“Hurry up! He must have reached Vandryl by now!”

Sundarr of Savaria grit his teeth angrily, leather saddle shifting under him as he kicked forward.

Damn lazy horse.

He pulled his white pelt cloak over himself, shifting it past his shoulders and draping it over the front of his arms. Although his gauntleted hand squashed the rough, wiry fur, he handled it with an uncharacteristic softness.

Afterall, this was the same pelt he’d worn since childhood.

A symbol of sorts.

In the past, children of Savaria would be taken high into the mountain pass, left with nothing but sword and shield. A rite of passage. To test their spirit and strength as they passed into adulthood. Naturally the practice was lost over the years- on account of the increasing death toll, but he had made sure to take part in the tradition.

And when he beheaded that great Owlbear, vanquishing claw and fang, he knew for certain he was destined for greatness. To be among the finest warriors Savaria had ever known. Naturally he had to take something. As a sign of his strength.

He let go of the white fur and shook his head.

This was no time to reminisce.

Sundarr kicked his horse again, digging his heels into its side and felt it jerk forward, whining as it stumbled faster. Why was his horse so slow? And why was Yvain’s so much faster?

Was his of a superior breed?

“He should not have left us. We are all inspectors. All equally part of the Alliance of the Red Sun. We should have arrived together.”

Sundarr rolled his eyes, pushing his cloak back over the back of his shoulders.

“He’s looking down on us, obviously. That damned Scaler.”

Sundarr didn’t much care about the other two inspectors. Whatever nameless city they hailed from. But him? Looking down on the great Sundarr? On Savaria?

That could not stand.

“Why they make us go through this farce is beyond me. Does the Alliance really believe they would try anything so close to our borders? They might be monsters but they’re not that stupid.”

The older man perked up as Sundarr grumbled under his breath.

“Tonight is an extraordinary celestial event. A near infinite well of natural mana. That is why we have to check. Even if there is a sliver of a chance they might attempt to harness this power, we have to be there to stop it.”

The other man spurred his horse faster, hesitantly adding to the older man’s statement.

“It is a night where even the smallest of cities, smallest groups of people, are as mighty as even the greatest of kingdoms. A night ripe with possibilities. Of chance. A night that will disturb the natural order.”

Sundarr couldn't help but grin. That sounded like something the smaller cities would pedal to their citizens. No doubt they each had their own secret plan to strengthen themselves. But larger regions, with more resources and more mages, would obviously profit more from this event.

He doubted they could hope to match Savaria.

Sundarr- being privy to most of Savaria’s plans, trembled with excitement. In a decade. No. Half that. Savaria would have conquered all of the North. Minor cities and towns could not hope to repel them.

He had no doubt Savaria would become the standard-bearer of this era.

Sundarr paused. That being said, he was also right in a way. On this night, any mage is extremely dangerous and with enough information and resources- capable of almost any feat.

Truly a day historians would weep to record.

One that would no doubt change the world.

The two men behind Sundarr spurred their horses in a desperate attempt to catch up with him, but they could only maintain their already slowing speed.

Sundarr snorted. Fools. Beasts like these only respond to pain. They are lazy by nature, and will do their best to resist commands, so you must make the alternative so unappealing they have no choice but to persevere.

“Perhaps we would profit from a break. Our horses have been at it for the entire day. I fear they are on their last legs.”

The other man coughed and shook his head firmly.

“No. We should not stay here for too long. The horses can rest come Vandryl.”

He shifted in his saddle, scanning his surroundings nervously, and spoke in a low tone.

“A Witch haunts this forest.”

Sundarr slapped his horse's neck with a gauntleted hand and laughed loudly.

“Do not fear the Witch of Scales, coward. She lives in the inner heart of the forest. Far from here. And I’ve received reports that she doesn't leave for years on end.”

The older man rolled his eyes, while the other spluttered, stumbling over his words.

“C-Coward? She is an evil, deranged creature that abandoned her humanity for power. She kidnaps men, women and children into her house of horrors, performing experiments on them for her own amusement, stripping Bounties from their flesh and leaving them as beasts. It is not cowardice to fear such a person.”

Sundarr snorted again. What kind of halfwit believes in rumours like that? He had met witches before- and while their magic was abhorrent, they were still human nonetheless.

