and
before Kith could ask, Smith pulled out a small sword out of the scabbard on her back,
digging it right into the most apparent hatch. Jocel could guess that the cover was about four
inches long, judging by how far her sword went. With gritted teeth, she commanded him to
hold the candle steady, hold it up, lower it, keep it close. He obliged her commands while she
grew red in the face and strained herself, pulling her sword as a lever further and further back
until finally
CRRRREEEEAK!
The cover unhinged, she sighed with exhaustion and picked it up by the end sticking up.
Come here, she said and Kith immediately dropped to his knees to join her. The candle
flickered in his unsteady breathing. Green eyes still adjusting to the darkness, and he needed
to squint at what Smith was showing him. Ultimately, her find was nothing but sand and
support columns surrounding stone and plaster. Do you see? She asked, smiling to herself
as she sheathed her blade. He saw nothing of relevance.
Whats that? Kith asked, and felt her annoyance digging a hole at the back of his head.
Remember that woman who used to work as a debt collector for the King? Tall, blonde, had
a side of her head shaved off? We called her Billie.
Y-yes His brow furrowed and he rubbed his chin in recollection. Thats the person
who caused the riots.
Thats the bitch that killed my family, Onika said with no mercy in her voice. When Aurus
fried her to a crisp it was the happiest day of my life. But I didnt know that yet. I hated Aurus
then and I hate him now, but its easier to hate the person who killed your loved ones than the
person who wanted it done. At least now I can picture one of his agents getting her face
burned off. Thats something. Thats what still has me believing in justice to an extent.
Her pause was longer than she wanted it to be. For some time, she stared into the mess of gray
plaster and crumpling cement, teeth gritting beneath her pressed lips. Kith watched her glare
as her eyebrows met above her dark eyes, but when he attempted to touch her shoulder in
comfort she slapped it away. Im fine. This time, it was she who was lying. I may not have
personally given that bitch what was coming to her. But I did find something of hers. And I
think it could help me. Turning her head to the side, she stared deeply into Kiths eyes. Help
us, she emphasized.
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What is it?
Billie wasnt just a debt collector, Kith. She was a smuggler too. And this, she pointed at the
stuffed crevice beneath them, was her tunnel.
His green eyes were larger than life at the words, and for a moment he saw her as completely
mad. The second of incredulity passed, and in the very next instant he saw her as a being of
utter genius, set on the world to revel in her own accomplishment, thrive in misery and find
the relics of mystery that time and a tyrannical regime had forgotten. He stared, slack-jawed,
and immersed himself in the find. There was a passageway hidden in the depths of the castle,
obstructed by stone and mortar. Always wondering what the feeling of promised freedom
would feel like, he never once expected it to be brought on by something as gray and obscure.
His heart was pounding wildly in his chest, and she must have sensed it. She took him by the
cheeks and pulled him closer; her eyes demanded his undivided attention.
This is a tunnel which existed a hundred years ago, in the period we still marked as After the
Great War. It was back when the palace had a stone infrastructure, and its interior riddled with
hideouts and crypts.
You mean like the dungeons? Kith managed through pursed lips, but she shut him up with a
squeeze.
The dungeons aint shit compared to what this place is hiding. The room where Silas keeps
his Omnia, the Kings former Scroll room, the labyrinths, the Hall of the Dead, everything
heres a damn crypt! Nobodys ever been able to list em all, much less wander in them. Back
in the day theres been a tunnel for every scribe, advisor and stable boy sauntering within
these walls. No wonder a snake like Billie could slither her way into one of em. Always
twisting and crawling where she never belonged but she was a clever bitch. You have all
these vestiges swamping the palace, leading up and through and down, but this one? Oh, this
ones a beauty. This one leads out. Thats why Billie loved it so much. This is where she got
the therolin injections for her half-breed friend.
How do you know this is her tunnel?
Because I helped wall it in after her execution. She gazed at the stability of the barricade
she placed at its entrance, teeth grinding in disgust. Storms team built it, along with some
other volunteers, myself included. The cement is laid thirty feet long and the fissure it leads to
is all but collapsed. The supporting beams have been hacked apart, the earth walls are
collapsing, the first mile of open ground leads to a sewer connecting Aura to its first northern
neighbor. Theres a way out, but you have to crawl through literal shit to get there. Itll take
weeks of concentrated manpower and a helluva big hammer to bash the way through, and
thats on a good day.
How do you know all this? Kith inquired, taking in every scrap of information as something
fundamental to his life. In lieu of reply, Lady Smith stood up and gave the barricade a swift

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kick, smiling at the small crack in the faade. Her fellow Guard recoiled, head whipping to
and fro frantically when her impact echoed through the corridors.
The cannons blast made a shithole of this place, the lower tiers included. As luck would
have it, the blast already started to crack our way inside. Theres a weak spot right there, she
pointed at the spider web spreading around the chip in the foundation. We put enough
pressure on it, concentrate the force of the excavation, and we can clear this area in weeks
time.
Who told you that?
Calvin. The magnificent bastard drafted the designs and all. He wont be a big help now with
one arm but his blueprints just might come in handy. All we need to do is dig a hole, this
wide. Her arms circled the area around her waist. Each moment we have, we need to spend
it here. The King probably has eyes everywhere. That Sabrina has the aim of a hawk and
those eyes fuck, those eyes can see everything. And her hearing is impeccable. Heard she
could hear a pin drop at thirty yards but thats just a rumor. Anyway, think about it Kith. All
we need is a rope, a hammer, a chisel, a long file and a few swords for the way down. I wont
lie, its nasty in there gators and rats and the plague reeking through the sewers. I heard of it
from the people who worked for Billie. They got in, fit as a fiddle and they got out as sick
dogs. You remember her trips, dont you? Every time this palace received a new parcel there
were ten soldiers shaking with consumption. The disease in there can kill you, but Aurus
wont even give you a change, damn it! He doesnt care for his Guards, oh no, he doesnt care
for anything but his crown and throne. Hes a fucking joke, thats what he is! And I wont be
trapped here for another second under his command.
As Kith watched the common sense flicker and die away with her every word, she seemed to
grow brighter. Her eyes were alight despite her exhaustion, her hands shook with a new vigor
that she normally only found when holding a blade against her enemys throat. Hunched,
invigorated and beyond inspired, her ideas poured out of her mouth as effortlessly as milk
from a bowl. After a time, the amount of thought sparked by her discovery verged on
unnerving at best, and terrifying at worst. He dropped the candle on the ground. Needing to
shake her to keep her from sputtering foam, he shook her.
Listen to yourself! His grip was hard against her shoulders, and the surprising intensity
flared her eyes wide. Youre not making sense. Dig a tunnel? Crawl through a sewer? Its
insane!
She threw his arm off her, stepping back in malevolence. Insane?! Her voice carried well
through the palace, and Kiths paranoia painted him a picture of loyal Guards marching
towards them to capture them in midst of conspiracy. What he hadnt considered was that a
majority of Guards contemplated mutiny on their own, or that their distance provided a certain
amount of safety from curious excursions through the pits of the palace. As such, her cries
went ignored, if not unheard. Insane?! Do you know whos insane? That one Elite who leads
us. Onika! Aurus got in her head long ago and made her a puppet, and so help me Gods I
wont let him manipulate me either. I may be crazy but I choose to be crazy! I wont be that
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madmans pawn any longer. This could work, Kith! Her hands shook to him, almost begging
for agreement. This could actually work!
How? I mean I mean, why are you telling me this? I mean this plan is a nightmare on its
own
You want a nightmare? She countered, still inching closer to his face. He could feel her
breath on his cheek now, sober despite everything. Imagine devoting your whole existence to
a mad King who doesnt know which way is up. Imagine dying for a man like that! Lets be
clear, this plan isnt comfortable. Getting out of here wont be like having a walk through a
promenade with your big-shot granny. Theres no light at the end of that tunnel, theres mud
and shit and sludge if were lucky. Theres nothing but misery out there !
Exactly! How is that any different from this?
It just - !!! She stopped in her tracks, fists clenching with fury while her nostrils flared.
Blinking at him once, she stepped back and bowed her head. Blood coursed through her stiff
digits which she was unable to unclench, as if she desperately held onto some speck of hope,
one final fragment of faith she could find. It was then when she saw how small that speck
was; how worn her faith became.
She answered his question on a limp note, resigned.
It just is.
Although the candle on the ground had gone out, Kith could imagine her watching him as she
said it. And in his mind, her eyes sparkled. The image melted his heart. It has to be, she
finished in small voice, which she hadnt used since confronting Onika.
Kith could have taken a moment to reflect on how quickly her humor changed, yet instead he
pursued his questions. Even if thats true, why come to me? Why not go to to any other
Guard?
Youre strong enough to dig, youre too scared to spread this around, and youre too stupid to
double-cross me, she said, angry for allowing him to see her weak. Youre an idiot, and I
can do well with idiots.
His lips quivered as he tangled his fingers behind his back. I I understand.
With a surreptitious glance to the side, the corners of her lips fell downward, and she shook
her head as if to shake away her previous statement. I didnt mean it like that, you know I
didnt. Look, I saw you save Calvins life. Hes still alive and mordant, thanks to you.
Alive, for now. He frowned. Aurus doesnt need a Guard with missing limbs.
Aurus needs all the manpower he can frighten into submission. He cannot afford to murder
us, not now. Especially not me which other guard kills enemies in pairs? She pointed at the
crossed weapons on her back, and promptly continued. His empire is crumbling, his mind
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has weakened. I cant stay here. Theres nothing for me in Aura. I have no leader, no friends,
no family, and unless I get somebody to help me, I wont have my freedom either.
She expelled those words quietly, and the burden of her fatigue began pulling at her muscles,
fogging her eyes. Rubbing her eyelids, she fought the lingering headache, and the million
small voices who chanted about the ludicrousness of her plans. Having prepared herself for
derision and scorn, she swallowed a hot node in her throat and clasped her hands, as if in
prayer. Please, she said. I dont have anybody left.
The plan was foolish, and whats more, hardly resembled a plan at all. There were no
timestamps, no supplies, nothing save for misguided hope and imaginary schematics
supposedly made by a man who knew nothing more about the architecture than they did. Even
if they could execute it, Aurus would gladly execute them before they even began cracking the
barricade. It was inane, insane, nave, ridiculous
Yet even so, it was the only shot they had.
If I say yes, Kith said as he crossed his arms, Ill be taking the biggest risk of my life. I
have a family in Callahan, and if I get beheaded as a traitor, Ill never see them again. He
sounded almost adult, she thought, but only for a moment. Because in his very next sentence
his voice cracked and he furiously shook his head. Im not Im not ready to die.
None of us are.
So youll have to promise me I wont.
He was asking too much of her. Merely standing there, in the disease-ridden hellhole of a
fortress, their chances of survival decreased with every blotch and scab they found. Surviving
the first days of isolation would be by divine intervention, and both of them knew it. The main
difference was that dying of disease would be slower, as opposed to dying in the way of Lady
Dess bullet or Onikas blade. Yet still, despite her logic, Lady Smiths empty promise was an
enthusiastic one. Regardless of plausibility, it was welcome.
You wont. We wont. Well make it out safely. Well go and find our homes. You always
loved working in the kitchens, didnt you? You could own a bakery once we get out. I can
offer my services to any King I want. I could be a knight, an Elite in a faraway kingdom
well survive and well be miles away before anybody realizes. But you have to keep this a
secret, she warned. Dont make me regret telling you.
Are you sure well be alright?
Kith! She threw herself at him in exasperation, clenching his cheeks. It was the first time he
saw her face as close as he did; the grease on her brow shone as a halo, and suddenly she was
fully animated before him. A specter in the night, telling him of good fortunes; a banshee
ready to lead him out of pity. And her voice Gods that voice grew in eagerness until she
released him. Kith, think about it! Do you really want to be a second-rate Guard for the rest
of your life? You can do so much more. We can be so much more! Ive never asked anyone of
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anything, but I know I can trust you. You want to get out of here even more than I do. You
must! Ill protect you if I have to, I just cant do this on my own. I promise youll be alright. If
we can just try a little harder, if we could just well live, Kith. And well lead good lives.
Spectacular lives, away from this sinkhole. Imagine it. Please. The experience made his head
spin, and suddenly he no longer needed to imagine her shining eyes. Infatuated by her spirit at
once, it was difficult to refuse her.
He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, and she kissed him with gratitude. The imprint of
her full lips on his burned a hole into the bitten skin, and after she left, he needed to touch it to
confirm what had occurred. Hiding the hole and shutting the door behind him as he went into
the corridor which was growing all too quiet all of a sudden he still had his stubby fingers
over the moist spot. He no longer thought of death and doom, captured by the tactile hypnosis.
Escape pillaged his mind, and he wanted nothing but it.
A part of him knew, a part insisted, that the strategy would die before its inception. Another
miniscule piece imagined the life he could lead, filled with hope and joy of life, away from
the fortress and its treacherous bounds. It was difficult to say which conscience roared louder,
as those meddling thoughts were subdued by another desire entirely. While his belligerent
parts waged war on the issue of escape, the whole of him simply burned for another kiss.
This was the first time that he began to envy a one-armed man.
/***/
Stellas head levitated in front of them, ten inches tall and crafted out of pure featureless light.
Her voice chimed from the tip of the recording needle which Pion placed on a glass
workbench. The projection had no contours to discern her features, but the tone was
undoubtedly hers, and so were the white and gold hues of her form. All Outcasts, save for
Aaron, sat around the vision and watched with respect and caution, disoriented from listening
to the voice of a spirit. That day, the woman who healed them, lead them, and raised them as
her own children, spoke her final words of guidance.
The fortieth day of Barnea, the month of heat
A shy distorted voice, possibly Pickerings, alerted her mistake.
Really? She spoke facing away from the recorder, so the question was muted. When she
returned to her message, her platinum hair swayed like gossamer against the wind. The circlet
around her forehead glinted in intervals. The second day of Kiyandor, the month of
Senescence. On this year, two thousand and forty-seven years after the Great War, five years
after the Last War, a combined effort was made to decipher the Eleventh Scroll, the holiest of
documents known to the peoples of Brimstone. Unfortunately, as days pass and morale
decreases, as the seams of our once tightly-knit community begin to burst, and as I fail to
recognize people Ive once considered my family, I see that this operation requires beings of
higher, more secluded knowledge.

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I am recording this exchange so you would know that this decision was made freely, on the
day when I was sound of mind and healthy. Pickering Green and There had been a pause,
and she sighed before continuing, rephrasing her sentence entirely. Two witnesses are
standing by me while I speak. Tomorrow, I will send a courier to deliver these documents to
the summit of the East, to Bellarmine. In between them, the four elders have multiple
millennia of experience, vast knowledge of Brimstones cultures and creeds, lost languages
and legends which were buried in the rubble of Brimstones many wars. I cannot travel to
Bellarmine, seeing I have never been in its region, and have no data from which to form the
location in my mind. This is why Im sending a courier, a skilled and able runner, to tread the
treacherous path and return with much-needed intelligence. The primary goal of this delivery
is to orchestrate a trade there is no guarantee that these people could crack the age-old
mystery of Heavens Apex, but it is madness not to beseech them over a petty strife.
Pion adjusted his heavy knapsack and secured it with a clasp over his scrawny waist, ready to
head out of the laboratory. One thin paperback was clasped tightly in his calloused palm,
which swayed like a pendulum to his leisurely pace. He could have run, but he chose to walk
at a normal mans speed. This contributed to the overall tenseness of the crowd. Archer kept
his eyes glued on the dark Zeers back; his lips kept shut by an invisible force of fear.
The world needs Aaron Kronos, but Aaron also needs the world. Brimstone is not the be-all,
end-all of humanity. The realms of magic and ethereal existence hold many secrets, and its a
Xexarians duty to maneuver in accordance to them. Answers may not always come from
Brimstone, and this is why Im appointing a trusted fellow Outcast with this quest of
maximum importance.
When the mechanical door whizzed open, and Pion set one bare foot outside, Archer could
almost predict why Stellas plan warranted an explanation. His blood ran cold in his veins,
and he stood up from his seat. His lungs constricted, and he fought the urge to stay inside and
face his coughing fit. With more stubbornness than worry, he commanded his iron legs to
catch up to his teammate, and he just made it out of the laboratorys bounds when he heard
Stellas final words.
The man you called Pion will head to Damask at first light.
The metal door closed so quickly that it almost peeled away the skin on his back. While he
ran up the spiral staircase, clutching the cols rail, he heard muted howls of protest and
panicked arguments. He understood fragments, how Damask was an accursed abomination of
a place, how people could die at the mention of the name, how Bellarmine could never be in
their region after all, wasnt the Council in itself considered a myth? The objections piled up
against placating promises, and when Archer reached the top of the stairs, he heard Stellas
voice again. The Outcasts replayed the recording, praying that they had misheard, that Stella
misspoke, that there was some other Damask which none knew about save for her and the
Council. All of them sounded so worried for the well-being of their colleague ready to go into
desolate enemy soil.
None of them bothered to look and see that he had left already.
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Archer squinted into the darkness when he exited, scanning the starry sky which spread across
the barren ground. There was a loud, cacophonic hum in the air, and this he attributed to
crickets and cicadas. The noise disoriented him. He spun and lunged forward, seeing a figure
already several yards away. Running, the Zeer had no intention of looking back. Hey!
Archer called, cupping his hands around his mouth. Wait!
The runner tilted his head to the side. Dark, oily eyes stared at the ground which looked
whiter than he remembered it. It was dry and cracking, just like the skin on his jagged,
pockmarked face, and for a moment the Zeer felt inexplicable grief for it. He stood in place,
still as a statue, until Archer caught up and clutched his bent knees, hacking into the ground.
The Zeer helped the marksman upright, remembering how running always made him ill.
They watched each other; Pion displaying no sigh on discomfort while Archer heaved, a hand
pressed to his inflamed chest. So thats it? His icy gray eyes struggled to stay in one place
for long. Everything occupied his attention; the book in Pions cold hand, the stitches across
his black lips, the branding over his chest which the Macros used to mark their slaves You
wouldnt even say goodbye to me, he said, suddenly angry. After everything. After all the
shit weve been though, youd run and you wouldnt even tell me?!
In a fluid motion, Pion shoved the nondescript novel into Archers grip. Having freed both his
hands, he signed his response in slow, patient patterns and slashes. Tired and winded, Archer
failed to focus, and thus only caught the end of his sentence.
better for everyone. Dont worry.
Dont worry? His jaw was stiff and his fingers stiffer; the nearly poked holes in the cover
pages. A chill washed over him, as though he were in the middle of an icy tundra, drenched in
sweat and marching in a cold that could stop a mans heart. Dont worry?! How couldnt I
worry? We just lost a team member, and her final bloody request was to send you away on
some on some suicide mission on the edge of the world?!
We dont know about Damask.
He couldnt recognize the citys name, never seeing it spelled out in sign language. Its
meaning needed to be taken from context, but even seeing the new sweeping motions forging
the word made him irrationally furious. Yes we do! I know theyre the reason they call this
the Barren Lands! His arms outstretched, he gestured around them, revealing nothing but
empty-branched trees and charred dust. We were at war with those people! They fucked us
up! They fucked us up so badly that we couldnt even say their name for a thousand years!
Gods know what happens over there. How could I not be worried?! The people there must be
monsters!
Pion stared back at him, unaffected. Good, he signed. Then well have something in common.
At this, Archers brow relaxed and he unclenched the paperback. Pion stared at him, cold as
disgust before he turned around to continue his path

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 only to have Archer grab him by the forearm.

