Vincent reeled where he stood, an invisible phantom standing in the middle of the plaza. He was too shocked to contemplate what he had just done. A few winged specters walked past. He could hear their voices.

"Is it…is it gone?" somebody asked.

"I don't know."

There was another click. A spasm seized Vincent and sent him thrashing to the ground. He felt the cold stone and heard Menik's voice. After a few seconds of hell, the wave of agony disappeared, and dread filled his chest.

“You will be hard to kill. Your form will always try to repair itself, even beyond mortal injury...”

He raced toward the home they'd been taking shelter in and saw his companions standing over his body while healers inspected it. He tried shouting at them, tried telling them the Triasat was in the well, but nobody heard him.

“Tuls...” he said to the relos' silhouette, “come on...you have to sense me! I'm not natural...you should be able to detect me! Come on man...” He waved his hands through the relos' form. Nothing. Not even a twitch. “Don't let me go through this...I'm right here! I'm begging you, don't let me go through–”

His dragon form jerked and he fell to the ground screaming as it yelped and howled.

“Please...” he begged, “don’t let me go through this! I’m right here! The Triasat is in the well! It’s–”

His consciousness was sucked back into the malformed body of flesh, his back arching with excruciation. The spinal column in his neck had already realigned itself, now knives filled every inch of his body as the nerves knit themselves back together. His form drummed the floor as it seized, hands flailed out to attack his companions. Everything was blinding pain, every nook and cranny, every shocked snout that looked down at him.

He was back in the void with Girashnal, being injected with three stages of torment. He was back on Lorix's Observatory, seizing from a broken back. Somebody stop it...somebody please stop it... They tried to hold him down, tried to talk to him, to calm him, but he couldn’t hear them. His world was agony. He just wanted to die. Somebody kill him…end it. But slowly, the pain began to subside, leaving him scourged and shaking. An amnesia designed to specifically target the memory of agony settled in, turning it into passing whisper, just like the entity said it would. The healers, dumbfounded by his recovery, tried to talk to him, tried to inspect him and ask him questions. But their words were just meaningless noise.

“It was in the well...” Vincent's voice cracked, “that thing...it came up...it came up out of the well then it...then it took it...it took the Triasat...it was in the well...you just had to fucking look...”

He was suddenly ravaged by an unhinged, irrational sense of betrayal. They sent him to hide in there, they sent him to be killed by the entity, to confront that thing alone. But as the obfuscation of amnesia continued to dampen the memory, he found it harder to maintain his helpless outrage. Instead, he was just left trembling. He sat up, pushed the healer away from him and scooted back so he could cower in a corner, but the tail and wings thwarted him, propping his waist away from the wall. So, he sat sideways, his shoulders shaking with hyperventilation. He was cracking, having a mental breakdown. By now...the psychosis should have taken him, he should not have been lucid.

Menik, perhaps feeling shame and guilt, told somebody to get Vincent some water. Then he and Jeris went over to the well. In Vincent's periphery, he saw both of them lift the grate from its mounting and set it aside. One of them summoned a spark while the other grabbed the rope, tested it, then they descended into the pit with the spark in tow. One of the healers tried to ask Vincent some questions but Tuls interrupted.

“You should let him be,” he said.

“But...he should be dead!” the healer protested, “This is–"

“–I know...you should let him be.”

Though Tuls had no authority to order anybody around, something about the earnestness of his voice gave the healer pause. The healer gave Vincent one more bewildered look before gathering his tools and walking out the door. M'kari and Madrian shifted their feet, then they went into the other room to assist Menik and Jeris. It was just Vincent, Sperloc, who was currently scribbling down history as it happened, and Tuls, who sat directly opposite him, his orange rings floating in the darkness cast by his hood. For a while, they sat and listened to the sounds coming from outside.

“That was you, wasn't it?” Tuls whispered.

“W-what?”

“What happened out there.” Vincent did not know how the relos knew, but he could see the truth in Tuls’ eyes.

