The fire pit, with its crackling flames and wood smoke, was a welcome respite despite the relative warmth of the day. The smell of toasting nuts and sweating onions was even better, bringing a sense of familiar comfort in the unfamiliar woods. Her mother retrieved two clay bowls and spooned some of the soup into it. Aya for her part, gratefully drained the soup, almost feeling a deeper connection to the forest after.

“At this rate, we’ll reach the Frozen Vale in perhaps another two days. It’ll take another day or two to cross through the mountains. That’s where this castle can be found, if the man who helped you can be trusted.”

Aya slurped thoughtfully as she remembered the pale hair and ruby eyes of Carnes. Her mother looked far more tired than she’d ever seen her - hair dishevelled, eyes dimmed, staring down into the dying flames of the pit.

“Do you think this will work?”

Her mother looked up with an exhausted smile.

“If it doesn’t, then you’re going to see your grandmother. She’s been saying we’re overdue for one anyways. I wish it were a more happy homecoming, though.”

The second bowl was ladled and was promptly consumed. When she was finished with that, Aya decided to ask another question. Its spectre hovered over many of the stories that her mother had told, but had never been answered, at least not in full.

“Why did you leave, mama?”

Her mother looked up, and chuckled at the question, though Aya thought it was rather brittle.

“I met your father. A young farmer. First time he’d been farther than Musphestfelm. I think I found his naivety charming, the way he looked at the houses and canals like they were made of gold.”

Aya tried to imagine a younger version of her father, perhaps without the thick beard, and failed.

“He tried to serenade me. We never told you that part, I think. He’s too self-conscious. He had the audacity to do it in front of a man from the poet school. Oh, and my aunt, who was chaperoning me at the time.”

“He didn’t,” said Aya, aghast at the prospect of such a taciturn man attempting poetry of all things.

“Oh yes he did, and worse, it was one of the men who was courting me. He was nearly laughed off the side street and into the canal. Turned redder than a marsh-back.”

“Didn’t you kiss him on the cheek?” said Aya, recalling a similar, if rather conspicuously edited story.

“I did. The expression on that poet’s face made the tongue lashing my aunt gave well worth it.”

“And did he ‘take you with him’ when he left?”

“Oh hardly,” she snorted, “he ‘took me with him’ when he came back, considerably older, and had gained enough sense to be embarrassed at what he’d done for my hand previously.”

“What did your aunt say?”

“Your appetite for stories exceeds my ability to satiate,” her mother laughed, drawing a blush on the face of the young girl.

“My aunt was against it of course, along with half my family. I suspect many of them might’ve been less opposed if my mother hadn’t been against it.”

“Why?”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Her mother poked at the flame with a long stick, seeming to consider if she should tell the young girl.

“It’s a complicated, and very long, story. Your grandmother had me with your grandfather when she was very young and hadn’t gone through the proper… observances. Her parents nearly cast her out for that, and she’d had to challenge for the right of house leadership. I think she didn’t want me to repeat the same ‘mistake’.”

“When was the last time you talked to her?” Aya asked, simply unable to resist this new well of exposition.

“In person? A handful of years ago. That time just before your tenth birthday.”

“I remember! You took a lock of my hair.”

“A Karkosian tradition. Your grandmother would’ve boiled me alive if I hadn’t brought a lock of hair from her only grandchild.”

Aya sat in silence, considering the new information as she finished the last portions of soup.

“Well, is that enough for you Aya? We should be on her way.”

After cleaning the bowl as best they could, her mother smothered the fire with the wet earth, and scattered leaves over it.

The horse tossed its head as Aya gave its neck a rub and whispered a small ‘thank you’ to it. They set off, just as the sun passed over its peak. The afternoon truly set in as they wandered through the trees, her mother often stopping to consult a small device she held in her hand. By the time the sun was beginning to arc low over the trees, they had dropped considerable elevation.

“We’ll stop here for the night,” her mother said, as they pulled out onto a stone outcropping from the slope. She helped Aya down from the horse, the animal quickly being tied to a nearby tree. As they settled onto the rock and wrapped themselves in furs, her mother retrieved a small frying pan and a length of sausage. Dinner was a mix of grains, and the sausage, it’s spices and grease complimenting the earthy tones of the polenta beautifully.