Karaktaians hated physical contact, and Pion knew that Archer was no better than the rest. He
kept his distance, kept himself clean, avoided skin like a curse, and loathed unprovoked
contact. To see him grab somebodys arm, urgent and earnest, desperate to get another word
in it made Pions mind stop as shivers ran up and down his arm.
Youre not a monster, Archer said, his eyes obscured by the fur lining of his hood. I dont
care who said you were, but they were wrong! The skin on Pions arm, colored as grime a
second before, now pulsed anew. It seemed pink in good health against the scorched soil, and
even Archers own pallid complexion. Archer cherry picked his words until his voice sounded
robotic, possibly fearing that this would be the last time the two of them spoke. Youre my
friend, and Im not leaving you. Not now. The world is going crazy and I dont even know
who to follow. First theres a mad King ready to burn us all, then theres genocide, wars,
famine I cant go through all that again. Not all alone.
Pion attempted to sign with one hand, but Archer didnt see the subtle movements of his
digits. You wont lose me. This isnt Karaktau. Im not Domagoj. Archer still stared blankly
down, the encouragement lost on him.
We could have saved him, you know, Archer said, his flashbacks flying to the surface in
loud detonations, demanding words and trauma. If we had spoken more, if we if I hadnt
abandoned him when he needed me most maybe I would have brought him home.
This sentiment made him bite his tongue. Brought him home to what, exactly? The morbid
thought made him crack a frustrated smile. He knew how he left his family and how he
returned to it; running off into Syth territory as the golden boy of the Thorne legacy, and
coming home to a ransacked cottage and a mother dead of consumption. At least he had the
memories to reflect on; Domagoj was disowned by his father, he remembered. The old bastard
returned alive from battle, and hadnt had a thought for his son. Meanwhile, the last remaining
Thorne thought of his kin often. His jolly old father, left for dead after a Syth ambush. His
three brothers one of them killed before Archers very eyes. For the other two, he had to
look away. Even Ada, his young sister Gods, she had just learned to walk
But the image which plagued his thoughts, which woke him up in sweat and panic in the dark
of the night, was a picture painted with guilt, not grief. Domagoj, the man he considered to be
his closest friend, became belligerent after Archer had uncovered a personal truth to his
squadron members. A fight ensued, which culminated in Archer punching him in the mouth.
They struggled, breaking from their military march and falling from a hill, rolling into an
uncharted pathway. Archer stomped madly, his nose bloody and crooked, his eyes hungry for
another hit when Domagoj begged him not to come closer, Archer laughed it away as
cowardice. One look below Domagojs clenched fists was enough to make Archers heart stop
beating. The skirmish had sent them further into enemy lines, and Archer could see
Domagojs tears freeze on his face as he remained motionless on the mine.

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His brothers saw him stand on the deathtrap, and declared him a dead man. They took his
white-and-blue coat which hung like a robe from the mans pointed shoulders, with the intent
to return it to Domagojs family. Archer couldnt remember at which point he cast away his
Throne burgundy colors for the blue of house Dvorak. He remembered, however, how he and
his squadron walked for an hour in the woods before he heard the explosion thundering
behind him. Biting his fist, he wanted to cry, but his brothers assured him that monsters like
Domagoj Dvorak deserved such a death.
He could have rationalized their bigotry to the best of his abilities, but he could have never
forgiven them for the comment. Never, in his lifetime.
Even though it was Archers duty to bring back the garment, which became more of an object
of social standing during the war than regular clothing, Archer refused to face Domagojs
father. Instead he donned the coat on his person, never taking it off again. The purloined
article of clothing was of fine quality, made of snow fox pelts and dyed with azurite,
upholding the standard worthy of a master general, even his aberrant kin. Over the years, the
marksman had worn it threadbare, and every tear made more guilt pass through his hollow
bones. The guilt felt like snow against his neck, and tar in his stomach. He had lost a piece of
himself with Domagojs passing, and now Pions departure threatened to take away even more
of him.
I should have been better, Archer said in a daze, still gripping Pions arm. I should have
spoken up. Youre not a monster, youre not a freak. I dont care what they say. Fuck, Pion, I
cant lose another another person.
Ill be alright.
I wont.
When Archer finally released his grasp, a period of solemn silence was broken by a small
laugh. It was a dark, sardonic sort of laughter, and his head shook while he murmured to
himself. Some freedom fighter I was. I fight the Syth, and one ends up saving my life. I fight
with Aaron, and he ends up being the biggest hypocritical shit Ive ever seen! He walked
backwards, kicking loose dirt on the ground, teeth gritting in anxiety. I butt heads with a
Dryad, thinking shes just as stupid as her prodigal son, and then she ends up being some
scheming mastermind, and I end up being the asshole who called her a prig! He pulled at his
copper-colored hair, looking up into the stars as his hood came off. Cant I be right about one
fucking thing in this world?!
The world is gray, Pion signed, as if that would clear everything. He continued even as Archer
caught his breath, and only stared at the Zeers fingers with the corner of his eye. Youre not
always right or wrong. Sometimes you just are.
Stella is dead, mate, Archer said as his head lulled to the side. Aarons diggin a fucking
hole for her right now. The last time I left you, that whore Billie took you in as a slave.
You didnt leave. I let you go.
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Big fucking encouragement, he said, teeth grinding into fine powder. His muscles were
tense, his spine aching with stress. His words were accompanied with dry heaving, fists
clenching, nostrils flaring wide in rage. I acted like shit to my best friend, and I loved my
hidebound brothers. Im fighting a rebellion when I was the one shooing people away to Nikta
and Sabina and fucking Lorna! I missed so much of my life, and what I didnt miss, I fucked
up! I have no money, no family, no clue what Im doing here the one thing Im good at is
shooting people, and I cant even make it count for shit! Lattika saved my life back at the
palace, and I hate her for that, because I know that Id never do the same for her. I know thats
a petty and miserable thing to say but I am petty and miserable! Im the most miserable
person in all of Brimstone! I dont think anyone would disagree with me on that.
He stopped to take a breath, but instead his head became light and he groaned into the sky.
So is it such a fucking crime to hang onto something that makes me fucking happy? He
turned to Pion when he asked, his breathing steadying to an almost regular tempo. Right
now, youre the only person keeping me sane.
Tilting his head, Pion lifted up his hands and flicked his wrist. He remained with his digits
hovering, unsure of how to reply. In the end, he signed the first thought which came to him.
Thats the saddest thing Ive ever heard.
Im the saddest person who ever lived, now what?
Im not leaving to make you miserable, Archer. Im leaving because its my responsibility.
Perhaps what I find will bring us closer to our goal Zephyrs Field, remember? If you dont
have a purpose here, you can have it there. You can rebuild your life, we all can. Im leaving
to help people, and you, and myself. All Outcasts are broken. Some more, some less. And if I
can do anything to help, I will.
He stared at him from underneath his furrowed brow, dusty hands finally signaling the words
and so should you before he turned on his heel and ran. He was gone in a gust of dirt, out of
Archers sight before the Karaktaian could even respond. Remaining alone in silence, he
shouted as Pion turned into a small dot on the horizon.
So thats all? Youre just gonna go? Well, fine! I overestimated you anyway! Thats right,
just run away! Thats what youve always done! Thats what youll always do! Just run into
the night, leave everything behind and then blame someone else for not having their life in
order! Thats right, walk away! Thats the only thing youre good at!
The heated rampage continued on before he realized he was talking about himself. In that
brief moment he stopped, feeling his throat go dry. Once again he was out alone in the cold,
looking in the distance while smoke coiled up in the sky. Silence suffocated him, as the
screams of insects turned into an ambient din, only interrupted by Aaron shoveling dirt
somewhere behind them. With his heart in his throat, he turned away from the horizon,
processing the fact that he would probably never see him again.

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Well fine, he murmured. If hed like to get himself killed, why shouldnt I let him?
He walked back into headquarters, avoiding Aarons icy glare as he and Fafnir lowered Stella
into the hole they dug up. He walked past Maggie and Riker, spewing questions about Pion,
Damask, the Scrolls, everything they could think of. He walked by Lattika who prayed to the
Gods, to ensure Stellas arrival into the afterlife and Pions journey to the forbidden world of
Damask. She gave him the faintest scowl before proceeding to mouth her thoughts, and he
retired to his cluttered chamber with nothing on his mind but betrayal.
He could have devoted himself to befriending one person, to protecting them against vile
tongues and cast stones, and then they would abandon their lives without even giving a damn.
The least he couldve done was to say goodbye, Archer said to himself as he locked his
door. This was when he realized that the stupid Zeer had left his paperback in his hands, and
ran away like lightning without it. Archer growled, trying to refrain from breaking the book in
two while he could only imagine Pions face on the cover. To distract his destructive hands, he
flipped the pages, irritated that they left ink on his gloved fingers. The prose was written in
cursive handwritten, even, and this annoyed Archer even further. Some pages were written
neatly, in perfect cursive and organized thoughts, while some were stained with splotches of
ink, words with fading letters, letters of alternating size and inconsistent shape. Who got paid
to publish this anyway? Disgusted already, Archer furiously flipped the pages to the beginning
to see the publishers name, shredding the sides of pages and folding the corners, too curious
to see which idiot would let this go into circulation, who
Ill miss Archer, I know, but
His mind stopped.
The marksman was rendered dead in his tracks as he read the opening line, and blinked
heavily as he tried to make out the text below. His own name was written a several times on
the first page alone, though he only saw the word, not the context as he skimmed. He
recognized the names of several other Outcasts, mentions of the Phoenix, the description of
the Festival of Light spent atop the branches of their headquarters. The longer Archer read, the
less he understood, until finally a phrase clubbed him in the head like a mace.
I knew that I would never regret following him, and a part of me was certain that some of his
exquisite stubbornness would rub off on me. I knew much and I learned more, until he became
as predictable as they come, as comfortable as I liked.
Yet never, in my too-long life, had I known my heart would be such a poor matchmaker.
Whats more, I didnt know Id love him so much.
In that moment, Archers legs gave out, and he sat on his creaking bed. New information
flooded him, raining en masse, splitting his head in two. Pion had kept a journal, and he gave
it to him he gave it to

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This was the sort of parting gift Archer never expected, but after reading that one paragraph,
he could no longer say that Pion never gave a damn. So the marksman began reading from the
first page, eyes tired but wary, mouth rounded in stupor. His head rushed while his hands
shook, and he read far into the morning hours. It was almost like meeting Pion all over again,
and he sat in silence, mesmerized by how much he had missed.

