Chapter 2

Solstice

Mags woke early, the first light of dawn filtering through the leaves. She stretched, feeling the stiffness in her muscles from the previous day’s exertions, and gathered her things. With renewed determination, she set off once more, her breath misting in the crisp morning air.

On her trek, she decided to stop near a babbling stream and fish for her breakfast. From her pack, she retrieved a small net and collapsible fishing rod. The tranquil sound of the water was soothing as she cast her line, waiting patiently. After some time, she managed to catch a couple of small fish. She quickly cleaned them and was able to start a small fire to cook them over. Though small, the fish were enough to quell her hunger.

Later, Mags tried her hand at hunting with her bow. Her skills left much to be desired. She spotted a few deer grazing in the meadow and may have been able to hit at least one with an arrow, but decided against it. Even if she were to bring a deer down, field dress it, it would be too heavy to transport back to Solstice, especially without a sled. She did spot a few rabbits, but her arrows sailed wide each time, missing the rabbit entirely as it scurried away, happy to see another day.

That night, Mags made camp again, her stomach grumbling with discontent.

The following morning, her luck improved. She managed to take down three rabbits with her bow. It wasn’t a feast, but it was something. She carefully dressed and packed the rabbits. Tempted to roast one over a fire for herself, she opted to push forward, knowing Solstice was but a few hours of hiking away. There wasn’t much meat amongst the trio of rabbits, but Mags hoped they would provide some comfort to the others back home. Perhaps Vitomir can toss these in a stew. Her stomach grumbled. I hope something’s on the fire when I get back.

By midday, Mags was passing through the olive groves that freckled the outskirts of Solstice. Relief and comfort washed over her at the familiar sight as she took in the view of her town, her heart swelling with a sense of homecoming. Solstice was nestled in a valley, its white stone buildings topped with red clay roofs, spread out before her. The main road cut through the town, bisected by a central square. Behind it all, the Velav Mountains loomed, their forests dark and strangely inviting.

As she descended into the valley, she passed through the waist high stone wall that encircled the town’s outer limits, crossing under a simple stone archway. The sights and sounds of Solstice embraced her. The familiar chatter of townsfolk, the hum of animals, and the distant clang of the blacksmith’s hammer all melded into a comforting symphony.

Her hand found its way to the pocket on the side of her pack, patting where she knew the two aether cores sat tucked away. Kruno and his men would be expecting her, and probably angry by how long her hunt of the Maldrath took. She would need to pay them a visit, but first she needed to stop by her home.

image [https://i.imgur.com/7P7JEZo.png]

Mags strode through the familiar streets of Solstice, her boots clicking softly on the cobblestones. The town thrummed with the sounds of life and routine, and she let the comforting hum of midday activity envelop her. Stalls lined the main thoroughfare, local merchants hawking fruits, vegetables, eggs and other goods from the countryside farmlands. Men and women haggled fiercely over prices, and children chased each other down the street in playful games. The sun hung high, casting a golden hue across the white stone buildings.

On one side of the street, small wooden tables hosted groups of laborers taking a break from their day’s work. They sipped at steaming hot cups of cava and smoked hand-rolled cigarettes, the sweet tobacco smoke mingling with the scent of dark bread slathered in rosemary-infused honey. Mags inhaled deeply, her stomach rumbling at the mix of aromas.

She spotted two old men hunched over a game of Sovereign’s Gambit at one of the tables. Cups of black cava and bowls of pickled vegetables and marinated olives surrounded the grid-lined board. Mags stepped off the street, quietly approaching their table. Sovereign’s Gambit had two players—white and green—each vying for control of the other’s territory on a board divided into green, white, and black zones.

She snuck behind one of the old men, a wiry fellow with a liver-spotted bald head. “You’re leaving your flank vulnerable again, Franko,” she teased, nudging him with her elbow before throwing an arm around his shoulders. She pointed to where the other old man, one of Solstice’s appointed elders, Jakov, had a small battalion of Hunters—the weakest but most numerous piece on the board—congregating and poised to strike in the black territory.

