Cloaked in scarlet fabric and gilded in the finery that could only belong to the king's Right Hand, Exle hyr Dirk beheld the newest urchin to stumble in before the Red Clade. It had been Exle's idea to lure them here, the orphans and misfits that hid in the corners of the kingdom. They rarely came to the High Court willingly, but to build an army capable of taking Rodinia in its entirety, Exle knew that he could leave no stone unturned. As it was, his ploy had already earned the king several promising mages.

Beside him, King Morgan's voice boomed, echoing regally off of painted walls as he questioned the bony, mud covered boy that crouched on the scarlet carpet. The boy was in worse shape than most, his clothes little more than seen rags, and the exposed skin scraped, and bruised all over. To his credit, the boy did not cower or cry as others did, he simply stood, seemingly resigned to his fate. And then he finally lifted his head, and wild eyes met Exle's appraising ones. There was a thickness in the boy's lashes, and a slight pinkness to his lips. And his frame was slightly-

"Sire", Exle said, clearing his throat.

"What is it?" The king answered, not taking his eyes off of his new subject.

"That is no boy." And then Exle spoke the girl, exercising the power that his position afforded him.

"Am I correct?"

Wild green eyes opened even further, as fierce as they were afraid. The girl's movement was subtle, but still Exle noted as she gave him a shallow nod. Her features were stark and grim, and her skin void of color, as if she could see the black silhouettes of suffering and loss with great clarity. Exle could recall a time, long ago as it was, when he existed in a similar state. But he felt little sympathy, only a desire to do his job; to pick the girl's mind, to upend her secrets and determine whether she was any use to Calydon. Around him, a deeper silence had settled around the room, as the rest of the Clade, too, became anxious for this impromptu meeting to progress.

"You did not answer my question." The king spoke up with no shortage of authority. The girl held her ground, but Exle noticed the slight cringe as the king addressed her. "How did you survive the Harkscalen?"

"That beast", the girl said, her voice cracking, "killed my friends. And my horse."

Exle's eyes widened at the rawness in her tone.

"That doesn't answer the question", the king pried, fingers curing around the embellished arm wrests of his mighty throne.

"Only children of Dirk can take on a Harkscalen and survive", Exle supplied before the king's patience waned any further, "so what element can you wield?" The gods knew she was no daughter of Sŏnne. Such power was only gifted once every generation, if that.

"I have no magic. I assure you", the girl said. She dropped her gaze slightly, and a curtain of filthy, mousy hair shrouded her already bland and shadowy features.

Exle shifted in his seat, his fingers drumming pensively on the cool metal of his ceremonial staff. With a twist of scarlet fabric, he turned to one of his fellow Cladesman and motioned for the Flamecaller to accelerate the interrogation.

Edmund, the Flamecaller, nodded once beneath his thick scarlet hood, and a ring of flames exploded from the floor, surrounding the girl and casting eerie shadows that flickered on the muraled walls. In the luxury of his throne, the king leaned forward, Edmund's flames dancing in his curious eyes as the Flame and Star of Calydon shone ever brighter behind him. But as the flames grew and their heat became palpable throughout the throne room, the girl continued to hold her ground. Whether this was an act of bravery or stupidity, Exle had yet to sort out but still, her defiance continued to both frustrate and intrigue him.

Several times, Edmund quelled his magic from overtaking the girl, but the king only motioned for him to continue. No one defied King Morgan, his authority in his kingdom as hallowed as any prayer; this girl would certainly not be the exception. As it was, she did not cave until Edmund had nearly burnt her to a crisp.

Out of instinct, she lifted a hand to shield herself, causing filthy, torn fabric to fall towards her elbow and singe against the flames. Realizing this, she snatched her hand down as quickly as she'd raised it but still, Exle saw her secret, that gnarled Serpant and Blade that marked her as Arcodyte property, and served as proof that she had seen the isle of Drao'hain. At last, Edmund's flames vanished without a trace and for the first time, the girl truly cowered beneath the scrutiny of the Clade.

Slowly, the Knight of Dirk shifted back in his seat, a brief wave of satisfaction washing over him. Part of him believed that there was something deeper there, another layer of stubbornly buried secrets but for now, the girl had provided enough information to make the assembly worth the king's time.

From his position atop his throne, the king inclined his chin ever so slightly at his Right Hand, and Exle returned the gesture with a shallow nod. The girl still hadn't supplied how she survived the Harkscalen, but for now, she provided enough information to warrant her survival.

"You've been through an ordeal, it would seem." The king's voice boomed and his eyes shone like those of a cat playing with a mouse.

The girl's eyes shifted, the only sign that she was unsure how to navigate this particular situation.

"Today, you will keep your life", the king continued, drumming ringed fingers on the arm wrest of his throne. "But you are now under my direct command. You will train with the others so I can see exactly exactly how you survived the Harkscalen, and your continued survival depends on serving Calydon as I see fit. Do you object?"

"No, your majesty", the girl answered, the words hardly louder than a whisper.

"Very well", the king said with a small amount of satisfaction as he ran a hand through the cropped stubble of his beard. "Now hold out your hand."

"W-why?"

"Do not question your king", Exle hissed, unable to stop himself. He had always seen the Arcodytes as somewhat savage in nature but to commission this girl as a Skepmadyr? Either the position wasn't as important as he'd been led to believe, or her captors were as dim witted as she was.

Reluctantly, she pushed back a filthy, mud sodden sleeve, at least having enough sense to know it was the one bearing the Serpant and Blade that the king demanded to see. And then the king turned to face the one female member of the Clade, the motion unhurried.

"Ada, you may proceed."

Several years and many interrogations ago, the woman had successfully learned the delicate art of witch branding, making her the first non-Arcodyte to master the craft and solidifying her worthiness to the Red Clade.