Vincent stared at the floor in front of him. “I...I'm not a savior...I don't...” he mumbled, “I don't...I don't fucking know what I'm doing...I don't know how I did it...”

“So, it was you?”

“...I'm not who you think I am. I don't...I don't want to be here, I'm just a guy...”

“I know.” Tuls said.

There was something reassuring in his baritone voice, something in his inflection that said he could see right through him. It was the same impression Thal'rin gave him when he saw Vincent's madness for the first time. He was speaking to the creature trapped inside of the form. He got up, cracked his back and walked over to take a seat next to him. Tuls sat for a few moments, scratched at his tail wound while he chewed with deliberations. He began to speak, but Vincent could not hear any of his words.

“What?” he muttered.

“I said I am loskia,” he whispered as though it were an accusation against himself. It was too quiet for Sperloc to hear. “That is...I am a very rare breed of gloweye that can read what another is feeling...even when they hide it. People like me have been reviled throughout history because it is assumed...well, people accuse us of reading minds simply because we know when somebody is lying, or because we give the impression that we know what to say at any given moment. But I too...am just a 'guy'. I was born with it. I don’t know how it works and I can’t stop it.”

Vincent didn’t immediately register the words, his mind was fighting not to disassociate.

“So...you're an empath.” he finally said, his mind was too numb to even be surprised.

“I do not know that word, Brother. But I keep it hidden,” Tuls said, emphasizing the seriousness of his words. “In many parts of the world, I would be killed. Even in Mid-Admoran...it is not uncommon for people like me to be ostracized. So it is a secret I have guarded with my life. I have to pretend to be clueless to the sentiments of those I encounter. Because to tell anybody what I am would be to compromise my own safety and reputation. That is how hated we are. Once I tell somebody, they can tell another and the word will spread. I would have to look over my shoulder wherever I go.”

“Then why are you telling me?”

“What you did back there, I can tell you compromised something. I don’t know what you are or what conflicts you are trying to wrangle. But whatever you did...whatever you went through, you made a decision that you can't step back from. This is my way of standing with you in solidarity.”

Vincent's mind was a maelstrom, and he was beginning to break. Tuls words barely registered with him.

"They died because of me…" he said, his voice cracking, "because I'm a fucking liar."

"Brother, you did not do this. The village was already dead."

"No…the soldiers. Clyme. Raspin. They're dead. I got them killed," Vincent was hyperventilating. He buried his snout in his hands. His claws dug into his scalp.

“I don't want to go through that again, " he said, "you...you can't let me go through that again...I can't...I can't die...”

“Brother, I think you need sleep.” Tuls reached into his jacket and removed a leather pouch. He unbuttoned it, tipped it over and several beetle carcasses fell into his palm. He grabbed one and gave it to Vincent, “I use these along with the lyanth bloom to make my game tranquilizer. You don't have to chew.”

Vincent was too numb to be disgusted. He took it and chased it down with water. The world was slow to list, but as he listened to Menik and the others holler in the well, his limbs became heavier. The ground pulled him to it. He twitched several times, thinking the entity had come back for him, but somebody told him he was safe. His eyes drooped shut and his thoughts came to a stop.

***

He awoke the next morning to find the Triasat vial placed in front of him. He clasped his hand around it, sat up and tucked it into his pocket. Confusion addled his brain as bright sunlight poured through the window. He noticed he was unbearably hot. He fumbled with the winter clothing in an attempt to get it off, but he heard footsteps. Menik appeared by his side to give him a hand. Cool air soothed his perspiring skin. The shandan offered his apologies, took blame for allowing Vincent to be attacked. Vincent, hearing only noises, not the words, just kept nodding and grunting.

He stepped outside to see a glistening winterland filled with weeping icicles glimmering under the sun's light. Crefield's weather, free of whatever lore had twisted it, had regained its warmth. Snowmelt sent small torrents cascading over the cobble, chasing the ruts he had carved with his fire when taking down the stormspawn. Bones and sticks gathered around the ancient storm drains and spun in place as water poured into uncharted passages. A pillar of smoke rose at the outskirts, a funeral pyre for those that had been victimized by the entity’s lore. The village was being cleansed of its ravaging, purged of its corruption.