Fear-mongering.

That’s all it was. But while he felt that way, he did not say otherwise. Because he knew she was a person of strength. A person powerful enough to give pause to entire armies. A Witch that destroys Bounties.

And she aligned herself with monsters.

He looked down and kicked his horse again, this time bringing his steel toed boot into its rib. The stallion shuddered, buckling as it struggled to speed faster.

Sundarr sighed at the meagre change in speed. He would be done with this horse come Vandryl- assuming they had horses over there. For all he knew, those monsters ate every animal they came across.

“We press on. We are close enough to Vandryl. Let us be done with this so we can bear witness to the great change upon us.”

“Let us watch the birth of a new sky.”

---

“Hah! Another one!”

Amora giggled as she held a flower above her head, its pale blue petals glinting in the soft light of the sun.

The definition of beauty.

She paused for a second, locked in that strange pose.

“Wait… am I going crazy?”

Maybe she was. Getting this excited over a flower wasn’t normal was it?

She didn't dare give voice to that last thought. Normal. What a strange thing. How can anyone say what is normal for a person, isn't everyone different?

Still, normal did exist. Maybe everyone got together one day and decided what was normal and what was not.

There were also different normals too.

What was expected or tolerated in different places. Normal for a queen must be different to a butcher or baker. And normal must also change with the different people you are with. Normal between friends and strangers are not the same.

But what about a normal for when you're alone? When it's just yourself? Status and people and location aside.

A personal normal. A normal just for you, something you discovered or created for yourself. Something that shaped as you grew, moulded as you became who you are.

She felt it creep behind her, a deep shadow of doubt. The dull empty of not knowing something you should. Something you are. A sense of incompleteness. Of falsehood. Like she was an imposter wearing her face.

Or her old face. Wait, was it still her face?

Her back burned with silent heat as she stared at the shaking flower in her hand. At the ocean of calm blue spilling out between her trembling fingers, and exhaled. She was being stupid. Of course it was her face. Who else’s face would it be anyway?

“Thanks mister flower.”

She rubbed her fingers together and watched the baby blue ballerina pirouette, smiling as its petals flared outward hypnotically.

How many more would she need?

She put the blue flower behind her ear, tucking the soft green stem between wild locks of hair, and hummed happily as she lifted the bundle of mismatched flowers she’d spent all morning picking.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

“Huh, talking to a flower again.”

She frowned as she brought the bouquet of colour close to her nose.

“That probably goes in the not normal pile.”

Maybe being alone in the forest was getting to her after all.

---

These trees. This forest. The sun. It was all so- suffocating. This is not what it's supposed to look like. This is not normal. He shouldn't be here. What was Krelnel saying? Home? Happiness? He had lost both.

Something had to change.

Lokt slammed his fist into the tree and felt the wood bend under the impact, outer bark tearing the skin off his knuckles. Pain? It didn't matter. Or maybe it did. Maybe it would.

He struck again.

And again.

Lokt didn’t know when he stopped. But he did. He looked down at his shaky hands. That swollen, bleeding mess. And finally exhaled, liquid heat leaking from holes in his ripped skin.

Release.

He stared back at the tree. Practically painted red. Was it finished?

Lokt heard muffled noises in his head. Inaudible. Incomplete. And glanced back at his tools- his paint brush, flexing his fingers experimentally.

No. It wasn't enough. And how could it be?

What was one tree?

A single drop in an ocean.

Lokt looked into the shrouded darkness beyond and an image of Aiken entered his mind. That sneering, crooked face.

Anger surged once more. He had to-

Had to-

He leaned over, shoulders collapsing inward as he put his hand against the ruined bark. What was he even doing? What had he come here to do?

He sighed sadly, collapsing into the tree, and another image crept into his head. One of a human girl. Amora. Was that why he came here? He wanted to see her again? Even after leaving her behind?

Strange.

Or was it?

Lokt sighed again.

He knew she wasn't interesting. Or at least not the type of interesting he needed. He couldn't hope to use her to stave off the petrification- that was sure. But while that was true, some part of him called to meet with her. To talk to her.

To be a-

He shook his head, laughing weakly. With a human? What a treasonous thought. A betrayal of his people- of his racial imperative.

Even still, she reminded Lokt of him. Of Wynn.