Heads whipped in the girl's direction as she cried out, clutching one hand in the other as her knees wobbled before the king, and the painted gaze of Sŏnne where the deity had been illustrated ascending into the heavens upon the sun itself. Exle noticed as Ada exhaled beneath the shadow of her hood a few chairs away, content with her work. And then he let his eyes rest upon the reddened skin of the girl's hand, where the Serpent and Blade had been replaced by the Flame and Star of Calydon.

Regaining herself, the girl's expression remained grim but still her eyes searched the room, angry, terrified and curious all at the same time.

"Don't think you're the first one we've stolen away from the Arcodytes", the king supplied, already looking bored with his newest acquisition as the assembly of the Clade concluded.

Something shifted in the girl's expression but before anything more could come of it, the same pair of guards that hauled her in came to take her to another part of the castle. While her eyes objected, she had no strength to fight the others, let alone do much more than stand on her own two feet. Exle hadn't even bothered to learn her name, he realized as she stumbled out of the throne room. No matter, the information would be of little use until the girl proved otherwise.

I asked for a dog when I was six

Instead they bought me a rat

I asked for a hamster too

But they only gave me a shrew

For my birthday I wanted a rabbit

But they got me a cat

And now for the life of me

I don't know where the other pets are at

Somewhere, water dripped and splashed. At first the sound was distant, soothing even but after a while, it grew tedious. Eventually, the sound drew Rory out of the deep slumber she'd fallen into.

It took Rory a few minutes to regain her bearings, to assess her surroundings but a life of being responsible for her own survival at all times had taught her how to quickly assess a situation without much information at all. Immediately, her senses sharpened to the dank, musky smell of stone that saw no sun. She breathed in the damp air, inhaling the earthy scent, and caught faint notes of mold and urine and her throat tightened with recognition.

In her unconscious state, she had been taken to a dungeon. What Rory wondered as she rubbed her eyes and tried to make out the darkened features of the cell, was who the dungeon belonged to, and what they wanted with her.

Slowly, the events of Agres pounded back into her, one more painful than the next. First, the sound of Nicolas' body cracking against the fountain. Then Albert, the Harkscalen's claw dragging out his final breaths as blood poured onto snowy cobblestone. Bianca had been devastated, and her cries still echoed sharply in Rory's skull. Something heavy pulled at her chest, a sense of mourning that she'd felt so few times in her life, which suddenly felt quite empty. Silently, Rory hoped that Bianca now faced a better fate than herself or her brother.

As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, Rory shuffled to the barred door of the cell. In her weakened state, it seemed that her captors had found it unnecessary to bother with a guard or shackles. Taking advantage of this small freedom, Rory cleared her dry throat, intending to make her presence known should any others be locked away in the murky gloom. But where she searched for answers, her mind only spun with questions and fear.

Had the Arcodytes caught her working with others? How this was possible, Rory had no clue. For a Skepmadyr, the punishment for working with others without Hedryk's approval, mirrored that of treason. Especially considering that it was non-Arcodytes and no extra coin had been yielded... the best scenario was to be stripped of her Skepmadyr title and a public beating.

Absently, Rory looked at the Serpant and Blade that was inked into her wrist. Even in the darkness of the cell it seemed to glare back at her, marking both skin and soul. In many ways, that tattoo held her prisoner as firmly as the bars and stone that now hid her from the rest of the world.

But could she really be sure that it was the Arcodytes that held her? She inhaled through her nose, gauging whether she could catch the salty aroma of the sea air that shrouded Drao'hain. To her chagrin, she was only met by the heavy, rotting scent of the dungeon.

Rory tried to will herself to stay calm. From a perspective of survival, panicking certainly wouldn't improve her situation in any way. But her mind continued to swim with questions and it overwhelmed her.

And then another memory from Agres struck her. It was as if her conscious had been protecting her, allowing her to catch her bearings, before unloading this new weight upon her soul. But the image struck nonetheless, its impact as strong as a knife to the gut.

Jewel.

Suddenly, Rory's body trembled and she sagged to the ground, ignoring the filth of the dirt floor on her body, which was already a canvas of cuts, bruises and mud. Part of her had wanted to believe it was a dream. After all, the moment had been so crushing that it had felt like watching through glass, as if it were so terrible that it couldn't be real. But the metallic tinge of blood still stung her nose and stabbed at her soul. The image of crimson red staining the mare's white hide as it flowed out of her too fast, glistening beneath the torchlight as it pooled on the ground, suddenly seemed so vivid that she clutched her knees to her chest and sobbed.

Taking on the Harkscalen, losing the only friends she'd ever had, watching the only loyal companion she'd ever known die in front of her; it was all too much. Rory rocked back and forth in filth, that night in Agres threatening to crush her completely. And suddenly she felt sick. So sick that she unfolded herself and emptied her bowels on the shadowy floor, the taste of bile ripe in her mouth and triggering a new wave of nausea.

When the sound of creaking metal echoed against stone as someone opened the cell door, she did not look up. Hardly bothered to wipe the vomit from her mouth with a torn and bloodied sleeve. When footsteps shuffled closer, led by a dim lantern, she did not move. She had nothing left to move for. For all she cared, she could rot in that cell.

But then a soft, female voice lulled her out of her misery.

"I do not envy the ordeal that has brought you here", the woman said, voice gilded by the smooth accent of central Calydon. The same region that housed the High Court, Rory realized with one sharp breath. "But", she continued, taking a tentative step closer, "the king wishes to see you. I wish we could clean you up first, but his majesty doesn't like to be kept waiting."

At first, the words did not hit her. Instead, they landed on her numbly, like rain on a rock. But then, she began to make out what the woman had said, the sentence sinking in word by word.

"The k-king?" She asked hoarsely, confusion and shock fumbling her speech.