“Quiet pup,” Franko grumbled, scratching at his furrowed brow. “Don’t forget who taught you how to play this game! Look, I have my Sorcerer in defensive position.” He jabbed a gnarled finger at an emerald piece in his back row. The Sorcerer, the game’s most powerful piece, could move in any direction once it became “live” after a player’s sixth turn.

“Ah,” Mags said, scratching her chin. “But look closer . . . I see a clean path between your Sorcerer and his. He will force you to meet him in the middle of the field.” And while your Sorcerers are battling for control of the black territory, his Hunters will have free reign to pick you apart from behind.

“Enough of this cheating!” Jakov growled. “Your move, Franko.”

Franko shushed Jakov, before giving Mags a quick smile and wink. Mags returned the wink, snatched a couple of olives from their bowl and popped them into her mouth. With a casual wave over her shoulder, she slipped back into the street. She felt several unwanted gazes on her, noticing men in black clothing stitched with red. Blackfires.

The Blackfire Company, though technically a mercenary company sanctioned by the Crown Coalition and the Ravaelian Empire, was nothing more than a gang of thugs. Under the guise of collecting taxes on behalf of the Empire and providing protection to the inhabitants of Solstice and its surrounding farmlands, the Blackfires extorted the locals through fear and violence. Mags knew the goons who spotted her would be scurrying off to their boss, Kruno, to inform him that she had returned. She knew he would be expecting her, and it would be wise to pay him a visit as soon as possible. She also knew that he depended on her and wouldn’t dare harm a hair on her head. So, Kruno could wait. But a dog can only wait so long before it snaps at the treat in your hand.

The main street eventually brought Mags to Solstice’s central square. As she cut through, she passed the well-maintained, though humble, stone fountain. It bore the statue of Weles, the ancient god of the Zircunwit religion. The figure of Weles was imposing, a giant man cast in black stone with one eye crafted from white stone, representing the eye blinded by his brother god, Vala. In one hand, he wielded a spear; in the other, a lyre. At his feet stood a wolf, its eyes watching over the square with eternal vigilance. The statue always struck a chord with Mags, a reminder of strength and balance, of war and peace intertwined. It was one of the few remnants of the Zircunwit faith, the religion of ancient Olendar, that Mags had ever seen. Few practiced Zircunwit nowadays, and most of those were concentrated in the Far Country, in places like Solstice. Mags imagined she’d be hard-pressed to find any figure or symbol of the Zircunwit in the large western settlements of Olendar.

The fountain itself bubbled gently, the water catching the sunlight in a dance of sparkling droplets. Flowers had been planted around its base: bright yellow cornflowers, pink carnations and bunches of lavender, their vibrant colors a stark contrast to the dark stone of Weles. The air was filled with the scent of the lavender and the distant aroma of fresh bread from the bakery down the street. Mags paused for a moment, taking in the serene beauty of the scene, a small smile playing on her lips.

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Near the fountain, affixed to a stone pedestal, rested the town’s scrying mirror. A large plate of polished bronze, about two hand spans wide, it was a seldom-used relic. Solstice was a small, inconsequential dot on the map of the Ravaelian Empire, rarely warranting official communication. In all her time in Solstice, Mags had never seen an imperial broadcast channeled through the mirror, and had only once witnessed one of the town’s elders using it to communicate a message out. The mirror’s primary function was to alert the Crown Coalition forces of Maldrath activity in this corner of Far Country or the appearance of any Deeps, though Mags had handled most of the stray Maldrath over the past few years.

Continuing her journey, Mags made her way to a larger, ivy-covered building near the eastern gate of town. Like the rest of Solstice, it was a white stone structure, though more expansive than many others. It had once been a church but had long since been converted into an orphanage. The old bell tower had been repurposed into living quarters, her bedroom nestled at the top level. A small wrought iron gate surrounded the yard, where some of the older children were working in the gardens, pulling asparagus from the earth and dropping it into woven baskets.