Only more annoying.

And fragile.

He shook his head again, slamming his palm into the side of the tree. No. He was mistaken. He had to be. A symptom of his loneliness perhaps. Perception warped under the credulous nature of a broken heart.

That was all it was.

He pushed himself straight, boot sinking deeper into mud as he cast his gaze downwards. His head had been buzzing for a while now- he thought it was adrenaline. But that muffled, almost imperceptible hum sounded familiar. It had patterns to it. Cadence. Almost like-

Words.

A horse brayed loudly, a deafening thunderclap shocking Lokt back into reality.

“I said declare yourself!”

Lokt jerked backwards as a man grabbed him by the shoulder. He spun reflexively, swatting the gauntleted hand away with speed-

And frowned.

Lokt tilted his head, squinting through misty confusion as an older man staggered backwards, reaching arm flung high into the air.

Who is this?

His face changed. Shock. Indignation. Rage. All in quick succession. But each, clear in their message. Lokt looked behind the man and saw it sweep to two others alike.

They glared at him from above, mounted on their tall horses, rolling red caparisons matching their scarlet surcoats.

Inspectors.

Human inspectors

Lokt clenched his fist. More Humans.

The man in front of him staggered backwards, fighting to regain his balance as he flailed his arm outward. He leant into his backfoot, planting his boot firmly in the mud as he regained stability, hand grabbing the sword from his hip.

“How dare-”

He snarled, narrowing his eyes as he jerked his sword-arm forward, pointing at Lokt accusingly.

“Grey- Monster.”

Lokt rolled his eyes, sighing as his head pulsed. At least this had some form of normalcy to it. He felt blood drip from his knuckles, streaking downwards and collecting at his fingertips.

“What a tiring day this is.”

He kept an eye on the swordsman in front and watched him put a hand onto the hilt of his sword. Behind him, the other men dismounted, each of their swords already in hand. They spread out, widening their reach and effectively closing in on him.

“Kneel. Maybe I’ll forgive you.”

Oh?

Lokt burst forward, rushing into his reach. He smiled as the man jerked backward, surprise and shock curling inwards. Lokt reached out, taking advantage of this instability, hand outstretched toward the hilt of his sword.

A little further. Just a little-

Lokt eyes widened as his fingers met empty air.

He cocked his head to the side and watched the sword come down as time seemed to slow. His thoughts swelled as momentum carried him forward. There was no changing direction. Lokt tucked inward in an act of desperation, skidding across the mud path.

And felt something puncture his arm.

Lokt’ stomach lurched as he stared at the mud ground. Was he cut? A deep sense of dread oozed from within as a sickening coldness ran down his arm and reality set in.

Yes.

He looked up, blinking slowly, and saw a sigil. A hatchet and hammer beneath a tree. Lokt recognised it instantly. The symbol of a neighbouring city. He watched the red hatchet grow close as the man brought his shoulder into Lokt’s face, sending him further down the path.

Lokt let himself fall, rolling with the blow as the force carried him backwards in a shower of dirt and mud. He rose dazedly, the world spinning violently. Was he-

Slower?

Lokt shook his head, as mud dripped from his hair and onto his cheek. Panic. He was panicking. He clutched his arm and felt slow warmth ooze out. Definitely cut. And deep too. He paused, trying to regulate his breathing. It’s been a while, but he’d been in a similar situation before. He just had to calm it.

Just had to calm down.

Lokt bit his lip, ignoring the taste of mud, and looked forward.

The one time he actually wanted his Bounty to work.

He let go of his arm and let it flop to his side. A numbness had spread over it but Lokt wasn’t sure how usable it was in a fight. He eyed the three swordsmen, attention flicking to their swords. Their posture. Their stance. These men were different to those adventurers before.

They were experienced.

Of the three, the man who cut him stood in front, a scornful smile stretched across his face, with another cautiously stepping over to his right. The third however, hung back. He was far bigger than the other two and held his greatsword low, an inch above the ground.

“Can we get this over with?”

Lokt gulped as he watched him scowl at his fellow men, his white pelt flapping lazily from his shoulders. Although his relaxed bearing and casual demeanour was apparent, his presence gave off an undeniable pressure.

He was… strong.