Chapter XVII: The Pawn

The sun was reborn as he ran. It shone replenished with crimson streaks against the Hille,
tendrils stretching across the blades of olive grass. Lush, deep, willowy strands of pastures all
bent to the centre of Verdegreen Vale; a vast meadow of calm, which many travelers wandered
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into and found their sense of peace. Pion needed to cross one towering hill before he could
encounter the serenity which awaited the vale itself was guarded by a fortified Kingdom,
spaced in a spiral around a mass of stone. With the barren dust shedding from his jet-black
soles, he zoomed and sped uphill, marveling at how soft grass felt between his toes.
Freeze! Shouted a Guard an Overseer, as they called them here. When Pion looked
around, he noticed that he was circled in by them. Fifteen rifles pointed at him, their designs
sleeker, more metallic than those contraptions he ran from in Aura. Some sentinels awaited his
movements from behind him, some spied from clock towers and top tiers of family estates. A
dawn came upon the main cobblestone street of Callahan, which was known to him as the
Monarchy of Roses. The walls and pathways were already painted red, and the Overseer who
fired his first shot inside Pions shoulder wanted them redder still.
Even though Pion didnt move, the shot landed clumsily in his shoulder, dissolving a patch of
crumpling white skin. The intensity made him twist to his side, head pulled back while his
black, oily eyes scanned the pink velvet sky. His neck snapped when he threw it, and the
sound of shattering glass made the Overseers cautious about firing again. Pion used their
moment of stupor to throw a furtive glance at their uniforms plated with onyx across the
chest, adorned with a painting of a scarlet helix against the stem of a rose, their regalia was
much darker than the gold and beige of Aurus soldiers. Callahanians pale faces
complimented the rigid structure and deep colors, and their tall frames benefited from the
armors rigid, inflexible construction. Their muscled, somewhat portly gait was also worthy of
note; they were nothing like the sinewy hellcats raining from the palace towers clad in silk
and leather. Pion made a mental note to remember each detail, the black helmets and caftan
breeches, to have something to write into his journal upon his return.
He wondered if Archer appreciated his expression of trust . Leaving the journal in his hands
was a decision which he needed to reconsider, night after sleepless night.
Demon! One Overseer called out as Pion adjusted himself. His eyes were black as the void
when he started straight ahead, to the exit. The bullet hole in his shoulder steamed, shrouding
him in white fog while black blood oozed from the now-healing gap. Within moments, the
bullet wound was stretched into unmarked skin, and somehow this invincibility encouraged
the Overseers to open fire as the awakening townspeople screamed and hid under their beds.
Each shot pained Pion as the bite of a mosquito, which did not mean that he would grin and
bear it. He ran in a blur at the closest opportunity, which left the Overseers shouting for more
forces. Some stray bullets ricocheted from their armor, and some continued to fire into thin air
even after he escaped, unsure if the dark Zeer fled or turned invisible.
Seeing there wasnt much sight-seeing to be done in the Monarchy, Pion continued to speed
through it, feet slapping against the ground so quickly that the grasslands burned. With only
one goal in mind, he vowed to let nothing stand in the way of reaching Damask. His
determination burned brightly, and his newfound optimism reminded him of how he first
came across his incredible speed, when he was an abandoned orphan near the Woods of the
Dead.
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Prey with no weapons or strength would be a beasts dinner, unless he learned to run. Raised
in a quarry, beside the tribe of rejected dark Zeers, he had spent a vast majority of his
childhood fleeing from boars and wolves, even the occasional hunting hound sent down by a
Karaktaian poacher. He was slow at first, nearly fell into an animals maw, yet as the desire
for life grew, so did the need to run. While his kind died away in their pits, he tried to outrun
the monsters of the woods, the spirits of the departed, the future he could have as a rejected,
mutated urchin. Running and running if he wanted to live, there came a time when he simply
failed to stop, so he descended from the snowy mountains and to the sloping sand dunes he
ultimately called his home. He never looked back.
Perhaps his kind would feel pride in having one of their kin work for the fabled Savior of
Brimstone. Or perhaps they would pity him for everything he needed to endure in order to
make it possible. Refusing to dawdle and muse over the hypothesis, he furrowed his brow and
continued on.
During the first day of his marathon to Damask, the only thing which distracted him was the
thirty-foot dragon careening above him, roaring as it flew. His wilderness instincts kicked in
at the sight of the fire-breathing hunter, and Pion ran faster than a fired bullet.
Not even the most ferocious of wolves could breathe fire. Even at times when he was slow
and their breath burned like hot coals against his skin, he never felt as hot. Looking up, he
imagined a Guard steering the beast as it flapped its wings, breathing a storm and hovering
atop a hurricane. If he wasnt so horrified, he would have been thrilled.
A dragon! Joy upon joys, a dragon! He always loved reading of their talons, claws and teeth
tempered with white-hot fury, yet he never had the chance to see one up in the air. Those
which came to Aura were sinewy, scrawny things kept in cages, smuggled in from the East by
the likes of creatures such as Billie.
A cold shiver ran down his spine at the thought of her name, and his head recoiled when he
recalled her disciplinary actions. He had survived the kick of a horse, a dozen bullets, a fist to
the eye and a hot poker on his skin, but something about the black rubber soles of her boots
made his ears ring and copper collect on his gums. He wondered if the Macro was still in
business, dealing people like him as some others marketed pottery and grain. She had him
sold to Aaron for two gold pieces, insisting that he was worth easily thrice as much.
The furious beast flung itself into the ether behind him, and this gave Pion another jolt. He
must have ran a thousand miles by then his mind tended to whirr and ramble, bringing old
back memories. Never being fond of his past, he tried to recall his future. The Scrolls. His
return. Zephyrs Field. Him and Archer, finally free.
This is what gave him the strength to hurry and speed past the wyvern, until it was nothing but
a blur amidst the blue skies. Another victorious marathon, worthy of a track winner. An old
instinct had him bring his arms up. His feet struck the earth, and it sounded like applause.
Wind rushed and cleared the blood in his ears; the swishing sounded like his birth name,
chanted in an amphitheatre populated with bewildered spectators. Brimstone, he thought to
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himself, was massive. It was a field made for the likes of him; those who liked to live, to
learn, to win.
Scenery exchanged around him rapidly. Hills, pastures, herds of sheep and wild horses
swished behind him, as if he was placed on a track in front of a constantly-shifting backdrop.
He saw images only known to him from books, only seen in gallery paintings. He had not
stopped, wanting to see more. Brimstones eternal glory had not seemed to pale for a moment,
and the world expanded somehow, brighter and more brilliant, the longer he travelled.
My dear Lady Forrester, he thought with his eyes to the sky, I know Ive promised Id reach
the end of the world to fulfill the Gods prophecy. Only know that, if it were my own choosing,
I would take my time. I know how much youve seen, how long youve lived. I envy you, my
lady. I always have.
He ran for two full days inside the cruel, beautiful world, and he had yet to take a proper
breath. Once the spectacle of existence was trampled under fatigue, his thoughts became
bleaker. Suddenly he was aware of his pain, his thirst and glass body, and even though he
never slowed down he knew he was driven only by obligation.
His bullet wounds healed, but he still felt as jagged as his scars, as worn as the jet-black soles
of his feet. Soot and toxic blood, he reminded himself; the acrid essence which brought his
skin the deathly color, and gave him enough vigor to tread across the lands at record speed.
Exhausted now, not physically but mentally, he struggled to move against the grain of
onlookers, beasts of flight and burden, all of whom had the gall to seek for a monster inside of
him. After following the path Stella had set for him, he had seen enough frightened eyes to
last him a lifetime, and heard enough bullets whizz above his head to leave him shell-shocked.
He had outrun a dragon. An old achievement by his standards, but he milked it for all the
adrenaline it gave. This rush kept him going for a good hour at an above-average speed. Soon
he was running on fumes, tightening his muscles so he could push himself across the next
border. Just one more mile, he urged himself, flying past his goal before completing the
thought. One mile. Another mile. Another!
Having not heard his own voice in years, the supportive statements were rough and deep, as
resounding as Archers labored brogue. In his mind the marksman kept up beside him,
without as much as a drop of sweat on his brow. Almost as if the shots never punctured his
chest, he kept his breath steady and his hands still. Go on, mate! He called to him. His
breath was so cold, his words so far. Youve got a mission to do!
Youre my true mission, Pion thought and inadvertently sighed. Ive saved you once before.
Ill save you again.
Dont get melodramatic now, he imagined him say. You know I hate that.
The words were so crisp, so brash, so Archer-y that Pion almost believed the actual man
was rushing by him. Imagination was a poor trickster, however, and made the marksman
smile at him beneath his coarse stubble. The cruel reminder that Archer was unsafe, thousands
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of miles behind him, made Pions atrophied intestines twist into knots. Ignoring the fatigue,
the thirst, the blood, he darted with a new goal in mind. This time, it had nothing to do with
the papers in his bag.
Ill have his smile, he decided. I may never have his understanding and I cannot hope for his
love. But Gods, his smile. I must have his smile.
Once again, his stitched upper lip burst when he moved it. The black cord dug deeper into the
marred skin. Pressing two fingers on the zigzagged pattern, he let loose another wistful
reflection. If I touch him if I graze his lips, perhaps Ill recall the fragile curve of a loving
grin. Maybe Ill mimic it yet.
The last time his mouth twisted and his white teeth flashed for all the world to see was before
the war, in Aura, while the good King Pasha still reigned. Before Kix became a slum, the
kingdom built a stadium a glorious construction of ivory which would have put the mighty
Panopticon to shame. In there, he outran athletes, wild horses, chariots of fire and magic
itself. His chin was high, his hair long, and his fists lifted into the air when he last crossed the
finish line and allowed the adoring fans to scream from their seats. They loved him! A dark
Zeer, found by the Kings Hand in the deep woods, became a legendary sprinter and Pashas
most beloved sportsman. It felt like a fever dream then, and the reality of his past became
even vaguer with the passing years.
Once he had a voice, and ran for glory. The palace promised him everything as long as he
brought in the people to watch him gallop. He could have had his choice of jewels, carriages,
women (Or do you prefer the company of men? Silas asked, nudging his shoulder while
they toured the palace together), but he still turned their generosity down. In his heart he knew
that so many Zeer children could sit in the bleachers and see him set new records, knowing
they could amount to so much. Zeers were brave. Zeers were earnest. And for a short while,
one dark Zeer was even loved far and beyond.
Then, his reasons for running changed dramatically. He chose not to dwell on the memory of
the night of his final race. He couldnt have saved anybody back then, but he could now, so he
decided to remain stalwart despite the intrusive thoughts.
Im doing this for you.
His brow was rigid when he came near Tosh, and he watched the galleons rock on the rising
waters of the Turquoise Sea. The many faces swarming the docks seemed familiar, all alike,
all the same. The maritime state expunged the cool breeze, bringing forth salt that frothed on
his skin. Water in front of him was undrinkable to the degree of toxicity, and it would thin into
nothing once he reached the deep central deserts. The soles of his feet whined above the
wooden, salt-licked docks. Every step felt like he was walking on glass, and he moved too fast
for anybody to see his pain. He only heard their screams, the confusion and terror normally
seen in encountering a demon. This was what he was to the world now a harbinger of ill
fortune and demise, a soulless ghoul from Hell. Noises were only silenced if he escaped them,
so he continued to venture forth. Archer highwaymen were replaced by colossal walls, then
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swords, then tanks. He fled them all, but the noises wounded him more than any artillery or
blade.
After this life, in Heaven, when your coughing ends and your night terrors cease, I hope you
realize that I did this for you.
And on some level, I hope I hope you already know.
I hope you know I tried to outrun the world.
This, he believed, had been the first time he saw tanks giant, rolling beasts with tracks made
of tempered steel, cannon heads plunging into the sky, tortoise casings painted with blood-red
spray paint. They had the marks of the Wanted, skulls and crossbones, gas masks under
bulging bug eyes, and these tanks chased him out of the settlement. He knew full well he
wandered from Empress Keeyataras territory, and into the domain of the wandering Syth. His
brow drenched with dark beads of sweat, he ran out of sight as rifles shot underneath his feet.
No bullet came close they werent good shots like Archer.
Then again, no man was.
This was how fear felt, he wondered. A thick adhesive cloyed in his lungs; festering, pulling
his feet to the salt of the earth. His legs were sinking in quicksand and his head shrunk under
pressure and the weight of his terror. Though his body could replenish and rejuvenate,
becoming torn apart would hinder him, and the shots behind him, the roaring tribesmen,
continued to play as a haunting, daunting record. Pain in his stomach expanded to his torso,
his muscles, his black eyes. His pupils screamed, since his mouth could not, and the wired lips
were clenched tightly, dry as bone.
He had nothing to eat or drink for years, his blood provided his strength. There were times,
such as now, when the tar within did nothing to prevent the empty feeling in his pit; the
hollowness of his bones. His skin was dry with years of malnourishment, his hair fell in
clumps and his fingernails, though never neat or especially clean, now resembled darkened
claws of a demented mer-creature. The Omnia inside of him kept him fast and alive just
alive, with no vitality. One could look at him as he outran a brigade of Sitkans and believe he
was a man in his physical prime, but he knew that his life was hanging from a tether, and how
a grave injury would make his body crumble into dust.
His black mouth would have never been bound if he hadnt run his final race.
First once again, fists raised in the arid desert air, he greeted the people Macros, Sitkans, the
people of Tosh, a great number of Zeers from all walks of life, even the occasional Sheeba
who crossed from the magical realm of Saga. His path was a tremulous one, riddled with
challenging obsticles as swinging maces and rings of fire, yet he prevailed, and he outran
horse-drawn carriages and some of the first motorized vehicles ever produced. A tank was
crushed under the weight of the swinging iron blades, and a horses mane caught fire. Pion
heard the whinnying behind him; his adrenaline overpowered the guilt.
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Circling the arena, he ran even after he won, and the whole of Brimstone was cheering for
him on their feet. They cheered and chanted his name his true name and his King Pasha
applauded, nodding with reverence. How could he not? This race had earned him a thousand
gold pieces, and gave Brimstone a new face of change and prowess.
This was a battle of man, beast and machine, in which a man won and gloated. He pumped
both fists, smiling widely at his fans. A stirring, glowing sensation erupted in the pit of his
stomach, in form he recognized as elation. The historic arena was shaking under the applause,
the columns leaning from all the spectators jumping on their feet. Young Zeer children,
ridiculed and feared across the land, now saw a hero in an albino with curled ginger hair, who
had nothing in his life but determination and his legs. Pion pointed at them, his emotion
rising, and wanted to belt out: This is for you! This is all for you!
The words never came.
His black blood slashed through his opened mouth in the form of smoke, shifting into a form
of a winged, saber-toothed beast. As it went out, Pion lost all his energy, and collapsed on the
ground as his eyes were concussed. His arms were shaking when he tried to stand but he
could see nothing. Nothing, that is, apart from the blue shadows underneath the now-gray sky.
The small Zeer children were first to die.
An Omnia unforgiving, an Omnia most powerful. It could have been a spirit animal, a wellhoned blade, or chaos in its true form. Pion had dreaded the day when he would discover his,
but he never expected it to remain inside him. It scattered, choking the viewers and biting into
them. Some poor souls in the back seats watched with amusement, expecting this was all a
part of the show, until they saw the first squirts of blood.
Screaming, the people ran from the arena, the walls crushed as the Omnia trashed and circled,
drinking blood and pouring it into its vibrant vermillion eyes. Its maw was interlaced with
teeth, yellow and crooked and horrid, yet they bit into flesh harder than a bear trap. Shots
were fired to subdue the beast, but it shed off the bullets as flies, and the snipers were
devoured, left in ashes. The Kings men swarmed to Pasha, first in obligation of protection,
then in fear. In the end he retreated from the arena, and the beast had not stopped its massacre
until everybody was either fleeing into the desert, of dying in their own charred remains.
Pion could only stare when the Omnia retreated, pulling itself through Pions mouth,
strangling him as it slithered down his esophagus, down the rings in his throat. It choked him,
and he looked ready to cry. Around him, the once beautiful and opulent arena was destroyed,
rendered to ruins. It became a collapsed Colloseum which served as the hall of the dead. For a
moment Pion couldnt speak, and pressed a hand hard to his mouth. With tears in his eyes he
begged the Gods that this was a hallucination, that his Omnia could never be capable of such
a feat, that the screaming spirits around him were product of some vivid night-terror. He
couldnt have done this, not to the people. Not to the Zeers, not to anyone who already hated
them.

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Defeated, he leaned forward until the top of his head was touching the black sand around him.
Convulsing in fits of tearless crying, he tried not to think of the flying vultures overhead, the
stupefied survivors, the dozens of rifles pointed at him. This is a dream, he hoped, unable to
speak. This is all a dream.
Even if it was a dream to him, it was a frightening reality to everybody else, and a lesson
which taught to never trust a Zeer. That day, the King ordered him taken to the dungeons.
The thread burned his lips when the Guards hacked through them, drawing the needle across
prickling flesh. They wiped his black blood with holy water and rags dipped in vinegar, and
cauterized his wounds with pure hellfire on a torch. His cheeks blistered, bubbled upon
contact, and they made him watch.
It was the punishment he deserved, for a crime against humanity he never thought to commit.
Not a day later, he was sentenced to death by exile, and sent into the cold, ruthless mountains.
They thought he would not survive the conditions; not without food, clothes or a home. They
were wrong, as Pion lived through the horrid years of exile and many more to come, forever
shivering at the thought, the sound of those who died before his eyes.
Though his blood replenished his body and took care of his eternal starvation, it did nothing to
help him sleep. This was a blessing in itself dreams seemed to amplify the howls of the
dead.
Years have passed since then, decades even, but Pions hands still shook at the thought of how
people felt about dark Zeers as a result of his Omnia. The beast was dormant now, but he had
no clue for how long. All he knew was that he was the reason they called Zeers demons, how
they hounded him in an attempt of either murder or exorcism, how Aaron never saw him as
fully human, how Billie locked him away in chains and spat on him
He remembered Archer screaming as he saw him, trying to run despite the bleeding bullet
hole in his chest. All of Brimstone saw him as a bat out of Hell, and for all he knew, they were
right.
On the third day of his journey to Damask, he caught the arena he desecrated with the corner
of his eye. The Panopticon: once a monument for the glory of sport, now holy ground for
illegal Sevis battles. It lay as a semi-circle within the dunes, under the blue sky, with four
towers of varying heights. There was no glamour to it, no beauty or gold. It remained a
shattered, two-story ring just as he left it.
During these three days of running, this was the first time he felt exhausted. He stopped; his
lungs and the stitches on his lips burning.
His strength had failed him; his willpower gave out with abnormal highs and lows, and for a
moment he considered that cutting off his foot would be a more sufferable penalty than
running through the putrid yellow land built on bones of the misunderstood.

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His mind, troubled with strain, started to derail its thoughts. Thoughts of fortune and
judgment corroded his head until it was pounding. Had dragons been peacemakers once?
Were hydras benevolent spirits before the humans claimed they were evil? Perhaps the Grim
Reaper was the kindest soul ever to visit the mortals, perhaps he never wore naught but filth
and black robes. He wondered if the foulest freaks of history were pure once, but a tragedy
doomed their species, sullied their name. A shark in the ocean could bite a human and cause
an uprising. The humans could destroy all the sharks in the ocean, and nobody could say a
word, because for some, genocide was always a matter of growth, and never provocation.
He thought about the fates given to the Outcasts, deemed appropriate by the Creator Gods.
Maggie, the amalgam which should have never been born, shunned from universities and
treated as a dog where she walked. Lattika, the child-slave and vigilante, who would have
been dead or dying by now, if not for her rage. Archer, the shell-shocked veteran only
marginally older than the rest taught to hate a race with every fiber of his body, brainwashed
by the people who saw Karaktaians as inane, dirty highlanders. Riker, more weapon than man.
Fafnir, a killer though nepotism. All those people placed into a world and ordered to fight,
only to be eschewed as soon as they obeyed. A cruel, ironic destiny for his friends. A cruel
destiny for him as well. He tasted blood in his mouth, his chest was about to burst. In this
moment of terror, within the brink of his collapse, he remembered who the people gone astray
turned to during their grueling days of martyrdom.
He remembered, closed his eyes, and began to pray.
The full pantheon of Gods heard his voice. Serena, Rowena, May, Ayers, gods of sport, gods
of love, gods of music, deities he had only read about in ancient scriptures, in archaic
ideologies. His words could not leave his mouth, but his thoughts seemed blasphemous, for at
one point he wished not for salvation, but eradication. Great Antara, Bringer of Hope, perish
all those preventing us from meeting again.
I lived as a hermit in a cave, repenting my sins when you brought him into my life. He was
tired, frail, just out of war. The blizzard froze the tears on his cheeks, and the snow painted
red from the bullet wound in his chest. I had nothing in my dwelling save for my clothes, a fire
and dried herbs to heal my frostbite, and I gave him everything. I wanted nothing but
companionship, and Im so lucky he found me.
His eyes were pure ice, wicked at first when he saw me and screamed. He hissed and saw his
bandaged wound, felt the blood return to his face. We spoke he spoke to me, and it was the
first voice Ive heard. Great Antara, I know this was your work. You brought us together and
apart and together again. Why put us through all these trials and tribulations lest you had
something incredible planned? This was a friendship to last through the ages, wasnt it?
Wasnt that what you envisioned in your odd joke, when you put together a mute and a silent
type, and had them understand each other perfectly.
He escaped the desert, but did not see where the sands switched to dry, cold earth. With his
eyes shut, he remembered the weeks he spent with Archer; how he trained himself to hunt
again, how he managed to talk through spastic mime. The marksman had three books on him
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 to keep him company during the war, he said and Pion read them all, eager to discuss. The
first one was a dud, and Archer told him this before he cracked it open. The second was better,
at least they could talk of it; Archer would enthuse about the plot while Pion nodded
vigorously, soaking up every gruff word which left the archers mouth. The third book was
unread, and Pion insisted that Archer should read it first.
It was a habit born of boredom, but it transcended. Soon all works of literature were shared
between them, devoured by Archer beforehand, until the man was an unending chasm of
fantastic literary knowledge. He hated Luck of the Draw, and knew Karaktaian Moon by
heart, it seemed. His preferred prose was rich with context but kept brief; he hated flowery
prose and love triangles. Character deaths cut him deeply, and Pion could tell by his reactions
when such occurred.
Folds of paper bound with soft leather provided more information about this fascinating
soldier than any heart-to-heart could. Gods, he missed their talks. His feet sped across the
ground which became ice, then snow. Oily eyes were still shut; he thought the force of his
speed was parting trees before him.
Great Antara, let me return from this voyage. Ive never asked for much.
He received as much as he begged for. Months after he and Archer first met, he left his cave to
search for food. As he tried to catch up to a snow rabbit, some tyrant by the name of Billie
wrapped him with chains and pulled him down the mountain, eventually leading him into the
scorching Aura heat. Though fast he was weak as a child; his blood was rushing as lightning
while bones shattered under the pressure of his binds. He was kept as her houseboy for so
long too long until she finally brought him to the market to try and fetch a good price. Her
wheelchair-bound girlfriend needed a wedding ring.
She introduced him to a buyer, Aaron Kronos, as Pion. It was not his name and he knew not
of the implications, but the name carried a raw, offal flavor to it. When he tried to repeat it in
his mind, it felt like chewing on raw lamb stomach, or something equally unappetizing. He
had forgotten the taste of food over the years, but never the sense of nausea. This held him
whenever he thought of his crime, whenever he thought of Archer, wounded and stranded,
alone
This was the first time Pion prayed for somebodys safety. Once he even tried to reach the
cavern, only to discover that the archer was gone. By the looks of the burnt-out campfire, he
wasted no time in escaping. Having nowhere to go, he returned to Aaron Kronos, and stayed
by his side despite his continuous claims that he had bought his freedom. Freedom, to Pion,
meant nothing if it meant spending it alone, hearing no voice that wasnt a cry of detestation.
He became another servant, an errand boy simply transferred from one slave-owner to the
next. Months passed, he heard Billie and her fiance were planning a wedding. He felt for the
poor half-breed she deserved better than the brute.