When he stepped out into the sunlight, he felt conspicuous in its rays. The winged soldiers who were gathering the refuse to burn it kept turning to look at him. He was numb to their thoughts, stuck in a fever dream where all he could hear was tinnitus. When he ate, he spoke little, nodded gently when he was spoken to, shrugged his shoulders when somebody asked him a question. He saw Slade standing nearby, inspecting her blade. She kept glancing at him and back at her blade, questions racing through her mind. Vincent heard heavy footsteps sloshing and he turned to see Akhil coming his way.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Finish eating,” he said, “then come with me. The La'ark has questions.”

“Of course, she does.” Vincent forced himself to finish the feln loaf. “You need to tell her to get better food for your soldiers. This shit is awful.”

Akhil, humorless as always, did not respond. He waited for Vincent and then they both headed out. Footsteps came up from behind.

“Shandan Akhil,” Tuls said, “would you like me to be present?” Akhil turned to look at him, remaining silent. “He knows what I am.” the relos explained.

Akhil betrayed no surprise, though Vincent thought he saw a few daggers in his eyes. Instead, he simply grunted. Why would they want Tuls there? But then it clicked into place...Tuls would be able to tell if he was lying. In fact, he was probably the one that cued them in on his deception. It's probably one of the only reasons he was here. If Tuls was as secretive about his talent as he claimed, then The La'ark, or one of her superiors must be pretty savvy in order to know about it.

They stepped into a building that must have once served as the village tavern. The La'ark invited him to sit at her table. The chair reminded him of those found in the archives, the same kind that required one to rotate the tails under the backboard. It took him several attempts to get it right. As always, she had several maps and plans scrawled out in front of her. Sitting in the corner was rat-faced Sperloc, ready to transcribe.

“Reashos' blade did something...astounding last night,” The La'ark said, “something I have never seen fireglass do in all my years. Reashos insists she had nothing to do with it. A figure stepped forth–”

“–Yes, it was me.” Vincent listened to the brief silence that followed, punctuated by Sperloc's scribbling.

“How did you do it?” she asked. It was not an interrogative question, she was simply dumbfounded.

“I don't know. Somehow...being dead allowed me to do it.”

“Dead?” she repeated.

Numbness and shock made his words heavy. He struggled to explain, with the experience being so fresh, so raw. He flatly described how the entity had snapped his neck, how it knew he would become a specter it could talk to. It was ancient and it did not know their language, so he was the only one that could understand it, something it could gloat to. When she asked if it had a name, he could not answer her. It had never provided one. His story was rambling and incoherent, dropping out parts because they were so new, too terrible to revisit, and because he didn't understand them himself.

“Why would the Puppeteer want to talk to you?” Akhil rasped.

“The Puppeteer?” Vincent repeated.

“That is what we are calling it,” The La’ark said, “named after the way it manipulated its body. Why did it want to talk to you?”

“I don't know...it said...” Vincent paused, “it said it admired the thing that brought me here. So, it wanted to meet me.”

“The thing that brought you here? It knew the entity responsible for your translation?”

“It seemed to, yeah. It called it 'Girashnal the Hunter'. Said it was a black herald or some shit like that.”

Vincent knew immediately that he had made a mistake. Sperloc, who had been scribbling away on his ohnite, abruptly stopped. The La'ark leaned in, gripped the edges of the table and her eyes shot daggers. When she spoke, there were storms in her voice.

“Repeat that back to me again,” she said.

“It said the thing that did this to me...was a black herald.” Vincent spoke as though his words were landmines. “It...it also said that's what Ayrlon's Tear was warning you all about. It said the Black Heralds were returning.”

He heard something tear and saw Sperloc's inkstone drop to the ground with a clatter. He had punched a hole in the scroll and now his hands were clasping the tablet as though he intended to break it in two.