Lokt dipped his hand into his cloak as tension fogged the air. He needed distance. And a way to somehow deal with the other two swordsmen first. His hand snaked down into one of his pockets, feeling for his dagger.

Dagger?

His bloody hand clasped at nothingness. An empty pocket. He frowned. Where was-

Lokt cursed under his breath.

The tavern. He used it there.

Lokt pulled his hand back, reaching for something else as he smiled nervously.

Well.

This is bad.

He sucked in air, as he pulled a glove from his cloak, slipping it on over his lacerated knuckles.

It was dangerous using them without the help of his Bounty but there was no other option left.

Lokt lifted his arm, balling his fist, and saw the two swordsmen exchange a look of caution. Ordinarily, combatants would be emboldened by Lokt's purported weaponless state. But they knew better. They knew his gloves were a weapon of some kind.

Even still, they kept up their advance- unphased, despite not knowing the function of his glove.

Experience.

Experience and confidence.

That was what they had. And that was what Lokt lacked.

It was clear he was outmatched.

Lokt turned, side-eyeing the man with the white pelt. He was still standing straight and had planted his greatsword deep into the mud ground. He leant his arms over the hilt, looking up at the sky.

It seemed like he really did intend to stay out of the fight.

A wave of shallow relief flushed over Lokt.

If that’s the case, perhaps escape was possible?

Although that may be true, Lokt did not slink away or run. Nor did he even entertain the thought of it. He was far too proud for that. Instead he walked forward, keeping his limp arm by his side, and raised a gloved fist.

The man with the hatchet sigil charged first, swinging his sword down. Lokt dodged out of the way, catching him on the pullback. He slammed the flat of the sword with the back of his glove, changing its trajectory and landed a kick to his side.

The swordsman snarled as he slid backwards.

But he did not stagger or fall.

His armour had softened the blow and it didn't seem to do any damage whatsoever.

Lokt grit his teeth.

He readied himself as the man advanced once more, eyes flicking to the second swordsman on the side. He had positioned himself in a way that cut Lokt from any chance of retreat.

The man came in faster this time, sliding across the road as he swung his blade. Lokt stepped in, reaching his gloved hand out again and slapped the blade.

In an instant, the sword dropped low, and the man grabbed his hand in a vice of red steel, yanking Lokt down into his knee.

Crunch.

Lokt strained to pull free as hot tears ran down his face but the man grabbed him by the neck, bringing his knee into his face again. Lokt twisted, tucking his head inward and felt the grip on his arm tighten.

Outmatched in both speed and strength.

He twisted again in the opposite direction, kicking mud into the air.

If that was the case-

Then he had to be tricky.

He turned, slapping the hilt of the sword with his injured arm.

Lokt smiled as it spun easily out of his grasp, arcing past a tree. He’d been keeping it limp by his side for this reason. And while it was definitely injured, it didn't mean he couldn't use it at all.

Lokt smiled wider, gloating, as the man fell back. He staggered, clutching his hand in a blend of both surprise and outrage.

The second swordsman leapt from the side, landing in front of Lokt and covering their disarmed ally with a wide sweep of his sword.

Lokt reacted quickly- even half dazed, and sprung backwards, the edge of the sword cutting the air under his foot.

Lokt grimaced as he landed, a jolt running up his body. He bit his lip as hot pain mangled his arm and looked back, his vision noticeably darker.

A thin ribbon of brown hung in the air where he once was.

Pity.

It was a new cloak too.

He brought his hand to his arm and squeezed, blood gushing through his soaked sleeve.

“You fight well…for a monster.”

Lokt mustered a shaky smile at the swordsman. He would have bowed, but he didn't have the strength to spare.

It took all of him just to stand upright.

A brief rustling came from the tree line and a figure emerged, something metal catching the light.

A sword.

Another sword.

Lokt cursed softly.

More reinforcements? Seriously?! These humans are-

“Hi-um, I think you drop- Oh.”

Tension snapped as a muffled voice turned their attention to the newcomer.

A girl.

In one hand she carried a sword, hand ungainly clasped around the edge of its hilt. The other, hung limp in a white sling.

She spoke softly. Her voice, obscured by the bouquet of yellow and blue flowers held by her teeth.

Yet, muffled or not, Lokt recognised it all the same.

And Amora entered the fray.