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Of the original five hundred and forty-five men who were trained militia, only a mere two hundred remained, and added to that score was a mistmage—things couldn’t get worse.
It was my fault. No matter what action that weasel took, no matter how much I wanted to add one more to the dead, the responsibility fell onto me. I was their commanding officer, the leading commander, and I failed. I was too concerned
The representative from the king’s council, Brutus, was a paunch bellied man with a gruff and professional exterior. Plithy, the viscount, reported directly to King Aston Tiemen and was administrator of militia events. This man was as thin and wiry as a thistle. Then there was General Commander Orson, old and not fit for combat any longer, but his reputation was frightening. He even fought alongside Father in his younger years.
“I have been at this game for far longer than you have. That kind of strategic foresight is not something an akar I ever knew could muster.”
Paintings lined the walls and depicted nobles known for uniting sundered kingdoms and creating the bastion known as Cleria. There were paintings depicting vague wars of long past ages.
I was tired, but I still could imagine how my stubbornness made the relationship worse. I wanted to hurt my mother the way she hurt me. There was a reason I felt compelled to fill that void, even if it resulted in a compulsion to help others.
And while Victor proved himself a competent lieutenant in things concerning logistics and organisation, that was the reason I had Bradley as my number two. I needed someone who would lend me perspective when I was too lost.
After the Massacre of Greyhill, our scouts back home had forcefully placed an improved network deep in the forest. It was designed to alert Cleria of any coming attacks. Even so, we still had no grasp of the akar’s true numbers or tactics.
Just like that, an entire royal line of kings and warriors gave into infighting. These parts never recovered from all the death and conquest in an ever-bloating forest. It had turned into a silent reminder, a cramped and huddled tangle of trees trying to escape the coming end.
Lastly, there was a man with a piercing stare. An Asamanian. What remained of the Asaman delved into mercenary work as their kingdom was lost. Was he part of the Asamanian conflict?
Eric didn’t respond. The laxness with which the band carried themselves showed a confidence that could only be born from treacherous trials. I had to admit, I simultaneously feared and admired whatever they had to go through.
He placed a scarred and sizable hand to his chest in an act of respect followed by a slight bow. He planted the blunt end of his spear into the ground like a flag. “I am called Rafik Dezak. It is a pleasure.” There was a flirtatious brashness to the way he spoke, his eyes still engaged in their prowling dance, his voice a deep and coaxing purr. “Hello.” Now it was the mystic that spoke, her voice like chimes in a spring breeze; calming and soft.
“To answer your question: I cannot see. I sense and feel instead.”
I do not see as you do, but eyes aren’t the only way to navigate this world.”
Blue ink could be used for many purposes, to calm and still, to relax, but it was also the colour of ice and water. In this case, it was used to create a barrier of cold and ice to imprison the demon within its walls, imbued with her intent and identity. Upon the bars of the cage itself, there were small carvings of ice to encase the iron with a sheen of perpetual cold and the wood was reinforced with brown colours to strengthen its foundations.
The Faithful Church has many branches. The Sisterhood. The Serving. And then there are the mystics. They are the weavers of Haar and the wielders of ink. They are the only thing which keep the demons trapped within their Forest of Ash.
One of the truths I had learnt as a soldier was that a good leader was firm—something that most certainly should not be mistaken for tyranny. I opted to be fair, just, reasonable despite how much I demanded of my men.
I was relieved to see that at least he seemed to believe my words, because I certainly didn’t.
When you lived out here in such humble gatherings, it was easy to think the world was just as small, but Cleria did not care about such huddled masses and small towns. We kept our distance during the Asamanian conflict; Cleria wouldn’t care about some settlement across the border. At least Whiteshade was important enough as a pickup location for the demons. Men got to work with renewed energy. We set up pots of bubbling stew, gathered wood for fire and prepared containers of smoked meat.
But the way you handled everything made me realise how immature I was being.”
During our entire exchange, our responses were spoken like poking jabs in darkness to get an idea of how the other was built, the texture, size, form, all of it unknown and explored with caution.
One story revolved around when Rafik’s leg was stuck in a rockslide and Seamus was left alone to bait and distract a demon as thin and spindly as a mantis with pointed limbs that doubled as skewers for the living. Another story surrounded Stoya. She had purposely inflicted a malaise upon herself with her potions so that a mist demon could possess her.
I wondered if everyone was aware of our intentions and orchestrated the entire affair. Perhaps I would have been worried about how it would reflect on my men, but I allowed the alcohol to do its work and rob me of sense.