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He could have prayed for love at the time, he could have wished for Archers arrival, but in
the end the only pleas channeled into the ether were altruistic. Keep him safe, he prayed to no
God in particular. Let him be happy.
The Gods obliged the first plea, but the second fell on deaf ears.
The day when Archer found the Outcasts was a long, balmy one. With the rifle on his back, he
shot at the sentry Riker had put up, evading exploding pads while cursing with contempt. He
had grown taller, somehow. Perhaps it was the weight he had lost, of the thick beard booming
from the sides of his face. Either way he seemed to have aged significantly, and Pion almost
hadnt recognized him. When he did, however, he pushed the Outcasts aside and ran to him,
breathing hard when he stepped in front of the bewildered Archer.
Aaron asked if he had known him from before. If it were possible and appropriate, Pion
would have laughed to the point of tears.
Pions hands shook when he, in his clumsy and forgotten sign-language, asked Archer why he
came to the fruitless fields which held the rebels. The marksman seemed to consider the
question and spoke Gods, hed missed his voice and his words were those of guilt.
Im not losing another friend in this mad world. His chin was stiff when he shook his
head. Not again.
The great God of Hope finally answered his many prayers. Pion was confident that he would
do it again.
If not for me, he thought as he crossed the long, niveous Frost Peak, do it for him.
Do it for the man who wandered with a bullet in his lungs, into the unknown world, just so he
would not be alone again.
He tramped through the icy tundra, the sweeping blizzards within the woods, the jowls of
caverns splaying into mile-long coffins, all for the sake of a great redemption. History would
remember him as a madman, a lunatic, a freak of nature with a beast within his blood, and
legs so fast he could have escaped his own sins. Perhaps he would come across the Council of
Ancients and make amends; perhaps he would see the world as he truly should have. Stella.
My Lady Forrester, Brimstone is such a lonesome planet if you never stop to observe it. Its
such a lonely place if you arent known, if you have no voice, if you cant atone. Ive written to
you, confessing what Ive done, and I will never forget how you refused to look me in the eye.
Nor will I forget how you reached out and gave me this mission, my highest honor.
Im frightened of myself. Im frightened every day.
But you were not. He was not. Perhaps theres more to me than I feel. Perhaps theres more to
me than a curse I couldnt control.
I know now that I can do well, do better, and heal the world Ive scarred. If this is what it will
take if bringing humanity closer to Heaven will make the world forgive me, then I will
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accept this great obligation. I will defeat the demon within. I will run, yes, but I will return.
With no pause or doubt, I will climb the steps of Hell and help Kronos reach the apex
reserved for legends and Gods. I shall obtain the ancient knowledge for him; I will not rest
until he reaches the summit.
I might have tried to outrun the world once, but now Im running for it.
For you, my Lady.
For my friends.
For all the good in the world, and all those ready to fight for it. Brimstone is worth it. Life is
always worth it.
On the fifth day, as he still recited his oath, he reached Damask. Statues pure as marble
greeted him at the gate, expectant. His legs were aflame. Blinded with exhaustion, he could
only hear the four sage voices commanding him to walk forward, to walk further, to present
the scriptures With every new order, their words seemed more distant. Three loud, strident
voices and a soft mellifluous song the Ancient Sheebas residing in Damask sounded equally
terrifying and enticing. Bellarmine the Council was every bit as ethereal as the kings
foretold, he thought while his fingers vanquished their numbness. It was a play of glass and
sound, rainbows of color shining atop pillars and slanting domes; the people there were
colored as faeries but transparent, as though they were spirits lost on the land. The turquoise
sky shifted, its contours forming into vibrant, pulsating specters. Damask, the city state which
brought on Brimstones collapse, grew up to be a study in aquarelle, a town of silver and
glass, the most hauntingly beautiful monument to artistry and wisdom. It was beautiful. It was
so beautiful. My Lady, you should have been here. Can you see it? Can you see it from
wherever you are? A pang split his stomach in two, and he struggled to keep breathing. He fell
to his knees, then to his stomach, feeling himself drown in the black tar which spilled from his
veins.
Remember me, he requested the four giants wordlessly. He felt the debility take his life away.
Remember me as a Redeemer.
This was when the Third Ancient looked down from his nine feet of height. He skimmed the
Eleventh Scroll in his hands while the papers below fell on the red-and-blue mosaic road.
Cold wind swept up the papers and brought them to the holographic stars. The Zeer stared
back expectantly into his checkered silver eyes, hidden behind cobalt opaque spectacles.
We will remember you, Verglas the Vigilant promised. We will remember your deeds,
Marcus Ryder.

Chapter XVIII: Freedom

He outstretched his left arm, and he could have sworn he could feel his fingertips tingle.
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Ambidextrous as he was in the past, he knew both of his hands performed differently. While
he wielded a saber in his right palm, he used his left to erect a pencil. He prided himself over
his straight, cursive handwriting, and he knew it would be a pain to train his right hand to
oblige the rules of style. His right hand made a fist and the left picked up fallen items. When
with a woman, his left hand kept her in place while the right explored the contours of her
body. Though his right palm was always the doer, his left was the enabler, and losing it killed
him in a way. Even twelve days after the amputation, his brain still recalled the tightness
around his knuckles, the muscle fatigue below his elbow, the ridged nerves above his
knuckles.
His palm tightened into an invisible fist. He thought of his arm burned along with the bodies
they gathered.
Are you alright? Katie-Cassidy asked. Her eyes were bloodshot as she tightened his cravat.
Nobody slept in the palace; not when there were soldiers to bury and floors to wipe clean. The
ash and blood were gone, but the rats were not, and every moment of rest was broken with the
drumming of four-footed pestilence. This was on top of her ongoing operation the second
week had almost passed, and the barricade was caving in at an excruciatingly slow pace.
Commanding the handful of workers she could gather, pretending to be loyal to her King and
keeping track of all rumors going around the palace had left her worn and drowsy. And still,
she asked Calvin if he was well.
Im fine, he lied. Chestnut eyes glassed over beneath his square spectacles. He made a
motion which would have once resulted in a raised digit; he felt the tendrils tightening on the
V between his middle and forefinger. Nothing happened, so he looked to his fellow Guard.
Are you sure this is a good idea?
Without a word, she opened the side of his beige leather jacket, slipping a silver flask into its
fold. This was contraband from a recent reconnaissance mission though the protesters
around the palace spat at her and jeered while she passed, they still had enough respect for her
badge to surrender their wares as she beat them into submission. Strange, she thought, how
easily corruption came with power, or any semblance of it.
Now remember, she told him, no matter where your conversation goes, make sure to make
her drink. Ive seen her before. Shes most dangerous sober. By the time she has a sip shell be
downing gallons, and shell be as capable as a crippled Callahanian. She tapped the side
which held the flash, the cold metal digging into Calvins ribs as she looked into his eyes. Do
this for me, and Ill make it up for you with interest.
Normally this promise would have had his head spinning, but now it stayed very much in
place. The loss of his forearm must have secured a steady supply of blood which couldnt rush
from one end to another as it pleased. His throat was dry. He ran his tongue over his teeth,
shaking his head. Im not sure about this. His shoulders rose, and he had the mien of a man
about to undertake a malicious, underhanded endeavor. Shes been trying so hard. Id be
tricking her.

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Which is exactly what I need you to do. The Gods above and below know that shes been
infatuated with you even in training camp. The birds know it, the salt of the earth knows it,
and she knows it too.
Patting down on his uniform, she made sure he was as much in order as he could have been
without a limb. His beard had been trimmed with pinpoint accuracy and a paring knife; his
hair was pulled back and cleaned with river water. She even obtained some cedar oil and
myrrh from the crypts which she sprayed on him to mask the smell of sulfur exuding from his
unwashed skin. Inside his mended uniform, he tried his hardest to stand upright and proud.
Lady Smith couldnt make do with that alone. She needed him at his best; not pretending to
be at his better.
With a final tug on his loose sleeve, she attempted to hide the visible absence of flesh within.
Her aunt was a seamstress, and often made fitting clothes for war survivors, beggars who
came across a coin or two, and criminals accused of thievery who were punished accordingly.
Most of those people missed their body parts, so Smith knew how to mask their shortcomings.
A glove stuffed with hard wool made up for lost fingers, once even a severed hand. An iron
casting secured with leather straps around the stump of the forearm could project the illusion
of a complete arm. When attached, the two components made him appear complete. It was a
shame he refused to wear them, insisting that they made him feel ungainly. In the end she
merely secured an iron bar to his stump, and tied his sleeve into a knot at the end.
The improvisation was unpleasant to look at, but it could have fooled a by-passer from a
distance, or a love-stricken Guard in an unlit, decrepit palace.
Just remember, she said: Our escape depends on her ability to keep her mind clear. She
hasnt said anything but shes been putting Kith and I to work in the same shift. Im not
saying she knows, but shes beginning to have doubts, and Ive made it too far to be courtmartialed or hanged for mutiny.
For the first time in what seemed like forever, Calvin smirked. If your plan relies on the
flirtatious charm of an amputee, I can tell you its already doomed.
Calvin, I know its a lot to ask for. This is why Ive come to you. Youre the only man I know
who can stay sharp in this situation. Right now, we need that. Her brow furrowed. And need
I remind you that those blueprints are your work as well? This is your plan as much as its
mine.
His hand slipped around her waist, pulling her close. I love it when you act like youre in
charge. As soon as he moved his fingers up the ridges of her spine, his smile vanished. Never
holding her with only one hand before, he found himself lost, attempting to map her body
from scratch. He had no chance, as she pushed him away with no hesitation.
I am in charge, she reminded while he stumbled back. So save your groping for Onika.
There were a million ways to phrase that, a million different expressions which would have
been more pleasant to his ears. He could not object to her vernacular, not now. She had too
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much at stake, she hadnt slept, and she hadnt eaten since she saved all her supplies for the
escape. Perhaps she wasnt sliced up as he was, but she was still incomplete, and losing
herself a bit more with each moment of stress. Nodding solemnly, he swallowed a node inside
his throat. Alright. He rolled his shoulders back. At least they still felt in place; the circling
motion was comforting more than it should have been.I just want you to know that I still
consider Onika a friend. I wont force her to drink.
You just need to encourage her. Romance her. Make her feel special.
Do you think shes so easy to seduce?
She fucked Jocel the pig-boy after he treated her like garbage for years. She turned to walk
away, fists clenched. I doubt shell play hard to get with you.
This still feels wrong, Kate.
Its all wrong, Calvin. She began to walk away, her step a soldiers march. And tonight
were going to make it right.
With those final words she left Calvin alone in the darkness and reek, looking up at the gaping
holes on the ceiling. It was a black, starless night, and the sky carried nothing but the howls of
wolves. The walls were cold as ice despite the scorching day, and he felt a shiver through his
goose bumps. He exhaled, hot breath coming out in a cloud of steam. This was it, he thought.
This is now or never.
Shards of glass crashed against a crumbling wall. They fell on the ground somewhere distant,
but through the collapsed walls and unhinged doors it was never hard to discover the source
of the noise. Whoever the intruder was, they wanted to be heard. In a minute, Calvin launched
himself towards the throne room, along with five other Guards. His arm might have been gone
but his feet made up for the difference. It took him a second to reach his destination when he
was blinded by a gust of dusty wind.
Falling to his knees, he began to heave and choke. He watched the other Guards fall, some
clutching their chest, others holding their necks while pale tongues lolled out of parched
mouths. They fell on their sides and knees, rolled on the marble floor. The sand had gotten
into his lungs and pressed down on him until he relinquished his sword. Tears pricked out of
his bloodshot eyes and as he searched the area, he discovered two things; a definitive absence
of Kith and Smith, and Empress Kee standing in the centre with her arm outstretched. Her
crimson robes flew about, engulfed by wind.
She turned to Aurus who hunched on his throne. His forefingers touched beneath his chin.
You are trying my patience, King, she said as she sashayed. Sand poured from the cracks in
the walls, flooding the room until the Guards were drowning in it. The grain filled up the
levels of steps which lead to Aurus throne, and stopped right as they reached his sandals. Kee
stood atop the powder which petrified the Guards. Dont you realize now? Your Kingdom
hates you. Your palace is a ruin. You have no Scrolls, no gold, and the one man who took
everything away from you is nowhere to be found. You are ruined. Her teeth were smooth,
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glinting when she sneered. You arent a God. You arent a King. Youre a glorified cult
leader, and your word amounts to nothing. Give me back my land in Kawala Lax, and Ill let
you off with your dignity and your army intact.
Aurus clenched his fists. He wasnt even looking at her. Get out.
Tut-tutting, she placed her hands on her hips and sashayed, moving as a viper. What is it
about your male pride? Youd rather let your Kingdom and your people fall into ruin just so
you could have a few square miles of control over my Empire?!
I said, he tensed up, hands cupping the lions heads on his armrests, GET OUT!
Youve changed, Aurus. Youre nothing like the noble King I knew. Youre nothing like
Pasha, either. Your Hand is missing, your general is dead, your finest envoy has been burned
by your hand and your force, she made a grand, sweeping gesture to the men and women
choking within the sands she conjured out of nowhere. The finest bodies and the sharpest
minds of Aura were about to perish under a single spell. Starved, some allowed the sand to fill
up their stomach, since it was the most theyd ingested in a fortnight. A miserable sight, and
this was obvious to everybody, from the King to Calvin who was too weak to stand out of the
dune.
Your Kingdom is dying, Aurus, Kee said and extended a hand. But I can heal it.
I want nothing to do with the woman commanding those His fingers stiffened. Those
those Syth beasts!
The war is over, Aurus. And you still hold your labor camps on my grounds. Nikta, Sabina
and Lorna are vessels of death. They are prisons of innocents.
No Syth is an innocent! He cried, pounding his armrest with a clenched fist. His chest rose
rapidly, his head nearly beating out of it. Flaring nostrils drove attention away from his
maddened white eyes, filling with hell flames. Ive seen lives and families taken away by
those barbarians! They need to pay for their crimes! They are vicious! Theyre vile!
Even the old and decrepit? Even the babies in their cribs?
They had no trouble killing our children before I built the communes. Those monsters killed
my family. They left my niece for dead while she was still a child! Finally, after what seemed
like forever, he stood from his charred golden throne. His steps were hard but unsteady, his
back tilted forward while rings of fire over his knuckles burned. You have nothing to give
me. Im not letting you take anything else away!
With a growl he threw a ball of fire at her. She intercepted it with a blaze of sand, which
crumbled and returned to strike her. Hissing as her body sizzled, she sent a flat palm across
the sand. Jagged glass sharpened to points flew to Aurus body, to his eyes, before Onika
rushed in and shielded him with her sword.
Now, Onika! He commanded with his finger to Kee. Finish her!
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Before he even made it to the second sentence, the Elite was running on air, jumping into
position. Wielding her saber up high, she rose up and landed down. Gritted teeth ground, her
knuckles were hard on the handle, the blade was approaching Kees neck and then !
The Empress disappeared in a flash of red, and so did the piled-up sand. Onika landed on his
knees with no fanfare, grunting as they cracked. The Guards coughed and rose, their bodies
empty of sand and their eyes clear again. Calvin couldnt believe what had just transpired. He
closed his eyes and opened them again, wondering if this was a hallucination brought on by
the lack of sleep and blood. His eyes were stuck on Onika, who breathed hard as her uncle
approached her and put a hand on her shoulder.
Im sorry, my King, she said and shook her head, angry with herself, angry for not defeating
magic. I thought Id be faster. I thought
Its alright, he interrupted her. Youre becoming faster each day. She isnt. It wont be long
before you can defeat her. Now rise. She propped up her body with the curved edge of her
sword, and she stood facing her uncle. Unsure of what to expect, she tilted her head up to see
her uncles aged features, his rough skin and beard claiming the sides of his head. He had
never been this disheveled, never this old.
Uncle The word came out, even though she wished it wouldnt. It was greeted with an
embrace.
He smelled of ash and tinder, more woodcutter than fallen King. His hands were rough and
his touch desperate; for a moment she wondered if he would cry. He did not, though his voice
was riddled with pauses and breathy through his words.
Well keep this Kingdom, he promised her. Well avenge it. All of it.
I wont let you down, she said, although she had no idea what this implied. It took a
moment until they were peeled away from each other. This was when she saw a new glint in
Aurus eye, perhaps a reflection of his glorious former Kingdom, perhaps a recollection of his
uncles reign. Onika wondered if taking charge of some dregs of Aura will befall her.
Doubtful; she wasnt royalty, her mother ensured that she wouldnt be. Still, she was an only
heir, the only competent and loyal woman left in her uncles court. For some strange reason
she felt a tightening in her stomach, and it had nothing to do with Kee or the lack of rations.
Commander, Calvin said, thus grabbing the attention of both Aurus and Onika. My King,
he nodded, may I speak to the Elite for a moment?
Whats this about? The King asked, his voice ice and fire all at once.
Weve found a man crushed underneath a mess of tinder and stone. Hes breathing but
unconscious, and we doubt hes a Guard. Theres a reasonable chance that he might be Kees
spy or one of Aarons men left behind. We should treat him with caution he might know
something of use or he might know too much.
Onika looked at Calvin, then her King, then to Calvin again. Take me to him.
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Calvin locked in with Aurus eyes, feeling uneasy over them. Cold and dull, deeper than a
void, his pupils seemed to retract further into his skull as he returned to his throne. There he
sat with his knees together, his elbows on them while he hunched forward and looked at
nothing, vigilant and blind. The Guards who rushed to his aid spread up in meager groups of
four; some performing reconnaissance after Kees intrusion, others watching over the King.
Onika marched through the halls out of the throne room with a steady pace, and Calvin had
his good palm on her back, guiding her away from the spectators.
And while were here, she said with no reaction, you may also tell me why I havent seen
Kith and Smith when Kee attacked.
A cold hand grabbed Calvin by the throat, but he dispelled it as he shook his head. He rolled
his shoulders, disturbed by how they made a sound similar to crumbling newspaper. Coyotes
wailed in the distance. His throat shriveled up, parched. He couldnt stop looking at the knot
at the end of his sleeve, and a part of him knew that Onika avoided looking at him out of pity.
He had seen the same sort of respect from Kith, and it infuriated him. The other Guards
stared. They were honest.
But really, who was he to talk about honesty?
He waited until they walked far enough into a secluded location, a library near the dungeons.
Closing the door, he walked up to an oil lamp on the table and turned a small switch. It lit up,
shining soft light over their features. Thank the Gods the oil lamps were scarce and hidden
away. The blast would have detonated them. The lamp shone bright and he blinked several
times to expel the fuzz from his eyes. He could see traces of furniture within; a table with two
stools, a cabinet containing books whose glass panel was blown to shards. The jagged edges
glowed with the light, as did the medley of shards beneath their feet. Onika turned on her heel
after scrutinizing the moldy corners, stepping on a mouse until his bones cracked. When she
put a hand on the table, dust gathered on his fingertips in copious amounts. This tiny, cell-like
library was seldom used for anything other than secretive couplings, and Calvin knew it. Hell,
Onika knew it, since she took refuge here with Jocel as their fights became too heated, their
bodies too close.
At once, she was annoyed.
Wheres this spy you were talking about?
Theres no spy, he admitted, knowing that this would be all the truth hed give her. He took
her hand and came to her, caressing her palm. I needed a moment alone with you.
The squeeze he gave her made his insinuation abundantly clear. She went to take his hand
away but caught him by the empty sleeve, then the cold rod. Uncomfortable and pissed, she
pushed him away until he nearly collapsed over the small writing desk. Bullshit, she said.
Who put you up to this? Was it Katie-Cassidy? She never had any respect for my rank, and
she never had any respect for my uncle! I warned her Id have her head if she disobeyed the
Kingdom, and then she goes off and does this!
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The blankness in his mind lasted for less than a second. It wasnt her. It wasnt anybody. I
just wanted to see you in private. I cant stand to be apart from you, not now. Not like this.
Thats a lie and you know it! She paced around the room, the blood on her boot dragging
across the carpet, her saber knocking over books out of their shelves. She paced around the
table but didnt go for the door, not yet. Lamplight danced on her face. Her glasses have been
cracked, and Calvin noticed the hairline fissure on the right lens. Bright yellow flashed over
it, giving her an antagonistic appearance. Do you have any idea what I have to do around
here?! I used to be just an Elite, but now Im the supplier, the bodyguard, the Commander!
The list of people I can trust is getting smaller every day, my list of tasks is getting longer, and
I have no time to be a part of some some prank!
Cursing himself for being so careless in the past, he approached her to touch her shorn
platinum hair. Nicki, if youll just listen to me
My name is Onika, she said and corrected herself immediately. My name is Commander
Staples!
Words cannot express how much I regret having offended you. I was stupid, so stupid.
You still are!
In all my life Ive never met a woman like you. So bright and powerful, so resistant to
everything. I cant stop thinking about you, Onika. Youre everything Ive ever wanted in a
woman. Youre better than anyone Ive met, anyone I could ever hope to become.
Youre a good actor, she admitted, begrudgingly. His hand still fell from the back of her
head. I might have even believed you once. But now its not funny anymore. I know you live
to embarrass others or build yourself up but Gods damn it where does it end?! Flinging her
arms out she expressed pure fury, and for the first time Calvin felt his heart beat harder. Our
Kingdom is getting taken over by the rebels, the Outcasts and Kee! Were being pulled in all
directions, and I have to stand by my King no matter what! Do you think this is easy for me?!
Do you think I like doing all the work?! I dont! Alright, Calvin? I dont! I want it to stop, I
want everything to stop so just!
Coiling fingers into short hair, she hunched her shoulders. When she burst, her voice echoed.
Just STOP!!!
The room went deathly quiet. Nothing could be heard; even Calvin held in his breath, worried
that breathing could trigger an explosive reaction. Delicate air shook above them while the
echoes subsided. Stop stop stop!
It was Onika who spoke first, after taking a long, calming breath. Her tone, however, was
everything but calm.
I dont have time for this, she announced. I have to take care of my uncle. Her hand
reached for the door handle, leaning it sideways, tilting it down

