“The Church of Sacred Order is a religious institution whose roots can be traced back to the Years of Silver, a period of peace and theocratic awakening. Although the Cyusan faith of the Trinty, or Three Goddesses, is the sole dominant religion within Lixcyus, there was no religious order at the time due to the ongoing struggles between the Altus Duchy and various other countries seeking to establish power. Meridia von Loegrin, the Queen of Liberation sanctioned its creation and installed her closest friend as the Church’s hierophant.”

—The Arkane Compendium, Vol. XII

Chapter 2: The Soldier

“A coven?”

“Worshippers of a foreign goddess of death,” Rena explains. “While none boast any real proficiency with necromancy, they are more in tune with the realm of the dead than any mortal here in Lixcyus. If there is anyone who may know how we might restore your body and memories, it is them.”

“Will they help us?”

“They will,” she assures him. “That said, I must advise caution. They are a rather…eccentric cast of characters.”

Roland raises an eyebrow but doesn’t press the issue. At the very least, he’s happy there might be a way to regain his memories. Truthfully, the lack of pain doesn’t bother him as much as it should. A sword could pass through his gut and he’d be able to keep fighting without problem without feeling burdened by the metal lodged in his stomach. Not that he intends on getting stabbed anytime soon. Inability to feel pain or not, he didn’t want to get into combat so early. The weight of the armor is throwing him off and he hasn’t had nearly as much time as he likes to familiarize himself with the sword at his hip.

It is midday. The cloudy skies above bring promises of rain, though Roland sincerely hopes they won’t. Trudging through mud and getting drenched did not sound like a pleasant experience. The winds are oddly silent as is the forest around them. Half a day has passed since their daring escape from the gaols. Currently, the two travel along a trodden path through the woods, with faded footprints and deep impressions of wheels tracked in the dirt and mud. Small posts with torches line the path, their burnt tops implying their purpose as guides to ensure none will get lost in the night.

During this time, Roland has come to learn a little about his new wayward companion. The witch called Rena did not divulge her past, a matter she would not budge on, and remained firm about her secrets, but she at least told him about the people she wants dead more than anything. There are three women of considerable power and influence in Lixcyus, all of whom wronged Rena in some way. She spoke of one in particular, and their immediate concern.

Knight-Commander Tamara, the High Inquisitor of the Church of Sacred Order.

According to Rena, Tamara achieved her position through her friendship with Queen Amarys est Loegrin. Initially no more than a templar and soldier of the Trinity, both the Queen’s vote of confidence as well as the Hierophant’s seeming fondness of her propelled her to greater heights. Within a year after becoming a military commander in the royal army, she achieved the rank of Knight-Commander. This not only gave her considerably more leverage and power within the ranks of knights, but it allowed her to establish her own knightly orders: One serves as the arm of the Church, and the other serves as the arm of the royal family. On top of an outstanding military record, Tamara was also thought to be a Blessed One.

Blessed Ones are individuals who receive the favor and blessings of the Three Goddesses, with said favor and blessing taking the form of a brand on their necks. Those who bear these marks are supposedly gifted in a particular form of mancy, depending on which deity they receive their favor from. A Blessed One of Strada is considered a budding prodigy of aeromancy, whereas Blessed Ones of Theda and Alassa boast impressive mastery of aquamancy and geomancy.

Burke knew this as second-hand knowledge, and by his own admission, he never met a Blessed One in his whole life. Only one in a hundred people in Lixcyus are blessed with the Trinity’s favor.

What sort of god must you be to elect a woman like Tamara to be your champion?

Roland did not know whether he was a pious or religious man before his death. Burke never told him anything beyond his service record and reputation among the soldiers, much less their personal relationship as friends and brothers-in-arms, but he is willing to bet he did not care much for the gods. He felt no inclining or urge to join Burke in his prayers. At present, he’s unimpressed if not concerned with how a zealot like Tamara is a Blessed One of Theda.

Perhaps he is simply being biased. He lacks a great deal of information, but Roland can’t help but assume the worst about the High Inquisitor. It was by her decree that he be labeled a monster and heretic without even giving him a means or chance to defend himself, and it was her soldiers who killed Burke without so much as an explanation. Perhaps the soldiers acted on their own initiative and were worse than Tamara, but there was no way to know for sure. In the end, Roland can only trust his instincts.

It's those instincts that begrudgingly have him stay by Rena’s side.

He is grateful the woman brought him back from the dead, though despite whatever excuses or apologies she has for his current state, he is nonetheless angry she wanted a pawn. It is only because of that same gratitude and partly curiosity that made him stay with her and agree to her request. It helps that they have the same objective, though that also led to his curiosity.

“What has this Tamara done to earn your wrath, Rena?” Roland inquires. “What do you know of her beyond her profession and status?”