The returning Haar chased us out from the desert. We lost our glory, our lands, our pride. We were forced to scavenge for food in a forest turning evermore perilous. Our people were proud; Father believed it right too. They banded together and began to conquer the woods. Their next stop would be Cleria.” “And then came the Unbound,” I said regretfully. The Unbound were a crazed lot who professed themselves free of social constraints. Rafik, seemingly knowing where my mind went, nodded solemnly. “Yes, the Unbound thought it silly how seriously the Asamanians took themselves and revolted against
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“Ida isn’t the one relying on us, we are relying on her: we are a team. Sure, she cannot see, but it’s our responsibility to bring out the best in her. We all have limitations; what makes a difference is that we compensate for our comrades.” My confusion must have been easy to see as Rafik sighed. “Gron is stronger than I am. Does that mean I am not needed?”
We didn’t taint the moment with words. Our stares held. The sound of the distant crowd lost and in a realm left behind.
There are mentions of a relic known as the Purple Crown. If it ever did exist, no one knows for sure except for perhaps the Lorekeeper. It is said that the wearer can bend subjects to their will. Further research references other variations of this crown. A question arises. Is the wearer in control or the crown? —Fact or myth? Old tales of Minethria, by Lay C. Konovan.
staring up at the alight building as if it were a tyrannical deity forcing worship out of fear rather than love.
—So you want to be an inspired? Museya textbook on Inspired Magic Theory.
which was once dictated by the entropy of action and exchange, was no longer of consequence here. I was mere driftwood infested with rot.
Bradley was there, too. I told him about everything. About my promotion, my unit. How I gathered an additional sixty men.
Mother Merilda assured me that the mixture of pain and inactivity were to blame—apparently my bladder had begun to atrophy. Part of me wanted to laugh at the absurdity.
My spirit was too wild and vast to fit within this shrivelled vessel.
It is said that there are seven archangels, with the Grand Archon being the first of them. Of the seven, one angel was born deformed and without eyes. Thus, the Grand Archon gifted one of his wheels to this child so that he may see. —Stories of Higher Beings, by Michaela Duritz.
“Because it is a lens into the abyss, a cloud of death waiting to pop. You have never seen such a large concentration of them just waiting to die.”
“It has come time to tell you the truth—we are not servants of this house, not really, we are its prisoners. And as such, I am a witch, and so are you.”
You taught us that a disease wants to keep us alive as long as possible. It wants to survive, not destroy.” It was Yasmin that spoke.
There were so many of them, so many dying. Their eyes simultaneously begging for help yet also so devoid of hope—it was a toxic mixture.
“My father is a businessman, handles the craft and distribution of paper. Most of it goes to Museya for the filling of scrolls, but a lot of it also is taken to the courts. People have a lot of use for good paper.”
Her calls were desperate and pleading, not meant for me, but they drew me in, regardless.
Now, even White-Hawk struggled to keep up with Ievarus in battle. Their naturally one-track mind, void of anything other than the bland nuances of flowing battle, was truly something to witness. Thus, it was appropriate that Ievarus had reached a point where they needed an ascended being that grazed the power of the Elders if they were to slay the Evil.
The mask began from the brow and tapered down to a point at their chin so only the sides of lips were visible.
The sword’s guard was a coiling pattern made out of electrum. The rapier’s edge shone with reflective dreamsteel.
Ievarus’ feet only ever met the floor briefly for a gentle kiss before taking flight again, keeping aloft by juggling their weight with the help of the guard’s banging blade. The way their movements mingled together truly was like a choreographed dance. Ievarus was like a spore in flight, the grounded Elder Guard a reed. There were no sudden lashes
“What do I need?” “A soul, an idea.” Sirmy’s wet eye leaned in until it was but a breath’s length from Ievarus’ own pearly gaze—the thing was the size of Ievarus’ head. “A spark so that thou may be worthy. Thus tis time for thy lesson with Preceptor.”
Xelxidon with her blade of light, infused by the rays of the Elder King’s own burning eye. The blade was encrusted in gold. Just beyond the hilt guard, was a golden circle with a hole. Golden teeth pointed inward. An open chasm ran through the centre of the blade. Atop her hill with an army behind her banner. Xelxidon lifted her shield emblazoned with the sun and pointed her sword outwards. Rays of pure sunlight shot down from the sky and skewered the first evils’ blight—duty compelled her.
“There won’t always be a wall to hold me.”
Though speaking it aloud didn’t prove as difficult as I had suspected. It felt more akin to relaxing my grip on something that was already shattered. Once my knotted tongue relaxed, the words practically slid off my lips, limp and obvious.
Do not be fooled, my sisters. It is easy for the non-magical to align themselves with Elder teachings for they are not victims of their designs. Our magic is what makes us ripe to be made into surrogates. Never forget, clemency in the form of subjugation is no clemency at all. —Unknown
The coat found its way around my shoulders and, for a moment, Father’s scent wrapped me up and comforted me. It smelt of abuse and dependency, of confusion. I found it nostalgic.