The woman simply shuffled out of the cell, guided by the dim light provided by her lantern. With no other choice, Rory pushed aside her aching body and her weary soul and followed the woman.

"How long have I been here?" She tried.

"Almost three days", the woman answered bluntly.

"And we're in the High Court", she fumbled, the words not making any sense even as she spoke them.

"Right now we're underneath it." Her tone had the crispness of youth, but there was an air of wisdom to it, as if this woman had seen a great deal.

Rory swallowed hard, her mouth dry her throat raw from a lack of water.

"Who... who are you?"

The woman didn't answer right away, leading Rory through a series of winding staircases and dimly lit hallways. Several times Rory nearly fell, either from tripping on uneven stairs of dodging the occasional rat that scurried by. In front of her, the woman continued to glide through the stony maze as if guided by a phantom wind. Had Rory been in a better state, she might have recognized her as a Windsinger but instead, she only plodded along, too shocked to be truly afraid.

Only when they reached a broad wooden door, illuminated by two torches, did the woman turn to her, revealing her face. Her skin was a rich shade of olive, and her eyes were bright with curiosity but wisened by the wrinkles that surrounded them.

"Survive the Clade", she answered at last, "and you'll find out."

Rory's breath caught at the mention of the Red Clade. The king's hallowed Cladesmen were revered throughout the kingdom, to the point that it was hard to decipher truth from legend and myth. Banished to the shadows, Rory had done everything she could to avoid ever coming remotely close to the king or his Red Clade. But now, it seemed, she had been dropped directly into their laps for a reason which she was unaware.

In front of Rory, the wooden door, polished and carved with the sigil of Calydon opened. For a few seconds, she wondered if she was dead, or perhaps trapped in a very strange dream. But before she had any more time to process any of the last several minutes, boots clattered, and she was seized by two guards. Not that she had the energy or strength to resist anyway.

Overwhelmed, Rory hardly felt the grip of the guards' hands around her arms, the aching of her body or the grime on her skin. Instead she only stumbled forward on the narrow red carpet that ribboned over the stone floor. The great room smelled strongly of frankincense and polished wood, and the sudden influx of light stabbed her eyes. All around, great walls loomed, ones that could only suit the majesty of a king. And the walls were lavishly decorated, acting as canvases for great murals that must have taken months, if not years to complete.

Each of the walls told part of a story, like pages in a book, Rory realized as she was prodded on by the guards. She also realized that somewhere deep down she remembered this story, was made to remember it word for word during her years at the convent. It was the tale of Calydon, of Sŏnne and Dirk, the twin angels born from womb of Virydus, a land of pure legend where light and darkness existed in a perfect balance. The twins were meant to guard the sacred balance nurtured by Virydus but instead they grew at odds with each other until one day a great battle amassed, painted on the walls with no shortage of blood, lightning and the shining steel of swords and armor.

The final wall, looming high behind the king and his Clade, told the final part of the story, where Sŏnne rose high over the blasted ruins of Virydus. He was shrouded by light that outshone the sun itself, and crowned as the god of light and creation. Beneath him, descending down into a pit of blackness was Dirk, the black crown on his head marking him as the grim faced god of darkness and chaos. In the space between the gods emerged the realms of earth and sky, and all that existed there.

Mind swimming as she struggled to take in the massive room, Rory's eyes darted about, seeming to land anywhere but in front of her. Eventually, they settled on a massive red square of red fabric that billowed on a phantom wind. She had seen it many times before, the field of red that bore the Flame and Star of Calydon.

At last, the guards marched to a halt and bowed low but Rory hardly noticed. Instead, she was looking at the Flame and Star, the sigil crafted with the most luxurious fabric she'd ever seen. And then her eyes trailed down until fabric met stone and at last, she swallowed hard and faced the semi circle of cloaked figures that sat before her. All but one were cloaked in a deep crimson red, their faces shadowed from plain sight. Instead, the one who was not hooded wore something far different: the crown of Calydon.

Body numb and unsure what else to do, Rory joined the guards and bowed low enough that she could make out the individual strands of the carpet before her.

"Guards", the king's voice boomed with the confidence of one who was never challenged, "you are dismissed."

The air shifted as the guards shot up and swung towards the door that led back to the dungeons, and part of Rory wished that she could go with them. Wondered if rotting in a cell would be better than whatever fate awaited her here. But before she could dwell any longer, the king's voice echoed through the great room again.

"I assume you know who you bow before, boy." Rory's heart pounded and her mouth had gone bone dry. Some delirious part of her even thought it was funny that the king thought her a boy.

"Y-yes", Rory forced out, her voice shaking with fear and shock, "King Morgan hyr Sŏnne, reigning Lord of Calydon."

Rory bowed lower, as if doing so could somehow shield her from the prying, ominous eyes that scorned her like an ant beneath a magnifying glass.

"Good", the king said as if he were praising a dog, "now rise and tell me how someone so...measley as yourself nearly killed my Harkscalen."

We used to watch the fireflies

When they shone against the black of night

And gave summer a rare magic

With their sacred neon rite

It was an affinity we shared

A privilege we understood

To watch them flit about

Illuminating the darkened wood

To watch them was a gift

To the spectacle we would turn

And those magnificent fireflies

Required nothing in return

When I see them, I think of you

When June ebbs into July

And the air smells sweet

As gentle sunsets tinge the sky

We no longer share them

Those magical summer nights

But I can feel you

In those hallowed glowing lights

They tell me now

The fireflies will be gone soon

And all their carefree magic

The song of the summer moon

Perhaps the glimmer of the stars

Will be the only magic left

When I see them I'll think of you

And the fireflies too

Knock knock

Who's there?

Interrupting toilet

Interrupting toi-

Whoosh

Why couldn't the lizard get the other lizard pregnant?

Ereptile disfunction.