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Your uncle can take care of himself!

Her hand released the door. When her eyes moved over from behind her back, Calvin found
himself at a loss. This was a new area he would explore, a new unrehearsed train of thought.
If his throat was dry before, it was ashen now, and it took every ounce of strength for him not
to mumble or stammer. As he spoke, he discovered that there was more truth to his statements
than he thought there would be. With every word, Onika turned to him. By the time he ended,
she was fully facing him.
Your uncle he mistreats you. He gulped, his saliva cold. He treats you like a slave and
he threatens you until he realizes he cant do anything without you. Thats not healthy. Thats
not how family works. Has your father ever punched you for coming late? Has your mother
ever assaulted you so much that you flinch when she calls your name?
A pallor washed over her face. She wrung her hands, looking at the floor for the first time.
I it was my fault. I wasnt !
No, it wasnt. Screw whatever you were about to say! It wasnt your fault! Youre one of the
most diligent, most observant Guards Ive ever worked with. Youre one of the few Guards in
here who truly cared about whats happening out there! He pointed to the side, to the wall. It
didnt take a genius to realize that he spoke of the people in the county. You know where you
came from, and you never forgot that. Youre not a brute or a monster. Youre not a mindless
military drone, no matter how much your uncle wants to make you one!
With a few quick steps he was in front of her, close enough to see her wet eyes, close enough
to touch her cheek. So he did, and he wiped away a trace of something wet from beneath her
lips. Nicki, he said, and this time she didnt protest the nickname. Instead she cradled her
cheek further into his palm. For once during his speech, he felt guilty. Youre incredible.
Youre a good person. His fingers squeezed her tighter; her skin was supple and soft. You
have ambition and willpower, you understand the value of hard work, I learn so much from
you every day. I know youre scared. We all are. Im cold and tired and hungry, feeling broken
beyond recognition, but
The cold iron pole flung out, and his sleeve untied. Falling in ruffled waves, the cloth sloped
over the rounded end of his temporary prosthetic. Dejected, he lowered his arm to hide his
shame, and Onika released a shuddering exhale through her teeth. She couldnt help herself.
She hugged him tightly, earnestly, soaking his uniform with bitter tears. His good hand
pressed hard against the top of her head, pushing it into the crook of his neck.
You inspire me, he said. His eyes scanned the ceiling so she couldnt notice the lack of
emotion on his face. Every day. You inspire me. Im in Hell, Onika. Im in pain. I just
wanted to have a night with you, to feel human again. Human and whole.
The last part even fooled him, and he found himself believing his own mawkish lament.
It appeared she trusted him, too. I miss Jocel, she said. I miss my family. I miss I missed
your kind words.
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It took him a second to move away and open his jacket, a significant effort with only one
functioning hand. Somehow he opened the lapel and extracted the flask, popping the tip open
with his thumb. The smell of whiskey was potent, and shrouded the dark library. Onika
watched with cautious eyes, as a gazelle would at a lioness she locked eyes with. It was
Calvins voice which put her at ease; his lips on her greased forehead which helped her relax.
Drink with me, he said, and then added something to sweeten the offer. Lets mark this
night with something smooth, something fit for Kings and Gods. Theres more in the cellars
below, but for now, this much will do. Drink with me to forget our troubles.
The flask tilted on his lips but he didnt have a sip to swallow. The contents were meant for
Onika alone, who took it with shaking hands. Sucking on her own tongue, she attempted to
resist temptation, but the longer she waited, the longer the thirst overcame her. She saw her
warped expression on the flask. Calvins hand took hers. Before she could decide whether to
drink or pour it on the ground, she had the taste of liquor on her lips. Sweet aroma, smoked
molasses, pooling in her mouth while Calvin kissed her with delicious lips which made her
nostalgic for drink. He moved away and she threw back the flask, chugging until half was
gone. Suddenly she felt nothing but bliss, enough for her eyes to water and her face to come
alive. All she needed was ice. No all she needed was another word, and it would be a perfect
night.
He was saddened by how expectantly she watched him, and after saying his final words, he
felt unspeakably dirty.
I love you, he said. This made her lip tremble.
She slung her arms around his shoulders. Calvin She sniffed. Youre the only man whos
ever treated me right.
Another gulp and the flask was empty. She threw it by her boots, kicked off the footwear, and
pushed him onto the grimy table. Lips clashed and immediately she was running nails over his
back. He couldnt move, not knowing what to do, what to say. In the end he simply followed
her. He unbuttoned what she wanted unbuttoned; he touched what she wanted touched. Their
kisses were frantic, desperate on one end, and on the other purely out of obligation. They
knocked over the lamp at one point; luckily the fall didnt break it. Oils spilled out, giving the
room a scent of sweat, whiskey and succulent olives from the south. Calvin closed his eyes
while she stripped him, layer by layer, until he was naked before her and she took every ridge
of his body with attentive, meticulous hands.
Youre beautiful, she said. He only looked at the stump sporting iron. Undoing the clasps,
she released the casing from him, and it clanged on the floor. The leather straps fell over the
cylinder in waterfalls, shaking after Onika pushed it off to the wall with her foot. She kissed
him, little by little, touching his stub with new reverence. Youre so beautiful.
He wondered if Katie would look at him like that. He wondered if she would treat him so
gently.
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Onikas body was a hymn of muscle and scars, connecting her limbs like hanging bridges.
Touching her was out of the question but she still had him put his hand on her, trace the
irregular pattern of her skin, and he found himself intrigued, wondering how long her scars
were, how many he could count in the dark. One lead to somewhere warm and sensitive; his
fingers twitched as he felt the coarse hairs underneath her smallclothes. Pushing his hand
further in, she kissed the side of his neck, breathing into his ear. His fingers slipped further. It
was thrill, guilt or some amalgam of both which had him stirring within, and in minutes his
kisses were as ferocious as hers.
He thought of Katie at first. Beautiful, curvaceous, wild Katie. The only difference was that
what he and Onika did was something other than sex, something more complex than what he
was accustomed to. Though uncertain if the complexity made their union better or worse, he
was certain he wanted more of it, more of her. They separated, came together, bodies of clay
molded by lips and fingers, pushing and pulling and rocking under the secrecy of a locked
room in the night. Her expressions of love were fueled by drink; his by deception.
Whatever they did that night however some people with better grasp on reality called it
gave them a headache in the end. Hers was a content, blissful pain, which she knew she would
support with alcohol the first chance she had. She kissed Calvin goodbye and held him while
he dressed, happy and at peace. Sore in the best possible way, light on her feet, her hunger
growing deeper but not for food for affection. It was something she had only read about
before, only imagined in her puerile fantasies from training camp. The glowing bliss stayed
with her long after Calvin had left, fully dressed and abnormally quiet.
Spread on the thick layer of dust on the table, Onika watched up with her hand over her chest.
Breathing in, she discovered this was more comfortable than any bed she spent a night in. She
smiled to herself, basking in the afterglow of her first time. The first time she was told she
was loved, the first time she felt respected by a man she coveted. The first time of many, she
hoped, that she gave her heart, body and soul completely. Later she would follow his order
and go to the cellar, find the whiskey and try to stretch her elation for as long as she could.
She needed to. She deserved to feel wanted, needed, beautiful.
To Commander Staples, what she did that night could have been called making love.
Cunningham, meanwhile, weighed the deception, the inebriation, and all yet unnamed
circumstances which undoubtedly defined this as rape.
He spent the rest of the night with his head between his knees, forcing back vomit and
remorse.
/***/
Calvin was not the only one who couldnt sleep deep into the night.
Turning for a good half hour after his previous walk, Riker could hardly bring himself to close
his eyes, let alone rest until morning came. Their bedroom was blurry, soaked with translucent
gel. At least, this was how it seemed to him, without his glasses. Bottles and beakers were
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scattered around the floor, and their fumes threatened him with a migraine. The Kings
marauders went through their quarters, draining, breaking, stealing everything not nailed to
the wall or glued to the ceiling. His blueprints scattered across the cabinets with pulled-out
drawers, his clockwork designs rendered to miniature cogs which stung his feet as he stood
up. The area was red, all too red to him. Copper walls reminded him only of death.
He took a pocket watch from his mostly-intact nightstand, the sole item the Guards hadnt
taken. Perhaps it was too gruesome to collect, or worthless to them now since the anarchy in
Aura began, all could lift one of those from any merchants stand, and they could not run after
them if they were hanging in towns square by their necks. A chill rushed Rikers spine when
he squinted at the watch.
Early, he deducted, but not too early.
There was no more use fooling himself, pretending that sleep would come. He flung his legs
over the side of the mattress the two of them graciously named a bed. Before standing,
however, he looked behind his shoulder to see Maggie, who had finally stopped coiling and
hitching her breath in her sleep.
No light penetrated the darkness, but she was still illuminated. Her skin took on a scarlet
shimmer. Beads of sweat matted her hair and stuck her green garment to her thighs. Curled in
a ball, she slept with her shoulders jutted out, and he railed a thumb across the curve of her
neck. Fine red hairs on the back of her neck matted when he ran a finger through them. She
winced, only slightly, and he drew his hand away. His hands landed on the empty spot beside
him; his gaze on the smooth rolls of her stomach which moved while she breathed, slow but
shallow. A constellation of freckles on her forearms was lost within the goose bumps his touch
enticed.
Missing clothing and shredded blueprints he could tolerate, but to her, their destruction
crushed her. It set her into hysterics when she saw the broken tools, shattered energy cores,
generators beaten like tin cans. Graffiti was sprayed over the portraits of her academic heroes;
Lady Hughes eyes were crossed off, her mouth torn away, slurs he couldnt even say written
underneath. To her this was exactly like last time Callahan, the bomb, the broken shell of
her aspirations remaining just to taunt her, half of her fianc lying in front of her in the
ground
Shuddering, he tried to wipe away the sweat with his robotic hand. The hair on his arms
prickled at the cool touch. The state of their headquarters were not something to be ignored,
and were sure to bring out foul, torturous memories of his own. But an arm could be replaced.
Titanium could not repair the pit within his memories, but the looks it educed were those of
wonder, not pity.
Yet pity was the only thing to feel for Maggie at this time. She hated pity, loathed it as some
loathed betrayal. And what else was pity, than betrayal of respect?
A part of him wanted to wake her, imagining her dreams to look worse than their base did. He
decided against it, opting instead to cool off his nerves with a pre-dawn walk. Reaching
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further across his nightstand, he touched his glasses and pulled them to him. Moments later,
he found his clothing on the floor.
It had been nine days since Pion left, it occurred to him, halfway through putting on his pants.
Odd, how the Outcasts barely spoke of his absence.
The taste of Damasks name of anyones lips remained as pungent as venison marinated in
bile. This is why nobody spoke of it it remained a place only visited by unholy tongues, the
nameless enemys domain, the unspeakable curse. If one were to slip, they would be chided
and reminded: We do not talk about Damask. Similar as with we dont go to Parquesh,
dont venture into Sepulchra after midnight, or never marry in uncharted seas. Brimstone,
the jagged planet of great beauty and wonder, secluded many ungainly locations to make it
pure. As result, Parquesh remained heavily guarded, Sepulchra a slum nobody slept within,
and Damask had the tendency to bite the conversers tongue long after the conversation was
finished.
Pion was, at best, on his way to the wretched place, remembered in the south with their
triumph in The Great War; a victory of brain over might, books over spears, nuclear bombs
over innocents.
At worst Riker couldnt think of it. Not then, when tensions were high, fear was boiling
within, and Stellas grave hadnt yet cooled.
Her moonlit ethereal blood shone from the mound beneath her tombstone, radiating a ghastly
glow which masked the stars in the sky. It subdued now, dimming in the dusk. Streaks of red
formed across the black sky and the Outcasts, burdened with insomnia, could only watch it
and count the disappearing stars. A fallen Dryads body would always emit fog and light;
some said that they would evaporate to fuel the Sun after a century. Few in Brimstone had
seen a magical beings corpse, and even fewer saw the glowing spirit fly to the stratosphere.
Nobody could think of folklore at the time. She disliked tales of legend outside of Aarons
bedtime stories, so this was preferable to the alternative.
Aaron had buried her beneath the sequoia; carved a slab of cement with one of Maggies
tools. He wanted to write of her accomplishments, of her friends and many functions. In the
end he wrote nothing but her name, and made up for the difference with all the flowers he
could gather from the marketplace. Since the riots burst around all corners of Aura, the market
was more fire than stalls. No customer wandered about; the others were too distraught to see a
suspiciously cloaked figure prowling the stands. It took him an hour to find the first florist,
and negotiate a price. They were bought with coin, not deception Aaron wondered if it
would have mattered to her.
Riker could almost feel a chill creep up his metal arm and surge through his spine when he
saw the pile of witling Wisteria flowers; disorderly and aglow. Aaron was hanging on a low
branch of the barren crown, smoking as he tapped his foot into empty air. Archer smoked as
well from the observation deck, rifle at the ready. They both watched the full pink moon, as
though they awaited a delivery. Riker couldnt blame their lack of presence, their dullness.
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Coyotes still howled as wandering spirits, weapons still clashed on the training grounds
Fafnir and Lattika dealt with insomnia in more constructive ways than others and every so
often a cough could be heard from the treetop.
Lucretia left them a week earlier, right after the funeral. She took little time to leave and
spared only a few words, explaining that Brimstone held another place for her to discover and
settle down in. For an unknown reason, the scene was still fresh in their heads.
I still havent seen nearly enough of what I wanted to, she said after gathering her
belongings scraps of food and a turquoise bead from Aarons hair, to remember him by. Ill
live a thousand years and if Im lucky, Ill make something out of myself during that time.
But what will you do? Maggie asked, disappointed to see another checkered-eyed lady
leave her life. Brimstone isnt kind to Dryads.
She shrugged. Ill just explore, visit new locations, meet interesting people. Maybe Ill
spread the knowledge, you know? Enlighten others.
Sounds like you want to become a teacher. Maggies chuckle came off sad. Lucretia
tightened the strap of her new knapsack, responding with an equally sad-looking smile, which
weighed on her features like a sack of bricks.
The world mocks teachers. So did I. But honestly, Ive found that teachers are the guiding
light we need. They inspire and discipline; they impact our lives and open new horizons. Ive
been too lazy to realize it but theres something truly awe-inspiring about those who want to
teach. I wish all people had the innate urge to share knowledge as they do. Many of us hold
prejudice, but in a very short while Ive realized that teachers are not only brave and selfless.
They can also be the greatest people youll ever meet.
With the heartfelt speech, Lucy looked up from her shoes and smiled to them. Her tangerine
eyes were warm, though not hot as flames. She seemed content scared, certainly, and
worried and alone but there was happiness to her which came from a newfound purpose.
If I can share an ounce of knowledge I find on my travels, if I can change somebodys
perception of life, then Ill know I havent spent my years in vain.
With a deep breath and a twirl of her dress, she disappeared in a flash of cyan. Something
was smiling upon them from the skies that day; the sun burst for a minute before settling
within the electrified overcast.
It was the last change of weather they had seen. Lucys departure left them in gloom.
This eve was no different than the thick darkness following Stellas burial. It was an eerie,
haunting night. Too quiet for comfort and too restless for focus.
Watch it, Aaron said coldly, flicking a still-lit neon leaf wrap by Rikers lace-up boots. The
cyborg looked down and recoiled, realizing he had carelessly stepped over the luminous
grave.
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Apologizing, Riker looked into the far-reaching plains of dust, which lead to junkyards,
deserts and, perhaps days away, civilization beyond. Though he never believed in demons and
ghosts rising from their ashes to seek revenge on the living, he recalled tales he heard as a
child; old-wives tales which described nights very much like this one, and massacres very
much like something he would never want to see. Needless to say, he didnt stay outside for
long.
After kicking a wayward stone, he turned away and began to descend down the spiral
staircase. Before the secret door closed into the wood, he looked behind his shoulder and at
Aaron, who still watched the moon. Not even knowing why, he wished him good luck, and
made his way to Maggie.
Perhaps Aaron knew somebody had sent him a kind regard. A pleasant feeling came up to his
throat and he shivered, attributing it to the quality of neon.
Fafnir and Lattikas sparring session grew louder, until silent contemplation was nigh
impossible for the people uninvolved. The Xexarian scooted across the branch and looked at
the two fight the Macro with a morning star, Lattika with a trusted halberd.
Spikes and hatchets clashed in glorious fury, sparks flying on the barren ground. He grunted
and swung at her, gritting teeth after she evaded his strike. The blunt end of her weapon barely
touched his neck. He knew it was a warning and that he was a fool not to block it. Dust
swept around him when he went for her legs. The weapon all but touched her when he was hit
hard on his side. The air escaped him, and suddenly every fiber of his being burned, boiled
with the need to bludgeon her.
Concentrate, she said, pivoting around him. Amber eyes met his dark ones, soaking up and
exchanging ferocity. They were so close they could smell each others breath, and far enough
to scrutinize the tense muscles, flaring nostrils and goose pimples on black skin. Youre still
slow.
Though she wanted him to, he did not respond. His attack went for her head and she arched
her back, protecting herself with the halberd. The spiked ball swung past her nose but missed;
its chain spinning around the staff thrice before it was fixed. Lattika yanked her weapon, and
Fafnir soared through the air. He fell on his back, fingers clenching in pain as something
within him cracked.
When he lay on the ground, looking up at the moon, he conjured memories of the Panopticon.
Those ending their battles defenseless never lived to share their fears. He felt bare, exposed,
yet too sore to cover himself or stand. When Lattika came over him, his blood stopped
running through his body. If this was a real fight, he thought, if the battler opposing him was
any more unforgiving, this would have been his end. The Sitka stood above with her chin
lifted; her eyes bright as burning coals. She looked at her red palm, and saw several droplets
leave the hollow of her hand. Metal spikes and blades rattled the ground when she dropped
the weapons. From the looks of it, the mace was bloodied on its side.