“Are you jesting boy...” his voice quivered, “are you trying to twist our wings? Because if you are, I am not laughing. I do not find this amusing.”

“T-that's just what it told me.” Vincent was taken back by Sperloc's reaction.

“You were lied to,” Akhil said, “the Heralds cannot return.”

“Have you uncapped your rack?! Do you have any idea what you represent?” Sperloc continued, his raspy breaths grew labored with each word. “Do you know what kind of panic a figure such as you will unleash if you spread such claims?! Do you have an inkling of the kind of terror you will provoke if somebody like you starts telling folk that the Black Heralds...” He could not even finish the sentence.

“I don't know what the fuck a Black Herald even is!” Vincent said, becoming defensive.

“Schism!” Sperloc bellowed, throwing the tablet to the ground. He got up and looked like he was about to attack Vincent. Oris reached an arm out, ready to hold him back. “Riots! Suicides! Parents will slaughter their children out of terror just to spare them! Do you have any idea the gravity of the words you just uttered?! Or do you just jiggle your jowls and flap your wings?!”

Sperloc continued to rave until spittle drooled from the hole in his cheek. But The La'ark simply glared at Vincent. Though her severe countenance had not changed, he noticed that her eyes appeared to glaze over, and her irises jittered in her orbs as his revelation weighed on her. Her features tightened and her snout twitched ever so slightly. When she spoke, there was a constriction to her words. She was terrified.

“That will be all, Sperloc,” she said. Oris had to guide him back to his chair. She closed her eyes and took a moment to gather herself, her fists clenching and releasing. Angry pinpricks marked her palms where her claws dug. “Akhil, Oris...have the zerok relay this back to Meldohv. Be discreet...I do not want word of this spreading to the rest of the army.”

“Do not tell me you believe him!” Sperloc hissed, “he was deceived! That thing is having its last laugh!”

Vincent recalled the Puppeteer's words: “The reactions of any historian present should be very amusing.”

“Nevertheless...” The La'ark opened her eyes. “It is a claim we cannot ignore. If they are to return...well...it would be better for us to look like fools for preparing than to be caught unprepared.”

Tuls, who had been leaning against the wall, placed a wing on it for support and raised both hands to clasp his snout, an expression of absolute dismay. Shaking, he slid down the wall, acting as though bones had disappeared from his legs.

“What...what are they?” Vincent asked, “I get they're bad...”

Sperloc scoffed at the understatement, but it was The La'ark who answered.

“We do not know what they were,” she said, “only that they were one of the worst things to ever happen to Admoran until Naikira Laneus gave her life to defeat them. So do not go repeating what you just said to anybody. Sperloc is right, you will cause schisms. And if word gets out that a Black Herald brought you here, entire nations will put a target on your back. They will want you dead.”

The Black Heralds. The creatures before him became diminutive at the drop of that phrase, looking as though he had just announced something worse than their doom. Somewhere, the Stalker, Girashnal, was laughing.

“What about you?” Vincent followed the grains in the table with his eyes. “Do you want me dead? It said I'm 'herald-work'. I led your men into that storm...got them killed.”

The La'ark did not immediately answer. He could feel her analyzing his revelation and weighing her choices.

“You are an unknown,” she said, “you are petulant, unpredictable. You are a liar and I have every right to shackle you. However, whatever it did to you, whatever you are, you have given us aid. And what I said on our first day has not changed: You belong to us. I do not harm one of our own.”

“Are you done with me?” Vincent said, clearing his throat. He wanted to walk out of the room right then. He didn’t deserve those words. He wasn’t one of them. He didn’t earn it.

“Done with you?”

“Is that all?” he clarified, silently cursing himself for the quiver in his voice. “Can I go now?”

“You may go,” she said, “get rest.”

When he got up, he took several steps with the chair hanging on his tail. Akhil removed it for him and set it back in place. Vincent was heading toward the door when he remembered something the Puppeteer said.

“It also mentioned there was a meddler,” he said, stopping at the threshold. “Something interfered with the Black Herald's plans. I think it's what locked away my memories, made it so that I'd get them back when exposed to a storm. I don't know if it was telling the truth...but thought you should know.”