Ever heard of the revolutionary frog?

No?

You should read about him then. Quite a ribbeting figure.

The oldest recorded joke is about a fart.

That's it.

Eyes bleary and muscles barking in protest, Rory hardly had time to roll out of the way as another shriek split the night. And shattered the window on her side of the bad. The Harkscalen was near, she realized as her heart pounded.

Bianca heard it too, and the two were practically forcing themselves into leathers and cloaks. Lit by a single candle, Bianca shouldered her quiver and grabbed her bow with expert speed, and Rory belted her hunting blade. In the hallway, others had begun to congregate, looking around and whispering nervously. When Albert and Nicolas shoved into the open space, Rory was struck by relief that she didn't know she could feel, especially in a moment such as the one that had sprung upon them.

For a brief moment, everyone stood in the hallway above the tavern, laden with drowsiness and confusion. And then another shriek echoed through the building, breaking more windows. This time, it was accompanied by a blow that splintered wood and shook the building, and Rory heard a muffled chorus of startled horses as they squealed and whinnied. In that moment, any relief that she had felt upon seeing her friends was made obsolete.

As whispers turned to screams and the scene gave way to chaos, Rory had only one thought in her mind: get to the stables.

Forgetting how stiff and tired she was, she shoved through the panicked crowd, not bothering to see if the others followed.

"Did the Harkscalen follow us here?" Rory heard Bianca ask behind her.

"Unlikely", Nicolas answered as they raced through the tavern. Nicolas' grave tone only added to the gloomy panic that threatened to crush Rory's chest.

When she reached the stables, Rory practically threw the door open to find that chaos had already been unleashed. In their stalls, horses thrashed about, some kicking at the latched doors and others pacing nervously. Snow flew in from a gaping hole in the roof and beneath it the stablehand lay dead in the aisle, his fate sealed by a gnarled, bloody gash that ran across his chest.

Rory gasped in surprise but before she had time to feel sorry for the boy, Nicolas rushed toward a more pressing matter. When the stablehand had fallen, he carried a candle to light his way, and the hand that bore it dropped into an unfortunately placed pile of hay. Nicolas had nearly reached the candle when a draft blew through the barn, enough to set the hay aflame.

Rory bounded for the stall doors, opening them one by one and Albert did the same.

"Bianca, can you control it?" Nicolas shouted over the growing blaze.

"I'm trying", Bianca cried, "but the hay is too flammable and I can't keep up."

"Keep trying", Nicolas shouted back as he joined the others' efforts to fee the horses.

To protect herself from the smoke, Rory drew her scarf over her nose. The flames continued to grow, devouring the closest stall and licking the rafters. Outside, panicked screams grew louder as the loose horses thundered out.

Mercifully, Jewel's stall was several doors down from where the fire erupted. Despite the gravity of the situation, the mare still nickered at Rory's approach.

"It's alright", Rory whispered as she opened her horse's door and patted her neck.

As soon as her stall was open, Jewel bounded forward, eager to be free of the danger inside of the barn. It would be a miracle if she could ever convince her to go in another barn after this, Rory thought as the mare leapt past. But just as Jewel was nearly free, another shriek split the air and more wood shattered. As the Harkscalen landed, it was all Rory could do to watch as long, glinting black claws shredded skin.

Jewel squealed, the sound primal and born from a place and shock and pain. She reared up and immediately fell over, too much blood reddening her white hide and pooling on the floor around her.

"Jewel", Rory screamed as she bounded toward her.

Between them stood the Harkscalen, crouched over its near dead prey. But over Rory's dead body would the awful creature feast on her treasured companion.

"Rory no!" Bianca shouted as Rory bounded towards the beast, her pounding heart echoing her rage.

All too soon, the Harkscalen noticed her approach and whirled around in a movement as quick as lightning. As the last of the horses scampered past, the beast lowered itself and hissed, the sound guttural and predatory. So be it.

Forgetting the world around her, Rory lunged towards the Harkscalen, blade raised high and aimed for a clouded eye. The same eye that had been struck by Bianca's arrow a week prior. Only the Harkscalen was faster, and it was all Rory could do to jump out of the way as the barbed tail swung for her head.

Behind the Harkscalen, Jewel had somehow scrambled to her feet and limped into the street before collapsing again. Even with treatment, it would be a miracle if the mare survived long.

Shoving the thought behind her, Rory collected herself and scrambled into the street. Abandoning her efforts to control the blaze, Bianca did the same. With the threat of the Harkscalen, none made any move to quell the growing fire as it continued to destroy the barn and tavern. Not that the tossing of water filled buckets would make a difference. Given the current status, Rory thought grimly, it would take a heavy rain or a skilled Wavecarver to put out the inferno that had become the stables.

Unaffected by the flames, the Harkscalen stocked out of the burning building and let out another ear piercing shriek.

Ever void of caution, Albert was the first to lunge at the creature, only to be pinned down by a scaly, reptilian foot with too large claws. From behind, Nicolas leapt into action, leaping onto the thickly muscled tail and latching onto one of many scales to secure himself. But when he was nearly halfway up, the beast whipped its tail, sending Nicolas flying through the night. He landed next to the fountain with a thud, and did not get up again. Rory could only hope that he was unconscious and nothing more.

Albert still in its clutches, the Harkscalen growled. The sound felt like cold claws running down Rory's spine. Unsure what else to do, Bianca drew an arrow and angled it towards the Harkscalen's eye, just as she did in the Dil'Farans. Rory supposed that with others crowded in the street, she was hiding her magic for as long as she could.

The arrow hit home, piercing the same eye that had clouded over after the last encounter. The Harkscalen writhed in a rare display of pain, and a few gasped. One even cheered. But clumsy from pain, as the Harkscalen drew back, one of the claws grazed Albert's neck and he cried out.