The building stood as proof of the town’s resilience, the gardens blooming with vegetables and herbs. The entire yard buzzed with life; children moved with purpose, their hands dirty from the soil but their faces lit with pride at their work. Mags felt a pang of affection for the place, for the people who had made it their home and the children who had found a safe haven within its walls. She had been one of those children, after all. Still was, she supposed, a wry smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

A flash of movement from one of the orphanage’s broad front windows caught her eye. Before she could react, a little girl burst through the front door, her face alight with joy. “Mags!” she screamed, barreling towards her. Mags caught her up in a big hug, lifting her high into the air. Dunja laughed, a bright, infectious sound that warmed Mags’ heart.

“Easy there, Dunja!” Mags said, smiling. “Where’s Vitomir or Sabo?”

“Vito’s in the kitchen, and Sabo’s at work,” Dunja replied, her small arms wrapped tightly around Mags’ neck.

“Well, Vito it is then,” Mags said, adjusting the girl on her hip. It was a bit awkward with her bow, pack, and sword, but she managed. As they approached the front doors, a trio of children ran down the front steps, chasing each other with mock daggers of wood. Dunja eyed them jealously and began to stretch and kick her legs. Mags rolled her eyes with a smile as she set Dunja down gently. “Go play, little one. I’ll see you at supper.”

The building was filled with the sound of children running and laughing, the single-story structure with high, vaulted ceilings echoing with their joy. The walls were adorned with drawings and paintings, the artistic efforts of the children, giving the place a vibrant, lived-in feel. A nice breeze traveled in through the open windows, the stained glass panes that they once encased long gone and too expensive for the orphanage to replace.

Mags propped her bow in a corner near the door and hung her cloak on a rough-hewn hanger, keeping her pack slung over her shoulder. She made her way to the kitchen at the back of the house. She passed by rooms filled with bunked beds and the stray belongings of the children.

The kitchen was warm and comfortable, large but crowded with stoves, pots, and pans. Two large tables dominated the space, serving as both preparation and dining areas for Vitomir and the children. The smell of baking bread and simmering stew filled the air, making Mags’ stomach rumble. Vitomir stood with his broad back turned to her, chopping vegetables with practiced efficiency. His long, silvery white locs cascaded past his neck, and he wore a simple linen tunic, loose but unable to hide the muscular curves of his shoulders and arms from years of military and combat training.

“Hopefully you’re preparing a stew,” Mags said, dropping the three skinned rabbits onto the butcher’s block behind him, “because these need to be put to good use before they spoil.”

Vitomir didn’t turn, his knife continuing its rhythmic motion. His silence spoke volumes; he was happy she was back but angry at how long she had been gone. He had never gotten comfortable with her hunting of Maldrath and arrangement with the Blackfires.

“How went it?” Vitomir asked. His knife continued to chop, chop, chop on the thick wooden surface of the countertop.

“Good enough. Two more Maldrath vanquished and two more aether cores for Kruno and his dogs.”

“Hm. And how many more before your luck runs out?”

“I don’t need luck when I have Mithra,” Mags said, patting her sword. Mithra was an ancient weapon—Ivaldi-wrought steel, enchanted with Old Magic—one of the few ordinary weapons capable of killing Maldrath. The runes crafted by the Ivaldi made blades capable of cutting through the monstrosities just as good as magic, but the Ivaldi and their secrets were lost to time. A blade like Mithra, even shattered as it was, was a rare thing.

Vitomir grunted, finally pausing his work. “It’s not the sword I worry about. It’s the wielder.”