As she took another bite of the delicious dish, Aya looked around at the darkening woods.

“Aren’t we worried about animals, mama?” she said.

“The wolves and bears tend to be across the river, and farther north. Only a few venture this far out.”

“So, there’s only a small chance that we’ll be eaten alive.”

Aya’s mother said nothing, only smiled as she ate another spoonful of dinner. When finished, they cleaned the pan and Aya laid down on the on the cold rock, pulling the furs in close. Her mother sat across from her, maintaining the fire as well as she could.

“Mama, could I have another story?” she said, earning another tired smile from her mother.

“Alright. But it’s the last one, then bed.”

She poked at the flame, sending a shower of sparks up into the night air.

“In Karkos, there are four main gods. One of them is the bloody-handed god, He Who Thirsts. He is a god of blood, of life, of vengeance, but also justice and honour. His voice is the pounding of the waves upon the sand and the thunder of the summer storms.”

“Did he have a name?” asked Aya, which earned her a sour look.

“Names are important in Karkos, Aya, you know this. All things have a true name-”

“And to know a thing’s true name is to know it utterly,” finished Aya, remembering.

“The gods would never deign to reveal their true names to mortals, save for those that they took for lovers or as their most trusted servants. Anyways, among his most favoured children were the legion of salt and sand, born of his union with the dark and beautiful goddess of the sea. They were the most ferocious and feared of all this children. It is said that the rocks of Kanad - the land of Nieth and Hebeen, are stained red due to all the blood they split there.”

The last rays of the sun disappeared over the ridge, the trees fading to mere shadows around them.

“The Niethe monarch was angered at the carnage wracked upon his lands. Knowing that the legion of salt and sand were untouchable so long as they felt the sand or sea under their feet, he devised a plan. He invited the warriors under the pretence of peace, baiting them in with promises of wine and women. Once they stepped onto the stones of the capital, a great length of rope bound them and hoisted them high into the air. The king and his men rushed out with their spears and shed their blood.”

The first stars were beginning to come out, dotting the clear night sky.

“He Who Thirsts was attracted by the great sacrifice of his children, bearing down on the city. Many buildings burned that day in Nieth, but most grievous of all was the burning of their schools. The children of Nieth were not spared from the flames, and in the aftermath, the king decreed that all children would be sent to the city of Hebeen, to hide and protect them from the gods’ wrath.”

“I don’t know the moral of this one.”

Her mother laughed.

“There’s no moral to this one, save not to anger the gods perhaps.”

“But what about father’s gods, those of the Church?”

Her mother looked distant as she gazed off through the trees, then she snapped back to the girl.

“No. Nice try, young lady. You’re not getting me to tell more stories. Go to bed.”

Aya turned away to hide her smile and nestled into the fur.

Sleep, fortunately, came easily, but unfortunately, it was not dreamless.

She was in a long hallway, pillars marching off into a bright archway.

As she walked across the shallow water, the waves lapping at her feet, a voice came from behind her.

“Do we have any other alternatives?”

It was young, sonorous, neither male or female, but somehow in between.

“No. If there was a better way, we would’ve found it.”

“Lord, I-” came another voice, differing from the first, clearly female in tenor.

“There was nothing more you could do. She has made her choice,” Aya said, knowing for certain that it was at least in part a lie. Regret pained every step, she took, but she couldn’t let it show - there was too much to lose. The scene shifted and blurred, running like rain down a wall. Snatches of sounds and speech permeated through the darkness.

“We are-”

“There is no way to-”

“I failed.”

That last one repeated, over and over again, as the dark only grew deeper.

Then Aya woke up.

The night was still dark, the air was bone-chillingly cold, but there was a stench that hadn’t been there before. It made her hair rise in discomfort as she sniffed at the copper tang. She turned slowly, to view her the fire and her mother, who was wrapped in her own furs. And beyond…

Aya froze in place, watching the tall, misshapen shadow that crouched over what remained of the horse. It pulled at the flesh with a wet, sickening pop, its unnaturally bony shoulder flexing and rotating. It’s ribs were sharp, angular things, as if forged from wrought iron, but moved up and down like the bellows of the forge. Aya didn’t dare to move, not even to breath, hoping against hope, praying to all the god she knew for the pale thing to stay right there.

The something clinked behind her.