"Albert!" Bianca exclaimed as she ran to her brother. Rory wanted to help as crimson blood began to pool on the snow dusted street, but her feet wouldn't move. The Harkscalen, at least, seemed to be retreating into the night but with two of her friends and her horse all close to dying, Rory had no idea how to move forward in this dreadful night.

But then, another blood curdling screech echoed in the night and Rory knew that the fight with the Harkscalen had hardly begun.

Most of the people who were congregated own the street had begun to flee, but Rory wasn't about to go anywhere. For what the creature had taken from her, she needed to watch it suffer. And so, while Bianca cradled her brother and sobbed, Rory sprung into action, leaping onto the beast as it barreled past. And she stabbed her blade through thick keratinous scales over and over until her vision blurred with sweat and tears.

Eventually, the beast shook her off, but she regained herself quickly and prepared to strike again. But another beat her to it.

"You killed by brother", Bianca roared, furious and heartbroken. Tears streamed her face and she stalked to her feet. As her amber eyes began to glow, Rory drew back a step and the fire that devoured the tavern began to shift, splaying long, dizzying shadows across the street.

And then those flames shifted into a massive fireball that flew towards the Harkscalen. Bianca screamed with exertion, and Rory rushed to her side. Bianca had explained once that a large display of magic was incredibly straining, sometimes even lethal if the wielder wasn't careful. With the weight of her brother's fate settling upon her, Rory guessed that Bianca had thrown said caution aside.

A quick glance at Albert made Rory's stomach drop, his body pale and limp on the cobbled street. She wished there was something, anything that she could do to stop that bleeding but a startled squeal had her attention snapping up to the Harkscalen where it wrestled Bianca's flames.

For a moment, all Rory could see was a mess of smoking flames and the swinging of a barbed tail. The smell of burning, swampy flesh tinged the air, and she fought not to gag as it struck her.

"You bastard!" Bianca shouted beside her. Tears continued to roll down her cheeks, and her entire body trembled. Despite dark of night, Rory could see that her skin had paled from exertion.

"You bastard." The second word came out hardly a whisper, and Bianca collapsed to the ground. Rory cringed as her friend's knees hit stone, but she caught her before she could fall completely. Her friend limp in her arms, Rory risked a true glimpse of the carnage around her for the first time. The remains of the tavern and the stable smoked behind them, charred wood snapping and ash wafting through the air. Before the entrance, Jewel lay in the street, too much blood streaking her back and pooling around her. She was still breathing, but those breaths were severely numbered.

A few yards away, Nicolas lay sprawled before the fountain, whether he was breathing, Rory could not see. And then there were Bianca and Albert, a heartbroken sister who lay limp in Rory's arms, inches away from her brother, whose chest had gone painfully still. It was all too overwhelming, and Rory felt a single tear roll down her own cheek. And despite her soul, hardened by years of servitude on Drao'hain and grueling Skepmadyr training, she cried. The sensation had become so foreign, a symbol of great weakness in Arcodyte culture, and yet she didn't stop herself. Not even as the Harkscalen freed itself from Bianca's flames, skin charred and weak, but still vengeful. As it padded towards her, Rory only glared at the creature, jade eyes meeting yellow ones. And she held that stare until the beast stood before her and they were face to face, Bianca's limp body still leaning against her own.

Rory's heart pounded, as if trying to beat as many times as possible before death but still, she refused to yield. And as the creature drew back to strike, its swampy scent tinging the air, a strange white light had begun to glow, illuminating the snowy ground with the milky glow of moonlight, only stronger. Before she could locate the source of the strange light, a deafening boom exploded through the air, the sound threatening to split her soul. Suddenly, she had to fight for her own consciousness, her legs wobbling as a wave of exhaustion crashed upon her. And as she collapsed to the ground the last thing she saw was the Harkscalen falling backwards, claws grasping at the night air.

Compared Calydon's cities and merchant towns, Agres was neither large nor special, but it was well designed for its purpose. The entirety of the town sat on one street, the space broad enough to fit carriages from all directions. Illuminated by torchlight, taverns, stables and supply shops lined the cobbled street. At the center stood what was perhaps the most exciting feature of the outpost town; a large fountain where water from a natural spring bubbled up and pooled at the bottom. According to myths in the old tongue, Agres was a water spirit who lived in the spring around which the town had been built. Despite the kingdom's loyalty to the new god Sŏnne, the old ways were stubborn so close to the northern border, and a moss covered carving of Agres still stood at the top of the fountain.

Based on the volume of unhitched carriages and the noise that vibrated out of nearby buildings, Rory and the others were not the only ones to weather the night in the busy outpost town. As snow continued to fall, landing on her shoulders in loose clumps, Rory was eager to get Jewel put up for the night and the prospect of a warm meal had become intoxicating.

Fortunately, it had been easy to find room at a nearby inn, the building offering accommodations for both the travelers and their horses. A warm stall piled high with straw awaited Jewel, and Rory toweled off a snow flecked hide as the mare munched on her hay and a loaf of steaming horsebread. As she left the stables, she reached into her pack and tossed the stablehand two sylfring, ensuring that he'd look after Jewel while she found a warm meal and a place to sleep.

Walking into the tavern next door had been an assault to the senses. Travelers shouted and laughed, fires blazed, and a bard danced in long slippers, singing in the old tongue and strumming a lute. Had Rory not been so cold, tired and hungry she may have protested against the raucous display but now, she savored the warmth and wished only for a place to sit to rest her tired legs.

"I'm so hungry I could eat the king's entire stable", Bianca joked next to Rory. Lit up by the multiple fires in the room, her friend's hair glowed and her eyes sparkled, as if calling to the dancing flames. Nicolas handed her a pint of ale that he'd fetched and she smiled at him, their eyes locking for a frozen moment. Again, Rory witnessed a connection that neither seemed to acknowledge. Drawing her attention away, Albert offered Rory her own pint and she nodded her thanks. And then he spoke, seemingly unaware of what, if anything, transpired between his sister and his friend.