Mags rolled her eyes, moving to a basket hanging over the counter and plucking an apple. “I’ll be fine, Vito. Besides, it’s only a matter of time before I best you. So, enough of this ‘it’s not the sword, it’s the wielder,’ crap.” She had lowered her voice in a mock imitation of his baritone, trying to bait him into their well-worn argument. This time, he didn’t rise to the bait.

“Just be careful,” Vitomir said, resuming his chopping. “That’s all I ask.”

Mags took a bite of the apple, savoring the crisp sweetness. “I’ll pay Sabo a visit. Can you spar with us after supper?”

Vitomir sighed, a reluctant sound. “Alright. But don’t go easy on him. He’s getting cocky.” She could hear his voice softening.

Mags smiled. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” She turned to leave, making her way out of the kitchen.

image [https://i.imgur.com/7P7JEZo.png]

Mags found Sabo at the forge, assisting the town’s blacksmith, Frane. The forge was a hot, noisy place, filled with the clanging of metal and the hiss of steam. The air was thick with the scent of molten iron and coal smoke. Sabo was cleaning up after a morning of hard work, sweat pouring off his tall, lean frame. Many mistook Sabo for Vitomir’s son, though they shared no blood relation. Mags could understand the reasoning. Sabo was the same age as herself, about fifteen summers, and already stood eye level with Vito. Of course, Sabo looked like a scarecrow standing next to the muscled veteran, but working in the forge had already began to harden the young man’s body.

Mags silently crept across the stone floor, her steps as light as a cat’s. Sabo, diligently sweeping the floor with a wooden handled broom, gave no indication of noticing her presence. She followed him around the shop, her feet moving in sync with his in a syncopated waltz.

Just before she was about to break out in laughter, Mags spoke. “Finally traded in a sword for something more your speed.” He spun around, startled, and raised his broom as if the splintered rod were the point of a sword. This was too much for Mags. She tossed her head back and laughed.

Sabo hastily lowered the broom stick, cheeks darkening at her laughter. “Yeah, yeah. Have your laugh!”

“Is that how you greet your best friend upon her triumphant return?”

Sabo wiped his brow using a cloth he had tucked into his belt. “How were the Maldrath?”

“They gave me a good chase,” she said, leaning against a table holding several unused tools. “But I caught them. One gave me a bit of trouble, though. Need to brush up on my blade work.”

“Looking for a sparring partner, eh?” Sabo said, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

“I’m looking to sharpen my skills with the sword, not the broom.”

Sabo’s face hardened with determination. “You’re on.” He jabbed a finger at her. “I’m going to best you this time.”

Mags laughed, a clear, ringing sound. “We’ll see about that. Remember, we’re tied. A hundred apiece, I think.”

Before she could say more, Mags was cut off by another voice, deep and strident. “Well, well, well, what do we have here? Two little birdies chirping?”

A gigantic figure blocked the entrance to the forge. Radmilo stood there, his presence commanding and his shadow eclipsing the sunlight that previously streamed through the open sliding doors of the forge. He was tall, even for an Olen, over seven feet, and heavily muscled despite a robust pot belly that was barely covered by his fine black silk shirt. His long locs fell past his shoulders, and his tightly cropped beard framed a broad nose. The Blackfire Company’s second-in-command scratched at his stomach with one hand as he leaned against the frame of the forge’s doorway. The wood creaked weakly under the weight of Radmilo’s shoulder.

“Radmilo,” Mags said, her tone dripping with mock courtesy. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Kruno’s not too happy you’re lollygagging,” Radmilo rumbled. “You’re expected at Blackfire Manor. Now.”

Mags choked down a snide remark and nodded. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

Radmilo’s thin lips parted into a crooked smile. He gave a slight bow of the head. “Appreciate you not putting up a fight lil’ one. You know how Kruno hates to be kept waiting.” He turned to leave, letting the daylight back into the entrance of the forge.

Before she followed Radmilo out of the forge, Mags glanced back at Sabo. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back for that sparring match.”

Sabo waved, his smile unwavering. “I’ll be ready.”