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You still got me, though, she said and wiped away the blood on her skintight coriaceous
garment. Beige was taken over with crimson palm prints; Fafnir noticed more of the color
collecting on her thigh, drowning it. Some would have howled and fallen due to this injury,
but the Sitka only shook her head and
He couldnt believe it.
She actually laughed.
If you fought for real, you would have taken my leg. It was unclear to him why he extended
his arm, but within moments he was pulled up and smacked on his right shoulder blade. Her
breath was shallow; her hands calloused and rough. Good fight, she commended him.
Good fight, he said in return. Whats my score?
Ive bested you five times out of eight. Bushy eyebrows came together as she nodded.
Shall we try another time?
Judging by the way he stepped back and laughed, one could assume she had asked him to
partake in a cannibalistic ritual. Im afraid continuing to fight you would only worsen my
score. But thank you.
Lattika kneeled to untangle her halberd from the mess of metal chains and dried bloody
flakes. Her thigh was still seeping, and hissed when she put a hand over it. Despite the pain,
she refused Fafnirs help when he tried to aid her. Dont get too close, old man, she
mocked. Youll break your back.
Her weapon caught his eye. You know, it is the twenty-first century, he reminded her,
ticking his thumb to the base. And you just happen to be best friends with a highly talented
gunsmith.
Were not friends.
Acquaintances.
Colleagues.
Regardless, I think you would benefit from a rifle more than you would with a hatchet from
the Middle Ages.
She threw away the morning star far too easily, as though the thing barely weighed a pound.
There was admiration in her gaze while she examined the halberd, sleek and polished, brought
to perfection with the use of skilled hands and whetstone. Its blades were shards of tempered
ice; its staff bathed with the life essence of victims, and always calling for more. The weapon
was sharp edges and deadly curves; not one smooth patch save for the handle she bandages
with gauze. Lattika considered it a beautiful artifact, despite some claims that it belonged
more to a museum than a battlefield.

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Tossing it up, it spun twice in the air before she caught it firmly in her hand. I like a
challenge, she explained, and Fafnir had to make do with that. What he couldnt make do
with was having a teammate willing to ignore a potentially dangerous wound simply to assert
her dominance.
So, without warning, he picked her up by the thigh and waist, hoisting her up to his arms. She
squealed and clutched the halberd to her chest. Its point landed on Fafnirs chin, leaving a red
pinprick near the cleft. What in the Gods name are you doing?
Fafnir adjusted her body, trying to carry her more steadily. Im taking you to sickbay to get
that thigh looked at.
Youll be looking at nothing of mine, she promised him with a furrowed brow. Get your
hands off me.
He shrugged. As you wish.
It was a shame the people outside were too focused on the horizon or too depressed to enjoy
the sight. Gods only knew how this looked like to anybody present. From an objective point
of view, it looked like a stout, muscular Sevis fighter tossed a six-foot Sitka ten feet into the
air, where she kicked her legs and objected loudly to the development. Thick curls flew in the
wind. Wide eyes became wider, more alive with the short flight. Her halberd nearly dropped
from her hands, and she steadied it just as she made her descent. Fafnirs arms felt like blocks
of steel when she landed back onto them, but her back received no pain from impact. Her
heartbeat, however, was faster than a hummingbirds wings.
Breathing hard, she looked him in the eyes, realizing how when Fafnir said: As you wish,
he actually meant: Ill let you go when you learn to fly.
The smug Sevvy seemed amused by her open-mouthed panting. She managed to catch the
start of her sentence, only to lose it a second later. What was that?
You told me to take my hands off of you. Before that moment, Lattika had never seen him
create such a mischievous smile. She wasnt even convinced his facial muscles could handle
it. Why? He asked. Did you want me to keep them off you longer? Because I think I can
toss you even higher than that.
NO!
Fafnir spun around his heel, building momentum while squeezing her tightly.
NO, STOP THAT! I REFUSE! YOU CANNOT!
Stepping out, he flung his arms to the sky, and Lattika along with them. For a woman of her
stature, her flight was surprisingly graceful or, at the very least, more organized.
FAFNIR aaaah! The stars only became lighter when she tilted her head up. Her body
became light as summertime balloons, wispier than streamers in the breeze. Unaware to her,
the corners of her mouth went up, and she didnt even notice her weapon slip from her grasp.
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Ha! Arms outstretched, she greeted the apex of her flight, and held her body when she came
down faster than a rocket. Her skin rippled under the downwards stream of gravity, tickling
her. Ha ha ha! When she finally saw Fafnirs face after the flashing colors, she had only one
request.
Do that again!
Of course he obliged, and threw her high enough to reach the pointed tree tops. So it seemed
the seconds she flew passed like hours, and she loved soaring with her body weightless. There
was no pain in her muscles then, no weight of armor on her torso. Her fingers all but
dethatched from her hands and a spiraling, yellow energy burned within, expanding in her
chest until it came out in peals of laughter. It was a strange and unusual venture into her
bodys reaction to flight. Fun, she recalled the sensation was called. For a very strange reason,
she enjoyed having this, the thing they called fun.
She flew high and plummeted fast; too fast for Fafnir to catch her and remain upright. She
toppled over him, knocking out his air yet again, laying on his chest as she laughed and rolled,
and clutched her stomach. An objective bystander would have seen the two cackling fools and
deemed them mad.
In a way, the bystander would have been right. Fafnir was utterly, completely crazy.
Crazy for her, and her bodacious laughter.
It wasnt long until Lattikas laughter stopped and she saw a new development on her wound.
It had been bandaged, staunched tightly, with a piece of cloth from Fafnirs tunic. The
bleeding had almost stopped; the color yellow caved into the brown gash, but upon touching
the surface, Lattika couldnt deny that it was dry and contained. She looked up, astounded,
and Fafnir could guess the question on her mind.
I can be fast when I want to be, he said and shrugged. Besides, somebody needs to take
care of you.
This time, he was the first to stand up. He offered his dusty hand to her, which she denied
with a scoff.
Dont be absurd. I can handle myself quite well. Her feet were still steadfast when she
jumped up, standing on the ground in all her tall glory. Looking over her shoulder, her
weapon in a firm grasp, she awaited his comment which never came. Besides, she lied, I
saw when you bandaged my thigh. But I didnt say anything, since the last thing Id want was
to spoil an old mans good time.
Sticks and stones, kid. With his arms akimbo, he closed his eyes, head swaying side-to-side.
Come on, now, he said and gestured towards the headquarters. Lets get cleaned up.
Before they could make another step, Fafnir stopped with a start Aaron stood in front of
them, his head bent and his eyes hidden my a mop of dark braided hair. Faf, he said with a
heavy voice, could you spare a moment?
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Unsure of the Xexarians intentions, and fairly certain this was the first time hed spoken to
him or anybody, for that matter , Fafnir turned his head to Lattika. They cast one look and
she nodded, patting him on the shoulder before marching to the hidden door. As she walked
away, Aaron pocketed his hands and sauntered to the side, not saying a word. Fafnir followed
him, eyes tracking Lattika until she was out of his sight, until the doors closed behind her.
When he looked away, Aaron had already brought him to a secluded spot a large toothed
stone sitting in the midst of the fields. There, he sat on the ground and looked up, awaiting
Fafnir to sit as well.
His eyes were bloodshot, Fafnir noticed, and not only because of neon. Swallowing hard, the
man sat criss-cross, hands cradling his knees. What is it, Kronos? Is there something you
needed me for?
There was no response at first. Owls hooted in the distance; the ravens squawked. Air was
torn apart by flapping wings, coursing through the night and blackening the sky with tar-black
feathers. It was a nightmarish sight that all of the Outcasts had gotten accustomed to. The
Barren Lands were never complete without omens of death, and they accepted all the stirrings
within the universe. Even that night, when the ground died out for the birds to come alive,
Fafnir was more concerned over Aarons posture, his composure. Shoulders back, chin up and
eyes straight ahead, he did not resemble himself. There was no mirth in his voice, but one
would assume why not. His presence was daunting, as though somebody else had inhabited
his body, and every deed was the work of a poltergeist.
You and Lattika seem to be getting along alright. His voice expressed fact, not jest. Fafnir
feared an incoming innuendo, but none arrived. Its nice. Its good to hear people laughing.
Brimstone doesnt get many chances to laugh.
There was a layer of worry underneath his statement. Fafnir was dumbfounded, and could feel
his jaw go slack. Was the Xexarian honestly appreciative, or was some subtle mockery afoot?
Chances of both were equally low. The Xexarians as a whole were never known for their
honesty, and Aaron was as subtle as a punch to the face. The former Sevis champion looked
into the shifting sky and cleared his throat.
Its nice to hear her laugh. Shes been through much, and shes finally adapting. I fear for
her, though. Im not sure shes fit to care for herself.
Shes lived in the wilderness for half a decade and escaped Aurus dungeons unaided. Id say
she can care for herself just fine.
The edge in Aarons voice was sharp as a needle. Fafnir swallowed some hot saliva, and his
statement with it. Im not talking about survival, Im talking about constitution. She still has
to learn that living through a fight amounts to nothing if youre too battered to move the
following day.
Yeah, well, I dont think bandaging her and treating her like a baby is going to make
anything stick with her. Ignoring Fafnirs wide eyes, Aaron pulled a lighter and a roll of neon
401

leaves. He offered the smokable to Fafnir, who shook his head and touched the vial of therolin
hanging around his neck. Suit yourself, Aaron said in reply to the decline. In seconds, multicolor fumes started to dance around the thin papyrus, and tufts of blue smoke billowed from
his nostrils.
Hes been smoking a lot, lately. None of the Outcasts had any particular opinion one way or
the other when in deep mourning, one could do worse than huff on neon leaves. The
Xexarian smoked for what seemed like minutes until he exhaled three red circles, finally
facing Fafnir.
Just be careful around Tika, alright? Shes been through a lot. He watched him from below
the line of his brow, conveying a warning. And if my maths any good, shes much younger
than you.
Its not even like that with her, Fafnir said. His tone wasnt hostile or defensive, so Aaron
listened closely with his elbow on his knee. Every time Im with her Im well, Im with
somebody who seems to understand me. She never asked me any questions, she never
dwelled on my past. She lives in the present and forces me to train, to improve myself. When
I first came to the Outcasts, that was all I needed. So I sparred with her. He looked behind
him, perhaps to see if the Sitka had exited their hideout and listened in on the conversation.
This was not the case.
Sighing, he continued: I know less about her than Ive known about any other Outcast.
Perhaps this is for the best. Riker and Maggie seem like a sweet couple but after hearing what
theyve gone through what Maggie is into Im sometimes scared shitless just looking at
them.
Aaron laughed to his neon. Thats not surprising. The Outcasts are hardly the amiable bunch.
Hell, when you see us walking down the street and the person getting the least dirty looks is
the guy with a mechanical arm, you know youve got one hell of a group.
Yeah. A ghost of a smile appeared on Fafnirs lips. I guess youre right.
Looking up to the sky reminded him of their conversation topic. His mind went back slightly
not all the way to the Panopticon, or even to the life he lived afterwards. It went back to
emotions, not events, and they morphed, forming a permanent state of being, a prison he
needed to escape from and only now managed to crack. Trembling, tittering voices echoed in
his head, sending goose pimples up his arms. He cupped his shoulders as he looked down.
I was a mess when I came here. Alone. Afraid. Ive been a killer all my life before I even
drew blood for the first time. You all knew about what I did to Smee.
I didnt. I was surprised as you were.
Fafnir assumed this was a joke.
Lattika was she was like me, in a way. She killed to survive. She killed because at times, it
was between her and them. She had no qualms, no night terrors, no second-guessing. One
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time, she even told me: A broken man will only recover once he had defeated his foe. To me,
the foe was my past. And shes been helping me forget it.
There was a terrifying moment when he doubted Aaron would understand his tale. For a
second he debated whether or not to elaborate, but decided that over-sharing was better than
holding any more secrets. The truth hurt at times, yes, but the pain often passed quicker than a
torn bandage. I dont feel much for her, and yet I feel the world. She fulfills a need I never
knew existed in me. I just want to be supportive of her, to help her. Shes almost like the
train of thought derailed and landed on the back of his mind. The word misplaced was
scratching he back of his head, but he couldnt retrieve it. Snapping his fingers to summon it,
the definition came to the wrong host.
Aaron finished in his place. Shes like a sister to you.
Fafnir watched with thankful eyes. Yes! He proffered a flat palm. Yes, exactly!
He nodded. Yeah, I know how that feels, he said as he leaned against the stone. Freya and I
were exactly like that.
You still think about her?
I wish. Nowadays she just comes to me. I keep hearing her voice, her songs they subsided
at one point, but now theyve gotten louder. More frequent. Jaw clenched tight, he gripped
the end of his smokable while it burned to a crisp. He was stifling something a cry, a pang
of pain, a tear or a kick to the ground. Fafnir couldnt tell for a while. Not until Aaron released
a deep, guttural sigh, and leaned his head to rest against the rock.
Look at us. Sitting around like idiots around a rock. He laughed a single, sarcastic hah.
Despite what I said earlier, Im glad youre having fun with Tika. Really, I am. Ive been
having too much fun before, at the expense of others. Now their voices keep swarming me,
and I dont even feel like myself anymore. Taking a drag he put a hand to the left side of his
chest, where Stella implanted her crystal. He could remember it being hot as melting iron
when it jabbed his heart. Why was it freezing now? His hand slipped away, the palm cool.
Im glad some can still have fun. Its going to get much, much harder for me from now on.
I suppose, Fafnir shrugged. Maybe thats why you gathered the best fighting team in
southern Brimstone. He waited a beat. All of Brimstone.
Faf, I love you man. But I wouldnt trust half of these people with my laundry, let alone life
as I know it.
Aaron closed his eyes as though he was about to sleep. Even his breathing went steady, his
fingers relaxed. The neon almost touched the soil, dangling precariously from his listless
fingers. With the minimal amount of strength, he curved his head sideways. Theres a silver
lining in this cloud of bullshit, though. You wanna know what that is?
Fafnir did not respond, but Aaron spoke anyway.