"Of all that have ridden with us, you keep up the best", he said, clasping Rory on the shoulder in a brotherly manner. The Skepmadyr in her yearned to retaliate at his touch and the dull aching that throbbed through her entire body threatened to make her wince but somehow, Rory managed to do neither. Instead, she merely followed the others to the closest table, unsure where else to go or what else to do.

"So what now?" Rory dared to ask, her throat hoarse from gasping at cool, dry air all day.

"We keep riding south of course", Albert answered as he took a swig of ale. By now, Rory had learned to tell when the redhead was kidding around, his green eyes shining with amusement.

"I think she knew that much", Bianca scolded, "perhaps the bard will take a break and you can try your humor on the others."

Albert scoffed and Rory couldn't help but snicker and his sister's wit. Across the table, Nicolas didn't laugh, but for a second his eyes appeared a bit lighter.

"As long as the snow doesn't fall too heavily, I say we continue our journey tomorrow. We can restock in the morning, but best to keep moving before we lose our race to the winter."

Rory nodded her agreement, and so did the others. It seemed that she wasn't the only one that was too tired to hold a conversation. And when plates of steaming food were placed on the table, any attempts at a conversation ceased completely.

Rory did not wait to see what the others did as she dug into her bowl of pottage, and tore off a piece of the generously sized bread roll that accompanied it. The pottage seemed to be a brew of meat, vegetables and barley but she did not care what it was made of or how it tasted, only that it warmed her from the inside out. Any further selectivity was a luxury that she could not afford.

Fortunately, it did not appear that the others had shown any more reservation, and for a moment, Rory simply savored the warmth of the building and the meal that filled her. She had become too tired to worry about anything at all. Even the poignant concern that she'd felt upon seeing an upside down crown etched into the sign for Agres felt like a distant memory.

***

When Rory and the others finished their meal, the tavern owner, a robust, middle aged man, pointed them up a set of creaky stairs to the bedrooms. Below, shouts, laughter and the singing bard could still be hard. But Rory didn't care. The bed that filled the room before her held the entirety of her attention.

"Do you care which side?" Bianca asked as she stripped down to a linen shift. Due to a shortage of rooms, the group had been made to share rooms for the night, Albert and Nicolas in one room, Bianca and Rory in the other.

"No", Rory answered honesty, "You?"

Bianca shook her head as she bound her hair into a loose braid behind her back.

Rory nodded and settled into the bed, eager to find rest at last. Rarely did she ride as hard as she did today, and she had already begun to feel the effects. She was not looking forward to the aches and pains that the next day would bring but like everything else, it was an issue for tomorrow.

"Your eyes", Bianca said as she drew up the blanket on her side of the bed. "I've never met someone with exactly the same color. After we complete this job, maybe we can help you track down your family. Or at least find out what happened to them."

On her side of the bed, Rory sleepily watched the show as it continued to flurry outside. Bianca's words hit her slowly and rested heavily, like the pelt of a heavy rain. Unsure what to say, Rory had meant to reply, but sleep overtook her, true and deep. Cushioned by the bed and sheltered by a roof and a blanket, she did not stir once, as if her body were savoring the rare luxuries that the night afforded her.

Only when a piercing sound split the snow shrouded night, did she wake. She recognized that sound immediately; she'd heard it only once before and had begged whatever god was listening to never hear it again. It seemed, she realized as she gasped with horror, that her prayers had not been answered.

For five days, Rory and the others followed the royal road as it coursed through the southern edge of the Dil'Farans. For the most part, every day had been the same, rising at dawn to ride through the seemingly endless sprawl of trees, each one taller than the next, and their stumps thickened with age. At night, the group continued to camp on the forest floor, the chill of the nearing winter cast out by the strange magic of Bianca's fire.

At the conclusion of the fourth day, the telltale thinning of the ancient forest was a welcome sight to the entire group. In the past, Rory had enjoyed the shrouded serenity of traveling alone through the trees, but now she found herself grateful for the newfound company. Despite herself, the incident with the Harkscalen had unnerved her, and to travel with the others gave her a small sense of comfort. Not to mention that the act of quiet rebellion against her Arcodyte teachings lit a small fire within her. A feeling that she hadn't yet decided how to handle.

During their time together, Rory had learned a great deal about her companions. In just a few days, she learned how Bianca and Albert had navigated their way out of a plague-ridden village and joined a band of traveling merchants. How they'd refined their hunting skills and met Nicolas on one of their many adventures throughout Calydon.

As for Nicolas, Rory now understood that solemnity that she occasionally caught darkening his stark features. As a boy, he had never known his father, and was raised by his mother in Genog. Rory had never heard of the village before but according to Nicolas it was small; hardly more than a shanty town on the western coast of Calydon. When Nicolas was nine years old, an Arcodyte raid had burnt his village to the ground and many perished, including his own mother. Form there, Rory had learned, Nicolas swore to one day face King Hedryk himself and avenge his mother.

"Look at this", Albert exclaimed as he rode ahead of the others. His voice carried a lilt of excitement and dragged Rory from her thoughts.

"A day's ride to Agres", Bianca had observed, joining her brother's excitement.

Rory didn't have to ride closer to see what the others were talking about. In fact, when she caught up with the others, she wasn't surprised at all to see the wooden sign that signified that Agres was nearby. In truth, Rory had used the cover of the Dil'Farans to navigate northern Calydon many times.

"Looks like we'll survive the great forest another time", Bianca said, winking at Nicolas. In their short time together, Rory had already noticed a pull between Nicolas and Bianca. However, it was still unclear whether the others had noticed it between themselves.