“Why would this 'meddler' want to do that?” The La'ark asked.

Vincent stared at the melting snow, remembering the storm's last vision. Somewhere behind his amnesia, a thousand memories resonated. Some of them seemed closer within his reach than they had before. Perhaps the walls to his past were slowly breaking down, for better or worse. “I don't know.”

He stepped out into the sunlight and began to walk. He didn’t have a particular destination, he just allowed his feet to carry him through the village. As the snow continued to melt, it slowly revealed a different place from the one they had entered. Crefield must have been pretty once, a humble village built on the remains of a larger civilization had a poetry to it. But now it was just cursed. It was a village of ghosts. His feet were splashing through its tears. He was among them, drifting alone, though hundreds of eyes were upon him.

The La'ark had the expedition take stock of their inventory and check the nearby homes for supplies. Not knowing what they would encounter, she had them pack extra rations prior to leaving Meldohv. However, during the battles the previous night, three of the wagons had caught fire during the chaos. Furthermore, there were fewer landriders to tow them either way. Vincent was numb to all of this. He only grunted acknowledgments when somebody spoke to him.

The troops needed rest after a night of fighting, but first, they needed to leave Crefield, to get away from its stain. Vincent rode with Sperloc, who kept his teeth clenched and silent. When they reached the edge of the ruins, they saw how much damage the winter storm had caused, the last slight against the land. The tropical flora, having never evolved for such temperatures, was dropping all of its leaves with shock. Thick beds of moss, which once must have been plush with verdance, were coming up in brittle patches. Rivers raged with snowmelt, tearing away at the bases of trees. Throughout the morning, they could hear the woods collapsing. When they exited the caldera, they left behind a growing mudbowl. They kept traveling until the caldera was out of sight.

“If only you could see me, Deonte,” Vincent whispered to himself later that night as he watched the soldiers erect the camp. “I'm in a really fucked up situation. No matter what I do...I always wake up in this world. I'm stuck, I'm being manipulated. I don't know whether it's my own head or if it's some external force. But I'm being pushed around. Nobody knows what's happening to me...and I don't think I could explain it to them if I tried. They just think I'm braindead, that I'm wasting away. If they knew...and if somebody asked me why I'm going along with this...I just don't know what I'd say. I don't remember everything, but I know I fucked up so many opportunities...it's what I do. But I care for these people. ”

“Oy, Vince Cordell.” Oris, who had seen him standing by himself, called him over. Vincent blinked a few times before pushing off the tree.

“What?”

“We need your hands. You are skin and bones,” Oris said, grabbing one of his arms and flopped it around to illustrate his point. “You will atrophy if you do not work.”

Vincent looked over Oris' shoulder, watching the interlocking beams being raised and tied down. He remembered the first night he offered his help only to realize he was outclassed.

“You know I can barely control the wings, right?” he asked, “I'll only slow you down.”

“Yes...you will,” Oris said. There was humor in his voice. “But you will learn. Come. I'll teach you myself.”

“Well...” Vincent rolled up his sleeves and cracked his knuckles, “don't judge me.”

“I cannot promise that.” Oris said as he led him toward his own escort. Menik and Jeris were holding up their beams, loudly deriding M'kari and Madrian, who were crawling on the ground looking for some lost pins. Tuls walked over and picked them up from the grass, much to their embarrassment. There ensued a loud, rowdy exchange of insults and jests. How? How could they be so cheerful after everything they've been through? He remembered Sperloc's words: “The Seikh's Guard are trained to hold camaraderie in high regard, to forge a near unbreakable bond with their peers. Comedy is their ward against despair.”

Oris placed a beam into his hands, showing him where to hold it. The pillar swayed precariously in his grip. When the horizontals were raised into position and he had to use the peaks of his wings to guide them into place, his chest and back burned with fire as he clenched his teeth. I just hope I'm doing the right thing, he thought as the two beams locked together, I hope I'm not compromising myself.