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Theres one good thing about being the last of your kind. Ultimately, theres nobody left to
disappoint.
In the depth of the night a holler broke loose, twisting both of them from their confessions
and into the new development. Aaron jumped on his feet as Fafnir looked up. Riker ran out of
the headquarters with his robotic limb twisting into a cannon. He stepped out and wiped the
sweat from his brow. Maggie lead out Lattika, who sported a new bandage on her thigh. The
Sitka had her gear at the ready; Maggie sported two ray-guns and scanned the sky for any
anomaly. Somehow, during their frantic search which discovered nothing, Archer climbed
down the treetops and jumped, landing on the ground.
Its him! He called out and ran forward, wheezing as the bullet rattled in his lungs. Its
him!
The Outcasts exchanged glances. Who? The Zeer who ran to the warmongers in Damask and
returned alive. The unnamed runner who held the Scrolls. The sprite so unknown, so obscure,
who somehow held the fate of Brimstones prophesies. Jaws dropped, eyes flared, and as a
group they ran after Archer who continued to breathlessly cross every slope and ravine.
They ran so fast, so urgently, that the trampled Wisteria flowers mattered to nobody.
Aaron saw nothing as he ran. When he flew, he saw a glitch on the horizon, a black crumb
sprinting with his arm up. Thats him! Archer shouted, pointing ahead. Its him! Aaron
picked up the sharpshooter, fighting against fatigue. Dont fall, he commanded to himself.
Dont fall now. Sending new air into his feet, he plunged forward while Archer guided him.
They barely ran for a minute, five, ten Aaron was ready to drop down and never stand up
again.
If Stella were there, they could have teleported the distance.
But she was not, and he was forced to carry through.
Pions pace seemed to have slowed down significantly. Even though his shadow grew on the
wastelands, his limbs moved at a normal mans pace, he slowed down and sped up again. His
arm fell and he lifted it up again, exposing a glittering amber stone. Aaron squinted to see it,
but Archer described it as a crescent moon, colored like honey.
Yet something struck him much stranger than Pions fatigue. The threads around his lips were
tugged out, leaving ashen skin. His mouth was wide and black within; his teeth every shade of
brown. His tongue, rippled, had the texture of charcoal, and his lips were lacerated from all
sides, black with infection and gangrene and every disease mankind discovered. Blisters,
scars, bruises clawed at his face, and Aaron finally discovered that he looked more monstrous
with an unstitched mouth. He came to them, faster and closer, closer and faster, his lips
spreading apart in shapes Aaron barely recognized.
Archer had read the journal four times already, cover-to-cover, allowing every detail to fill his
mind and stick, as though every confession was coated with adhesive and blades. For nine
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days, Archer did not know what to think of him. So many layers, so many destinies he had
never known about him, so many feelings misinterpreted. Paralysis caught his hands after he
read the journal, formatted as a letter for an unrequited love. It was too much for him at first,
too bizarre and freakish to comprehend. But when his eyes recognized his face miles away, all
fears quadrupled, and so did his loyalty.
He learned his name from the yellow-tinted pages, and he cried out: Marcus!
The runner looked up, eyes aflame.
Hes smiling, Archer knew. Somehow this realization made it harder to breathe.
Marcus voice was strange when he called out his name. Archer! Rapid and insistent, laden
with impatience, he spoke as if every word hurt like sin. He cradled the words on his tongue
beautiful words! and he adored them so, expelling them as a dragon breathing fire. Archer!
Kronos! The third word he managed was splendid, and later, an ecstatic cry of friends!
He ran, lifted by the wings of his ancestors, lead by his own promises of redemption. The
crescent in his hands gave away and shone, reflecting moonlight, carrying the power of sun
and heaven itself. Well live! Feet jet black, face rotting, he held himself high and even
triumphant as he reached the two. Aaron and Archer fell on the ground beside him, and as
they descended, Marcus fell onto them. One arm gripped each shoulder, and his feet went
limp. Finally, he had made it. He had made it and had so much to show.
Making sure the crescent pendant fell into Aarons palm, he looked to Archer. Well live. We
will! His new voice shook with the weight of everything hes done. It was an apology, a plea,
a promise all at once.
Archer felt Pions arm grow heavy on his. Gulping, he stared at the dark Zeer with reverent
eyes. Something told him he should remember this moment; imprint it into the deep alcoves
of his consciousness. He remembered his name, written on the covers of his journal. His
throat constricted as he said it. Marcus
The runner closed his mouth, and allowed his lips to spread. This was the first smile in many
years which did not hurt him, or rip his skin apart. They will remember me, he thought. They
will remember my deeds.
His final wish was fulfilled, and he celebrated by putting his head on Archers shoulder. There
and then, he expired.

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Chapter XIX: Aleph

Ten minutes until dawn and the Guards have settled.
She was careful that the word does not spread among the blindest of sycophants, meaning
their escape route was meant for them alone. After recovering Calvin from the crypt, she
secured another pole onto him (How did you lose your prosthetic?), brought him into the
hidden cove where Kith awaited (What is taking you so long?), and shook the Macro Guard
to wake him up (Calvin! Focus!). A red sun burst its first rays from the cracks in the ceiling.
Walls of the palace were painted pink, as though with spilled summer wine or bloodied water.
Seven minutes until dawn and the Guards were in preparation.
Half a bottle of Hellfire barely enough to burn a barn, but just enough to dispose of stone,
mortar and rat viscera clogging the passageway. Kith handled it with a steady hand, spraying
it over corners of the hole he had dug. When he was done, Smith wanted another layer. And
another. Another! All they needed to do was wait for the sunlight and the fire would burst, and
they would crack the foundation like it was made of bread crust. It would burn, she warned,
and it would blister. (But would you rather be trapped here forever under Onikas iron grip,
Aurus own flames, Sabrina Dess rain of bullets? I would scale the walls if it were easy. I
would rush the gates if I could. But this is Hell Im talking about, and they only way to get out
is to go further down.)
Five minutes until dawn and the Guards looked at the final flecks of darkness.

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They had weapons at the ready rifles and swords, and Smith only her twin blades. They had
not failed her yet, and they would not fail her now. She was a berserker, a force of nature on
the battlefield. Two blades felt like extensions of her hands by then, and she had no intention
of casting them aside for a duel-wielded greatsword or a bolt action rifle. They would slow
her down, and she needed to strike fast. Her words were ice on a skillet; harsh truths that hid
no mistake if something were to go awry, they would surely die. Calvin seemed distraught,
Kith merely petrified. He muttered a prayer, and plugged back the Hellfire. He hoped no drop
fell on his skin.
Four minutes until dawn, and one Guard lost his nerve.
I cant do this, Calvin said as he paced. His good hand stroked his trimmed bread; his face
was becoming a dirtied shade of green. This is madness. This is insanity.
Stop babbling like a puling infant, Smith commanded. For once Kith was not the one in the
middle of a breakdown, and he stepped to the side. Smiths eyes were burning malice her
fists white-knuckled fury. Weve been over this. Its nearly complete. Its now or never and
you wont be backing down!
Well burn the palace to pieces and us with it if were lucky. And Aurus will have us
executed if not! Storming towards her again, he swallowed hard while his heart pounded in
his ears. You dont know what youre doing! This can hurt too many it already has!
Ive been using your design for this, Cunningham! And Ive relied on you to keep Staples
from her watch duty. If you screwed this up if you back down because of some gutless
guilt!
Ive done everything youve asked of me, Smith! Ive been played like a fiddle and did
whatever damn thing you told me to!
So whats the problem?! She asked as Kiths emerald greens shifted from the shiny coat of
Hellfire to the crack on the walls. Sunlight was inching closer, and he could already smell
smoke. Cold vitriol swam inside the back of his head, but as he tried to warn Smith of passing
time she ignored him, continuing to argue. You had to get her drinking by any means
necessary. Sabrina takes the roof. Onika takes a nap in her own filth. What part of get her
drunk could you have messed up?!
Everything! Ive messed up everything! He breathed hard through his mouth; his eyes
dangerously red. Ive tricked her into getting shitfaced and then I lied to her so she would !
Fuck you? She finished for him. Her hand on her hip suggested nonchalance, but the edge
in her voice sure as hell didnt. So what?! Youve been with worse before me. Get over it.
Ive taken advantage of her while she was grieving, irrational, and under duress. He said the
words in a piercing tone, eyes boring further into Smiths. Kith was sweating like a pig.
Theres a name for what Ive done, Kate, and the Gods dont care for it!

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Two minutes until dawn and tensions were high, the Guards ready to pull hair and clash into
walls. The smell of copper lingered in the air. Kith took a deep breath and several short ones;
his hand curled around the hilt of his blade. He said something, but it never reached them. It
was like pouring water on a grease fire: ultimately worthless.
I dont believe you! Smith stomped her foot, pointed at the door theyve kept barricaded
(The door! Kith gasped and rushed to it. His ears perked up, intercepting a sound.), she
brought herself so close into Calvins face that she could have counted the pores on his broken
nose. Youve killed and cheated and lied all the time what makes this any different?!
Exactly! Ive done all those things and look where it got me! Ive burned too many bridges
taking this job. I cant take this chance the Gods wont let me get out of it alive!
This isnt the time for a moral epiphany! You wanna repent? Fine! Do that while youre
sprinting through that burning tunnel!
Do you even realize how insane your plan is?! If we miscalculate, if we run too late, if we
stay in place too long were good as corpses!
The insane part is not cooperating after Ive fought tooth and nail to save our lives! The
Hellfires already set. The walls are caving in. Onika is incapacitated if you wanna
postpone, be my fucking guest! And then you can explain to Aurus why his palace is burning
and his best swordfighter is gone!
One minute until dawn.
Kith had definitely heard something.
The two went on, back and forth, spitting insults which would have made the late Jocel blush.
She pulled at his uniform and he shoved her against the wall, shaking a finger at her as he
backed away. Youre youre incorrigible, he said. She could have been an asset, but you
chose to ruin her because of some petty jealousy! I couldve persuaded her to join us!
Youre not that smart, Calvin. Now shut up and focus!
Footsteps. Kith heard them four of them and they prowled, oh Gods, they prowled, and
insults flew all around while he grabbed the discarded furniture, boards and cement blocks,
everything he could find. Gods, what was happening? Smith said all was in order, Calvin
promised no Guard made grounds there, at this hour. They fought and the sun rose, daylight
broke across the scene of misery. A foul stench came from the fluid which drenched the stone.
It was coming afire, sizzling. They had not noticed. Kith called out shut up! They flinched
and turned, just in time to see the door burst, the fire burn, the barricade flash and shatter
under the sheer force of three-hundred-pounds of hard-pressed muscle, claws of steel, teeth of
titanium. They screamed, all three, Kith on his back and Calvin on the floor, holding his
burning cheek after Smith had slapped him.
They had forgotten about the fucking tiger.

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Kaaba the fat tiger came across the noise and, remembering the taste of smoke and bodies,
dove into the seclusion.
Kith cried out as Kaaba tore his body, and he smashed a bottle of Hellfire against the shellhard golden fur. The ivory couldnt break but droplets flew over his palm, the tigers skin, his
eyes hungry for manflesh. He roared but continued to claw at Kith, whose hand burned to ash.
He choked on the smoke and looked over to the two, pleading for help.
He looked to Smith, awaiting mercy from above. She could take his hand they were so
close, he was strong enough, she could have just taken his hand. She could have slashed the
tiger, gouged out its eye, pulled them both into the fire and left the beast to fry. She took
Calvins forearm.
Leave him! She said and pulled Calvin through, shielding her face with her sleeve. They
broke through fire which licked their bodies, not turning back as two other figures came out
the door, raining bullets and fire, blowing away the room while Kith was torn away.
Emmett Kith struggled to breathe. He saw Sabrina Dess run into the ring of fire, her hair
catching wisps of orange, the conflagration blowing up the white from her skin. He felt
warmth coming from the inside, spilling out. When he looked down he saw a mess of guts and
blood, strings and bridges of intestines hanging from Kaabas mouth and the tiger pulled at
him. With the final pull, his body moved as well, and he tried to scream.
This was when the flames caught his jaw. His world erupted in orange, his flame-retardant
uniform burned to shards. He was too weak, he thought. This was his proper end.
The last things to go in the flames were his ears. He was thankful for them, in the millisecond
of consciousness.
He heard Onikas slurred cry, calling out Calvins name before somebody pulled her. She
choked they took the by the neck and cast her on the ground. She sobbed.
The tiger died above him, and in that moment only one sound could be heard within the
infernal void. He heard the sewers, the woman who left him to die, the man whose life he
saved. He heard footsteps across the canal, harried breaths and a plea, a heavy Parquesh
accent.
Take me with you, begged Sabrina Dess. Take me back to Parquesh and I promise to do no
harm.
What he heard next was a gagging noise, nails scratching leather, and the distinct sound of
blood spraying the walls. As he took his final breath of smoke, he remembered Smiths
weapons, the exact straight edge and shape of razor blades, their size and how she used them
in combat, spinning against targets and men. He worried for Calvin who remained with her.
After all, Katie-Cassidy always killed in pairs.
/***/
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Another dj vu.
Another broadcast brought by a hologram, watched closely by the Outcasts huddled together.
Once again, the dark Zeer didnt watch and Archer listened, but paid little attention.
Another cold morning in the Barren Lands. It always started with mornings. Aaron began to
resent them, and scowled at the sun while the amber crescent Marcus had brought displayed a
muted, crystallized image of color.
Before coming outside they tried to watch the sphere in the laboratory, or what was left of it.
It was destroyed, most likely by Aurus Guards on a seek-and-destroy mission, or simply
lucky wanderers who came across the hideout which inspired their detrimental tendencies.
Maggie was disappointed, but the overall ransacked appearance wasnt the reason they moved
the location of their screening. It was Aarons idea. The laboratory reminded him too much of
happier times. They stood in the sunlight, inquisitive eyes staring at the crystal cluster which
fit well into the palm of Aarons hand. There was a message to be seen there, but the more
hands touched it, the less clear it became.
While they observed the item, nobody spoke of the burden weighing down heavy on their
minds. Archer was but a foot away, with his back to the tree husk, his head to his hugged
knees. As for Pion Marcus, damn it Aaron had carried him by Stellas grave, and put him
next to the mound which glowed less under sunlight. His body was ashen, and Aaron still felt
the flakes from his skin over his palms. He wondered for a moment; how many carcasses
would he have to carry? Between Freya over his back, Stella out of the cave and Marcus
through the Barren Lands, he truly began to wonder
What is it? Maggie asked for the umpteenth time, and for the umpteenth time Riker replied
with I dont know. He seemed guilty over his ignorance, straining to find an answer. A
multi-faceted crystal, a Dryads work, a perfect form of a crescent colored like honey and the
stuff of stars. It reminded Aaron of the shard Stella kept in her staff during her performance, at
the Festival of Light.
He wanted to point this out, but said nothing as a new truth became known to him. There
would be no more Festival of Light. There would be no more portals to Encantadia. There
would be no more people to save him from danger when he clapped his hands or hollered. For
the first time since he was a child, he felt completely alone. He preferred not to speak of
anything pertaining to memories of the dead.
One more time he took the sphere to his eyes and squinted, ignoring the whispering in his
head. Be everything everything the voices, the places, the people, and the places the voices
look at all the people He shook away the braids from his face. His brow furrowed. Fafnir
noticed the sweat upon it.
Aaron. You alright?

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Alright was a fine, misleading term. He replied in affirmative, but after all hed been through,
the term was merely wishful thinking. Alright, yes. He wouldnt combust into flames, he
hoped, and this qualified as alright.
Be the people the voices, the places, be everywhere, swive everything, the places the voices
the people, look at the shiny horses, look at the pretty steeple
The noises.
The cluster of noises, the echo of suspense, the thundering noises within him were the answer.
Hold on, he said and adjusted his hands to clutch both sides of the crescent moon. He faced
it up, down and up again, pressing his hot forehead to it. I have an idea. Closing his almond
eyes, he recalled the sessions with his grandfather Alistair, the smells and the noises and the
people, the pretty steeple, little, brittle, beautiful ladies and ugly people
Aaron, are you alright?
Fine.
Maybe you should go inside and rest. You havent been sleeping en
Im fine!
His eyes were shut; he felt the air was colder. The Outcasts collectively stepped away. He
focused further, pushing his mind through time, through space, to reach a destination mapped
out by the voices. People and steeples, horses Callahan? He remembered the pointed spires
from his pilgrimages as a child, and he envisioned the spiral hill, the rose and helix coat-ofarms, the rooftops where he spoke of love and life with beautiful ladies, the podiums where he
preached to ugly people. Why would the voices have him see Callahan, of all places? Still he
imagined it, every building clear and defined, every crack in the bricks vivid enough to reach
out and touch. The whispering became louder, easier to decipher. See the pretty ladies. See the
shiny steeple. Go down the rocky roads and greet the smiling people. His mind followed,
pushing forward even when the streets seemed endless, when the faces repeated themselves.
Three women with void eyes reflected his, which were empty as well. A clock melted into a
well-off mans cocktail glass. For a moment it seemed like the street he walked narrowed with
every step, coming to a pinpoint at the very end. In another instance, grass became sand and
the pale-faced Callahanians became Xexarians with rich dark skin and stripes over their backs
and bellies. Liberation, said a blonde and lit her hair on fire with a match. Revolution, agreed
the other, and drank a fistful of stone. Aaron couldnt let the irregularities confuse him. He
contained his field of thought, corrected all which made no sense, and when he made
everything clear, he muttered under his breath.
Bar dacis.
He was expelled out of the waking world with a punch to the stomach. He was floating in
mid-air, among the stars and flashing data, light bursting from his mouth and eyes. His limbs

411

flailed across the sky and he stared bewitched, bewildered! at the ever-expanding universe
which brought all information at once.
For once, he saw everything.
He was everything.
There was a crack in the fabric of time, an inch in diameter and half as long, and when he
watched it he saw the worlds happenings, everything that had been, was and would be.
Layers upon layers of events, emotions, feelings and conquests flashed into him, and he
discerned every instance. Non-linear, nonsensical imagery toyed with his mind. He
recognized it as the absurdity of life. No written word could capture what he had seen, as the
experience couldnt have been defined by placing events in order. This world had no order.
This world was everything at once, constantly, immediately, as though he had grown a billion
eyes and observed each being ever placed on Brimstone.
A man in a purple suit plunged a needle into a dead womans throat. The Defender rose her
sword in triumph; a Zeers head staining the blade. Four people drank hot cider in a tavern
near Karaktau two of them hated each other, and it had to do with a century-old family feud.
Keeyatara set fire to a Kingdom and laughed while it burned. A young Guards blood stained
the walls and mixed with tears of heartbreak she was hurt by two men at once, and
denounced them when her tear hit the crimson. A dragon spewed fire upon a cultist, burning
him to a crisp. Rikers arm was torn off from his shoulder socket he screamed and shook the
chains which bound him. In Karaktau, near Frost Peak, a sheepherder looked at the sky and
knew this was the last image hed see. The farmers watched the nuke as it fell. Stella practiced
to cast her light spells, frowning at the wrong color. Young ingnues argued over the color of
a dress for the Festival of Light. Gods argued over May, planning to banish him. Rowenas
eyes glowed when the world grew into grass and vines. A merchant in Parquesh painted
stones to look like apples. Her husband was a paraplegic but he was not a patient man, and
barely understood his wifes distress. She was beautiful, young, blonde, hiding a cancer on her
breast. The mine was set to blow, and he looked to his best friend. He simply lifted his coat
and left him in the cold.
The lives of Gods and men, beggars, Kings, liars and heiresses sometimes the lives of
people who were all these things at once played in his mind as a show, like puppets without
strings. So pompous were the people in Brimstone. So crass and petulant, and robust beyond
compare. He knew true worry and sorrow just like he knew anguish, all of its nuances and the
strong contrast against voracity. Impiety after impiety; from throwing bread to murder. Virtue
after virtue; from offering their hands to offering their lives. The world became a patchwork
of life, love, fools and glory, instruments, Gods, peasants, beasts, freaks, monuments,
civilizations and horses. Patchwork, he thought; and each patch held a guideline.
The Aleph, the ancients called it. The Aleph they forged a crystal and implanted into it the
knowledge of the Scroll, Marcus essence of tainted blood, a glass of pure therolin and a
navigational blessing The Star of Birch. To others, Aaron learned, the Aleph gave nonsense
and white noise. To him, it gave space, time, Zephyrs Field.
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And Gods, it was glorious.