Nicolas only fingered the bottom of the necklace that he wore, a subconscious motion that seemed to accompany his seemingly constant pondering. The necklace was his mother's, Nicolas had quietly explained beside the blaze of Bianca's fire one night. From the golden chain, a single charm hung, the outline of a violet etched into a piece of flattened gold, with a small moonstone at the center. According to Nicolas, it was the final trace that he had left of her.

"I wager that if we ride hard, we'll reach Agres just past nightfall", Albert said.

"Race you there?" Bianca asked, the excitement at the challenge rising in her eyes.

With dawn still softening the edges of the sky and dew clinging to the trees around them, the day was young and Rory supposed that such a goal was possible. But after several days on the road with a stiff body and belly rumbling from a waning supply of food, she rarely chose to ride so hard.

"We've been pushing ourselves and the horses hard the past few days. Perhaps we should be more careful", Nicolas said, voicing Rory's silent concern.

"True", Albert said, "but we know the route. I'm assuming that she does too", he said, nodding at Rory. "Besides, we must travel with haste. For all we know, the job has been taken already."

The mysterious summons that had united the group on this odd adventure had been a frequent subject of conversation. Still, the answers eluded them and their only choice was to forge on, ever enticed by the exorbitant pay that was being advertised.

Eventually, Albert had won the debate and it was decided that the group would ride hard into Agres, only planning to stop once during the day.

But as Rory rode past the sign for Agres, she noticed a strange mark on the sign for Agres that she hadn't seen before. In one of the corners, an upside down crown had been etched into the weathered wood and she quickly recalled the Earl of Kennet's warning.

Young Skepmadyr, beware of a place that bears this symbol. I've received word that it can be found on the royal road, and danger lurks there.

At the time, she had thought nothing of it but now the sight unnerved her and she decided to voice her concern.

"The symbol etched into the sign", she called out to the others as they rode ahead. "I've been warned to avoid it."

Shadowed by his dark hair, Nicolas' brows knitted, mirroring Rory's own apprehension.

Albert circled around to examine the strange mark himself, but only shrugged his shoulders.

"You two are too cautious", he laughed as he dug his heels into his horse's sides. "Last one to Agres pays for the ale", he said as his horse leapt into a gallop.

Bianca needed no further encouragement and bounded off after her brother, her red hair bouncing at her back in a long, thick braid.

"His lack of caution will be his demise one day", Nicolas sighed, the words hardly audible. But he, too, galloped off after Albert and Bianca.

Beneath her Jewel struck the ground with a front foot, expressing her eagerness to catch up to the others but still Rory restrained her, unsure what to do. In the past, she would have heeded her instincts and approached the outpost town with caution. But, she supposed, freeing herself from the Arcodytes would come with risks no matter what. Not to mention that traversing Agres was the only southbound route she knew. Slowly, she softened her grip on the reins, unsurprised when Jewel responded by speeding off after the others.

***

As the afternoon sun fell lower in the sky, the group still rode at a brisk pace. They had only stopped once at a small brook that Nicolas spotted along the way, taking the time to allow themselves and the horses a few small sips of water, but nothing more. Still, after several hours, Bianca and Albert continued to race around each other as they coursed through the winding road, which was little more than a walking trail in some spots. For Rory's part, she had to admire the tenacity of the redheaded siblings as they shouted and giggled, even as she grew weary.

With the days getting ever shorter in the final days of autumn, Albert was correct in his assumption that it wouldn't be until after dusk that the group rode into Agres. But still, the group forged on, guided by the final shadows of daylight as it waned beyond the horizon.

When the illuminated torchlight of Agres came into view at last, Rory felt her shoulders sag in relief. Every part of her ached from keeping up with the ardor of Albert and Bianca; her knees, thighs and back all radiating dull pain and her eyes bleary with exhaustion. Dried sweat from earlier in the day flaked her skin, and she shivered, drawing up the patched hood of her cloak.

Beneath her, Jewel's hide steamed with exertion and as she finally slowed the mare to a walk, she could feel every breath that the mare took, and the rapid beating of her heart. Running a gloved finger along the mare's neck, she stroked her in gratitude. It was rare for her to push the horse so hard in one ride, but Jewel had proven herself plenty capable keeping up with the others.

"You'll have a warm, dry stall to sleep in tonight. This I swear", Rory whispered to Jewel as she set her eyes on the town ahead, designed to accommodate travelers as they passed through. Around her, thick snowflakes had begun to flurry through the air, falling sloppily on the ground. The event marked the first snowfall of the year, and Rory scowled at the sky, anxious to embrace the warmth and shelter that was promised by the torchlight ahead.

"Looks like we made it just in the nick of time", Albert said as he drew his own cloak tighter and patted his horse on the rump. He didn't appear tired at all, but his south Calydonian accent was thicker than usual, giving his fatigue away. It was a feature that both he and his sister shared.

"Shall we put the horses up or fetch a pint?" Bianca asked as they grew ever closer to the town. After spending the past few days surrounded only by trees, the sight of a town and the prospect of a warm meal had become a coveted subject, even to Rory who was used to sleeping on the ground and surviving on stale food. But still, she pushed her own desires aside and spoke up for what she knew was right, fatigue souring her assertion more than she meant.

"I'm tending to my horse first. She will not stand in the snow, hitched at a tavern post while we eat."

"Nor will mine", Nicolas agreed. It had been the first time he'd spoken since morning.

"Stables it is then", Bianca said as they rode into the town at last.

Locked away in his chambers, Exle hyr Dirk sat before a wall-sized map of the Rodinian continent with eyes hardened by years of cunning curiosity. As a blessed Knight of Dirk, the fallen angel of chaos, Exle held the highest seat in the king's coveted Red Clade. As the Right Hand of the throne, he was afforded a considerable amount of power, to the extent that he served as the king's second on every matter except inheritance of the throne. Such an honor was saved for Prince Cade, the king's son and only true heir. Exle did not envy the prince, though; the king's ear was all he ever needed.

For years, the map of Rodinia had tormented Exle, and yet he always returned to the same spot, hunched over and pensive. Under daylight and candlelight alike, Exle studied the great map; he knew every etch in the paper as well as his own heartbeat, every crease and wrinkle familiar as the patterns of veins in his own hand.

He never looked within the borders of Calydon for long, the kingdom unchanging and familiar. As any other member of the Red Clade would, Exle knew his kingdom inside and out; every river, forest and hamlet etched into his mind by the relentless schooling that governed his youth.

He didn't study the Isle of Draohain for long, either. Instead, he regarded the island kingdom in the way that stablehand may regard a rat, noting its presence and shrugging in annoyance, but nothing more. To Exle, the Arcodytes were merely vermin of a larger variety; their ways savage and their weapons and battle tactics dated. While they raided Calydon on occasion and their Skepmadyr continued to be an annoyance, they posed no true threat to the kingdom; their resources simply couldn't compare.

What truly concerned the king's Right Hand lay illustrated on the upper side of the map, with little information beyond the confines of its borders.

Situated on to the north of the Dil'Farans, a great forest that proved to be as impenetrable as it was vast, stood the kingdom of Nord'Umbra, or the Northern Shadow in the old tongue.

Working in silence, Exle filed through the pages of notes he'd written over the years, all dedicated to finding a way for his king's forces to enter Nord'Umbra. According to legends that were as old as Calydon itself, the king that could conquer the entirety of Rodinia in the name of Sŏnne, the all powerful god of light and creator of worlds, would be blessed by the deity himself. And so Exle had made the conquest of Nord'Umbra his personal mission; it would be him, and only him, that would one day present the king with a plan of attack. And it would be his carefully crafted planning that would bring Calydon to its full glory and his king to the acquisition of such a sacred accolade.

Most days, his quiet, dutiful assessment of the sprawling map ended in headaches and frustration. No records of a successful crossing through the Dil'Farans existed, only countless failures, spanning from small expeditions to attempts at razing the forest in its entirety. On Rodinia's eastern shores sprawled the Swarcian Sea, where the waters were fierce and deadly, with currents capable of capsizing ships, and winds that snapped masts. On the western shore lay the Bay of Astel, but to traverse it with a fleet large enough to attack the enemy kingdom would surely result in trouble with the Arcodytes. It would be possible, Exle supposed, to distract them somehow but still, it was hardly a plan at all.

His gaze shifting between his notes and the map, Exle noticed a small stream that threaded through the heart of the Dil'Farans. He scratched his chin, unsure how he hadn't noticed it before and recorded the finding at the bottom of his endless notes.

Surely the stream wouldn't be large enough to guide a traveling army but still, he wouldn't cast it aside just yet. Such a talent for detail; for weaponizing the overlooked, was what ultimately afforded Exle his positions as the Right Hand and Knight of Dirk.

Where his fellow Cladesmen were revered as exceptional mages or masters of combat, Exle's weapon was his mind. Born in the bogs of the impoverished Gealuin Lowlands, Exle was slender and meek as a boy, often bordering on the edge of frail. Because of such limitations, he spent the majority of his youth being cast aside and rejected by others, until he was ultimately cast out by his own family when he failed to earn his keep working the fields and marshes. But what his body lacked, he made up for with his brilliance; a gift he'd forged to be as lethal as any blade. Even now, as one of the most powerful men in Calydon, he slaved away, unwilling to leave anything to fate.

A soft knocking at his door tore Exle from his thoughts and had him crossing the floor of his chambers. Despite the lavish expanse of the room, the space was decorated only by his bed and the materials of his various studies. Anything more was an unnecessary indulgence in his eyes.

"Sorry to disturb you, my lord."

Exle was unsurprised to see Slen, his personal servant at the other side of the door. Where other members of the Calydonian elite boasted a multitude of servants that they kept crowded around them, Exle had only Slen. For the most part, the mousy boy remained unheard and unseen, a quality that Exle valued. In exchange, he asked little of the boy beyond his basic duties.

"What is it, Slen?" Exle asked, his voice raspy from a lack of speaking, and his mind still half clouded by his project.

"The Clade is assembling for a council, my lord. The king requires your presence."

Exle knew better than to ask Slen the purpose of this unscheduled meeting. Such information was not openly shared with servants.

"Very well", he said instead, giving his servant a shallow nod to signal a dismissal.

Slen bowed his head in return, and left as silently as he came.

Sighing at the interruption of his work, Exle donned the hallowed crimson robe that marked him as a member of the Red Clade. But where the others drew up the hood of the heavy robe, shrouding their features from Dirk, Exle placed a matching crimson mitre atop his head. Such was the attire of the king's Right Hand. Lastly, eyed his gold plated staff; the symbol of his position as the Knight of Dirk, the pathfinder between chaos and light. He rarely saw the reason for such finery and ceremony, but he picked up the crosier-like staff nonetheless, the metal cool and slightly dusty from its lack of use. Whatever the king had summoned him for, Exle hoped that the matter would at least yield something of interest.

Artificial is bad they say

What good will it do?

All those artificial meals you've had

Don't put that in your body

If you cannot pronounce it

Or you know not where it came from

And yet we seem to accept

The artificial

Of a different variety

And they all expect us

To embrace it and say

That artificial intelligence is OK

But I think not

Why should I ever trust the word

Of some elusive, intangible robot?

And tell me why it is frowned upon

To physically consume

The artificial

But acceptable to allow it

To penetrate the mind

And level the layers of sentience

Into one

Flattened

Lazy thought