He coughed up the light, breaking focus so fast that his head remained blank for seconds after.
AARON!
Maggies voice broke him out of the daze. He blinked heavily and touched the underside of
his nose. The warm blood, thicker than usual and nearly black, covered his ring and middle
finger.
He looked ahead, taking the Aleph by the golden chain. We have to leave. Now.
The Eleventh Scroll didnt matter, he thought, as the others spewed questions of how and
where and why. The Eleventh Scroll was a puzzle piece to a larger truth, the Aleph itself a
map for the Gods and the Chosen merely a tool leading to something else. He could have
wondered where it ends how many people must be lost until the Gods explained themselves.
But if he knew anything about the Gods, it was that they were fickle, lewd and, above all else,
impatient. This is why it made perfect sense for them to choose a Xexarian as their messiah.
Take what you need and leave, he ordered. We have no time to waste.
Riker and Maggie exchanged worried glances, but then Riker nodded and they went their
separate ways. Maggie continued to watch, guarded, and then she ran to the base as well.
Lattika ran a thumb over her new bandage, and went to gather her weapons. Fafnir was the
only person who remained long enough to touch Aarons shoulder, look him in the eyes and
say: You have to tell us what you saw.
Aaron continued to dab at his bloody nose, his head spinning. I wish I could, he admitted.
But Im afraid of putting it into words. Im afraid of unraveling a hidden meaning.
By the Gods, man, what did you see?
The sun was already rising, and Aaron wanted to move while the image was fresh in his mind.
Not like something like that could be forgotten any time soon for now he had an urge to go
north, and as soon as possible. His head turned to Archer, who lifted his head but leaned it
against his knee, looking at Stellas grave. It was then that Aaron remembered he had a
question to answer.
What did you see?
Everything.
Even this had him taste iron on his tongue. The recollection shook his body, as if somebody
had stepped over his future grave.
Fafnir could only stand in silence.
Aarons pace was deliberately slow when he approached the sedentary sharpshooter. He had
seen and heard their conversation, he had seen the outcome within the Aleph. Wondering if
413

knowing of the future would make him alter it, he opened his mouth to speak but gave out no
sound. As soon as Archer moved up his ice gray eyes, all remembrance of that moment
passed, and Aaron found himself at a loss. Archer, he said, hoping this would bring a spark
of communication. We have to leave.
Saying nothing, Archer simply planted his gloved hands on the ground. His body coiled like a
snake when he rose. Spine curved backwards, then straightened to a rail. His head craned
back and settled straight again. Protruding ribs outlined the threadbare coat he wore, and it
was easy to imagine scales instead of skin, rings in lieu of bones. Distress and waiting had left
him a weightless husk; the newest trauma drew out the blood from his cheeks. After one hard
look at Aaron he could do nothing but blow air from his nose, and this reflex turned into a
peal of laughter within seconds.
We have to leave, he imitated, laughing while he held his forehead. We have to leave, he
says. Right after one of the best men he had died to get him a chunk-a rock to look at. So
youre finally owning up to bein a slipshod leader who dont care for nobody? Took you long
enough. His last sentence was a low grumble. The shift from derision to contempt was
jarring. You had weeks to grieve. The whole world stopped while you cried for that halfling
and walked around like a train wreck in slow motion. You had all your life to mope around
and feel sorry for yourself! But as long as somebody else is hurtin, time apparently becomes
a luxury.
Exhaling, the Xexarian narrowed his eyes. Archer, you dont understa!
The point is, Kronos, I do understand! I understand jus fine, and I understood everything
from the minute I met you. Youre a pest! The fact that he hadnt eaten reflected on how thin
and sharp his fingers were. One jab and Aaron felt like he was being stabbed. Youve always
been a codependent pest who couldnt do nothin for himself, and relied on a full army of
brainless clods you could bitch and moan to! Youre nothing without us, you hear me?!
Nothing! I dont know why the Gods picked you to be some Chosen One, because you dont
deserve it! There are better people out there, who treat their followers better, who treat their
companions better, and who do everything, everything better than you!
Archer, he tried extremely hard to sound calm, I know youre in mourning. What happened
to him was a tragedy. Coping with loss is difficult for everybody.
Difficult for everybody?! He turned, arms thrashing about as he raved. You know who this
is hard for? People who actually knew his name and gave a shit about him! People who saw
him as a human being! If Maggie, Stella anybody other than yourself tried to sell me that
sob story, I woulda believed them. I woulda thought they were full of shit, but bottom line, I
woulda believed them! That pseudo-psychiatric line is just a bold-faced lie coming from
you!
I know Ive made mistakes. Ive mistreated him. I felt terrible about it.
Spare me, Kronos! You felt terrible about getting punched in the face. Serves you right it
was probably the only decent punch youve ever felt, ya coddled little prick!
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Marcus body fell to the side as Archer yelled, and the image made them wince. His eyes were
closed, almost as though he was sleeping, but the illusion of peace was broken by swarming
flies, gathering around his festering mouth. They crawled into his lips, his nostrils, the sores
on his skin. They couldnt tell what was worse the image or the constant buzzing. Archer
stepped away, holding his mouth as though he was about to puke. There was a significant
pause before he could compose himself, and then he pointed at the body. His voice shook, no
matter how brash he wanted it to sound. That mans done nothing wrong in all his life. He
was gritty, resourceful, and a survivor who went through life with no handouts and no
privileges. Thats the man I woulda followed though Hell and back! But to you, thats the man
youd have us leave out here to rot!
Archer, we dont have time for this!
The man stomped, turned on his heel and rushed to him. His index finger shook at him, his
spit flew at Aaron at impressive speed. Theres never any time! You go and we follow, and
we leave everything we have behind, and for what?! For some asinine prophecy thats
plausible at best? You keep calling us Outcasts, actin like society dont want us no more. Do
you know how many of us want to go back to society?! By now youve pounded the idea of
being divergent so far into our heads that we dont even think to try rehabilitating! Do you
really expect us to keep believing we aint fit for anything other than serving you? This aint a
freedom fightin organization no more. This is a cult, and you made it that way!
This last accusation struck a personal chord. Aaron stepped out. Hey, I was an Outcast before
I even knew the word! Do you think I had an organization to stand behind when my whole
childhood was falling to shit?! I would have killed to have had a family like this one!
Family? Archer scoffed. Family dont leave others behind. Family doesnt act like
somebody stopped existing just because you dont like em! And family doesnt treat
somebody who enabled your entire future as garbage, and they dont write you off because
you dare to think outside the bounds! Everything has been about you, Kronos! The Outcasts
are a one-man show, and what are the rest of us? Bodyguards? Back-up dancers? Because we
sure as Hell aint your friends. If we were youd give a shit about us, and youd bother to
learn our damn names!
Archer stumbled back as his jaw met Aarons fist. When Archer moved his hand from the blue
blotch on his skin he looked up, and the Xexarian was pissed. His gaze was raging fire,
pulsing within frantic pupils. His nostrils were wide, mouth twitching down. Every muscle in
his body rippled with contained vitriol and he couldnt release it, couldnt allow himself to
lose any more control. Deep within his anger there was an apology, an honest feeling of
inadequacy, a silent prayer to the Gods that the greatest obligation in history would not befall
him. But he could not expose his bleeding heart, not now, not when Archer could say nothing
good about him. He decided; he would keep the Outcasts in line, he would bring them to the
Field as a whole, and no person would be left behind. If this goal would be achieved through
intimidation, so be it.

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The Xexarians voice was rough as gravel. His contours seemed darker; from the shadows
beneath his eyes to the swirling stripes on his arms and face. You have an hour to bury him,
he said. Ill help. But after that youll follow my orders, and you wont say another word.
There needed to be more to this threat. A promise of death, reward, another punch perhaps.
But the Xexarian never played the part of a tyrant right; never intentionally. After the sting in
the bruise settled, Archer looked at him and chuckled, deeply, darkly.
Yeah Ill follow ya, he said, rubbing his chin. Well put the body in the ground and pretend
none-a this happened, because thats obviously how everything works. Ill go with you
because I cant go anywhere else, because my association with you has put a bounty on my
head higher than the bleedin Marchwood tree. But you know what, Kronos?
In seconds, Thorne was close to him, poking his chest and growling into his ear. You may be
the last Xexarian, and in that case Im damn glad. Because if Xexarians are all lazy donothings I never want to see another one for as long as I live. But as far as Im concerned,
youre nothing in this universe besides a census outlier. I renounce you. Youre no Savior of
mine!
With that, he left, possibly to get a shovel.
When Aaron turned, he saw the other Outcasts standing outside, ready to leave. Lattika and
Fafnir held their weapons and knapsacks. Maggie was fully dressed and armed to the teeth
with ammo belts and guns of all sizes. Riker packed tools, many of them, and held them all in
a stuffed shoulder bag. Aaron had no clue how long they have been standing there, but they all
pretended not to stare as soon as Aaron observed them. Gods, they were horrible actors.
Fafnir, Aaron said, careful not to butcher the mans name, get a shovel and help Archer
dig.
The Macros eyes shifted left-to-right. He then nodded and went to Archer, who disappeared
behind the sequoia.
Lattika, bring all the coin you can find as offering.
The Sitka solemnly bowed her head, always grave when it came to matters of death.
Maggie, bring a cloth and a change of clothes for Marcus.
Nothing happened, no movement or comment, just a sickened expression on her face. Aarons
expression hadnt changed. Maggie, now.
When she shuffled to the base, this only left Riker, who awaited orders with his heart in his
throat. Riker, Aaron said to him as he finally breathed out and took his head in both hands,
I need a cigarette.
Were out of neon.
I didnt ask for neon.
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Within a minute, he received a packet of smokes, and as the Outcasts dug, cleaned and
organized the area, Archer smoked while his head pounded. The first day of his voyage and he
was already in tatters, bursting at all the seams. He couldnt complain. He shouldnt. The
nicotine tasted bitter on his tongue, and this relaxed him. The Outcasts had dug a shallow
grave and placed Marcus Ryder into scarlet robes a good fortune for the dead, Lattika
explained, as it barred evil spirits and protected from Hells fire. While Aaron looked into the
three-foot-deep hole in the ground, he wished that he could have laid in it, cover himself with
the soot and never come out. All in due time, he thought and stomped out his fifth smokable.
For now he needed to bring these people into Heavens Apex in one piece.
Judging by whom he was leading, he had a good share of work cut out for him.
The funeral, if one were gracious enough to call it that, was quick and soulless. All were too
shocked to believe the dead mans farewell, and proceeded with the ceremony as drones, as if
given a schedule they needed to abide. Coins were put into Marcus mouth as payment for the
ferryman. All took turns casting dirt into the shallow grave, giving a short blessing. Lattika
stepped out to give a hymn for the dead; an ode to a fallen hunter. Nobody knew the Syth
language well enough to be touched, but delivering it left her in tears. They were products of
her fallen tribes remembrance, and had little to do with the occasion. Riker spoke something
of a great loss but never went into details, sticking with the cookie-cutter interment speech.
Archer flatly refused to say anything, and all the while he carved the makeshift tombstone
with the edge of his kukri. Sawdust dirtied his clothing, but he never dusted it off. At the end
of the ceremony, he struck the flat plank above the loose soil.
Marcus Ryder
Splendid friends, well live.
The most grueling part of the ordeal was to keep the flies at bay. Between the rodents, the
insects, the ravens and crows, the coyotes and chimeras and wild wolves, the Barren Lands
were never barren. Unforgiving as nature could be, certainly, but vultures thrived in these
parts and they would no doubt feast on all found remains.
The Outcasts stood in silence until Aaron told them to go. They followed, some at once and
others lingering. Archer stayed behind just long enough to realize he would be left alone in a
wasteland, and then he shuffled behind them, his feet like casted lead.
Aaron had no will to fly, no stomach to run. He came out and suffered through the heat, the
dry air, and the blinding magnesia sky. Meanwhile, he could hear Freyas voice in the
distance. Vocals of a choir chimed in his ear, yet he recognized the soothing plucking of her
lute by the reverberation at the top of his head. When he looked back, he even saw her
chubby cheeks, a polka-dotted blue dress and pilose feet. She waved to him, and gave the
saddest smile hed seen. He shook his head and the vision evaporated, but her dirge never did,
and it carried on while he walked into the sun; grimly, grudgingly.
Calamity lay ahead, and his ears rang with menacing melody.
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Oh, Death
You came too soon, too fast for my friends
Oh, Death
You came too hard, too quickly for me
When I see the falls of Zephyrs Field
Will I see them through my tears?
Will I love the rapture of Brimstone
As much as I dreaded my fears?
Oh, Death (oh Death)
I had so much life left inside-a me
Oh, Death (oh-ho, Death)
So many dreams my heart ached to achieve
Is he the Chosen?
Can he survive his grief?
Are you his guidance?
Or a wicked belief?
What will my songs resemble
When you take my voice?
In your Heaven Ill tremble
In my Hell Ill have a choice
Oh, Death!
Dont make him suffer, suffer like me
Im cruel (so cruel)
Because you force my fealty
You take us in hordes now
Our lives and children
We run from our tyrants
But who do we serve?
You, Death
Oh, Death
Oh, Death, are you all there is?

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To Cheat Death
Steven Niven chased his oxen up the snowy peak. By the Gods of the fire, he thought, panting
while ruddy cheeks went blue from the thinning oxygen. Must an ox run this fast? His
children were waiting for him, hungry. If he caught this monstrosity in the next five minutes,
it would be eventide until he managed to return to them. Gods had a twisted sense of humor,
and he was not appreciative of it.
If this was any other ox, he would have allowed him to run past, without even lifting his
eyebrow. But this was Buffalo, the strongest bull ox in the herd, the finest breeder one could
find in all of Brimstone. The red-striped cattle were a dying breed, relying on the potency of
two or three breeders each year. If he lost Buffalo, he would lose every coin he earned. That
meant no sweets for Selina and Craig. Even worse, this meant no bread for him. The damn
stuff was already rationed; he went to bed with a growling stomach nearly every day as of last
year. He could not endanger his family now, not when Karaktau was dying out.
This was when the small became the bold, he told himself. Wasnt the great Waylon Wesson
Thorne, the Knight who had slain a dragon, born during the cold months of famine? The man
inspired him during his worst crisis, and once again he found himself sprinting, a new energy
in his calves, tightening and loosening as he sped up. This was easy, he thought as he breathed
hard, trying to fight off a wave of vertigo. Perhaps he should have been an athlete. A marathon
runner; an endurance racer. Any Karaktaian who could run five minutes up Frost Peak would
no-doubt manage a five-hour track across dry, flat Brimstone. Or at the very least, outrace
everybody in the Callahanian Olympics.
He was sure his sister was doing alright in Callahan; much better than she did taking care of
mother. Perhaps he should have written to her more often. During these times, it was

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important to keep track of family, especially as Karaktau was becoming more and more
decentralized.
For a second, he thought he saw the fur of his Buffalo, and he sighed with joy. Thank the
Gods one more minute of this pace and he would have fainted. Taking slow, steady steps he
lifted up his knee to reach higher ground.
He tripped, falling over something which was hard as marble.
As he lifted his face from the snow, he cursed quietly Marge, Gods bless her beautiful soul,
never liked profanity. It was she who made him think twice of what came out of his mouth,
and the birth of their twins increased his lingual vigilance tenfold. This was an extreme case,
however, but he still apologized to Marge in case she heard him from above.
Blasted weather, he said and looked up; his green eyes recognizing Marges kind features,
the wrinkles around her smiling mouth, he headscarf she wore. People told him it was crazy to
literally see his late wifes image in the sky. He damned them all (sorry, love), since she was
always what gave him strength. And if anybody else objected to his coping methods, well, to
heck with them!
Reaching out his arm, he attempted to grab a fistful of snow and pull through the white
powder, to get back on his stick-like feet. A vine trapped him a chain? A bind? and he
tugged in a desperate attempt to continue onwards. For the first time in his adult life, he threw
two curses in a row, grunting as he tried to pull apart.
What moved from his ankle was a hand gloved with black, frozen as an iceberg. It charged for
his face, and immediately it wasnt cold any more.
Dark mana - dementia, despair, malice, anguish burned his face like flaming tar, tendrils of
fear rising and spilling, taking him by the throat, splitting his face in two, ire bleeding from
his eyes. He shouted, his cries muffled from the bile, and his life force was sucked out by the
rising blue corpse, who seemed to thrive as Stevens body became shriveled, dry, dead.
Layers of snow replaced layers of skin. All too soon he could feel himself detach; become one
with the frozen ground. His nails were thin as paper and tore in the middle. His body came
close to the edge as he tried to fight back, close to standing up and wrestling the attack to the
ground. Yet the more he struggled, the hotter his blood burned, the pinker the corpses face
became, the stronger his grasp. Stevens cheeks bubbled, erupted, and were replaced with
swirls of jutted crystal. He held on to life for as long as he could, even when the voices
whispering in his ear drowned out all common sense. Finally, the ground split apart
underneath him, and he sank into its core.
Looking up he saw his Marge, who opened her calloused arms to greet him. The white sky
seemed so pure, so warm. As the final ounces of strength were wrung out of him, his body felt
embraced; enveloped in her lovely arms which he hadnt felt in years.

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He finished squirming not long after, and his corporal body collapsed onto itself; black dust
upon white.
The dark mana retreated into the casters fingertips, and vengeful Silas Rotarum rose from his
avalanche grave.

End of Book One

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