The witch pauses briefly in her stride, her hauntingly beautiful face briefly marred by a stormy expression of raw hate. “I had a friend, once. A naïve, foolish, and brave friend who believed in his cause and all he stood for. His folly was his belief Tamara could be trusted, that he too called her a friend. My mistake was taking him at his word.”

She says nothing more afterward. She did not need to. Their plans and reasons for revenge are more alike than he initially assumes.

Suddenly, Rena stops. Roland does as well. He recognizes something is wrong when he hears the first sounds of the forest since their departure in the dead of night. It is not the sounds of animals chirping but of screams of pain. Rena’s face narrows and charges forward. “Wait!” Roland shouts after her, startled.

What’s wrong with her? We don’t know if this is a trap!

He runs after her and draws his steel. They charge off the trodden path and find themselves in a small clearing with a pond. A girl twelve years of age lies at the pond’s shores, clothes wet and hair clinging to her bleeding cheek. A group of men and women in ratty, patchwork clothes wielding swords and axes hover over her menacingly.

“W-wait, please!”

The girl’s tearful begging falls on deaf ears. The nearest woman sneers at her while licking her lips. “Barely enough meat on yer bones. I doubt you’d last a week.”

Roland feels his stomach churn. These people are not footpads. A brigand does not look at his mark as if they are a lump of meat to be devoured.

The woman reaches for the girl with blackened, half-chewed hands. Before Roland can yell for her to stay away, Rena springs into action. Flames erupt from her palm, swirling into a compact shape resembling a sphere before launching it at the cannibal. The fireball strikes the woman dead-on in the face and explodes on impact, slashing all over her body. The flames eat away at her clothes and flesh while she flails about in a frenzied panic. She falls into the pond, but the flames do not sputter out.

Pyromancy, as Roland now learns, is not so easily extinguished.

The cannibals step back in shock. The girl screams, scrambling away and splashing water everywhere as she gets as far away from the freshly made corpse as possible. As the dead woman’s allies turn their gazes to Rena, Roland steps in front of her.

“You have two choices,” he declares coldly. “Lay down your arms and surrender or offer me your necks so that I may take your heads as recompense.”

“Why the fuckin’ hell is an inquisitor all the way out here?!” one of the men hisses.

“Don’t be daft!” another shouts. “That wench next to him doesn’t look like any court mage I’ve seen! He must have nicked the armor off some dead lump of meat!”

“He’s got a lot of meat on him under that metal, I wager!”

Roland bares his teeth. Despite his warnings, the cannibals advance toward him and Rena. He had hoped the armor he stole from the gaols would have let him pass off as a member of their order, but Rena disproved that notion with her presence.

One of the women licks her lips. “Forget the child. We’re takin’ these two to the pyre!”

Two women, three men. Two axes, a sword, and a spear. And here we are with nothing but a sword and magick.

He supposes it could be worse.

“How quickly can you cast another fireball?” Roland asks. In a few seconds, they will have no choice but to engage with the cannibals in a skirmish. They need to cull their numbers one more time if they want an advantage.

Rena does not respond verbally. By the time the woman with a sword lunges for her, intending to make the witch’s body a sheath for her blade, Rena casts another spell. It is not another explosion of flame, but instead, a powerful gust that knocks the cannibal woman off her feet and hurls her into the furthest tree in the clearing.

The rest of the cannibals descend upon them. One of the men charges at Roland and swings his ax in a wild frenzy. Although unused to his weapon’s weight, a sword is a sword at the end of the day. He raises the sword and blocks the first strike, the sharp edges grinding against each other and the men fighting one another for dominance. Roland grits his teeth and pushes forward, causing the man to stumble. He steps forward and raises his sword, aiming to bring it down on the cannibal’s shoulder. The clunky weight of his armor throws off his aim and misses by a margin.

A second man with an ax capitalizes on his mistake and aims for his neck. Roland guards with his shoulder, letting the ax strike his pauldron. It nicks the metal plating and safely protects him, but the weight of the blow nearly forces him off balance. He stumbles from the blow, and before he can recover and go on the offensive, the first man body slams him into the ground. Roland grunts as he’s forced to the muddy ground beneath him. The cannibal atop him straddles his chest with a wild look in his eyes. Drool flies from his mouth as he prepares to bring his ax down on Roland’s skull.

Just as the man is about to kill him, Roland grabs his sword by the blade and squeezes tight. He feels the blade cut through the leather gloves and bite into his flesh, but pays it no mind as he drives the sword into the cannibal’s side. He screams in pain, shifting from his position atop Roland to where the former captain throws him off and gets back on his feet. He drives a metal boot into the writhing man’s face. The sharp metal edges of his greaves cut into the cannibal’s face and the blow shatters his nose.

The second man with an ax roars in fury and swings his weapon at Roland’s face. He rears his head back, narrowly avoiding it. He blocks the second strike and parries the third, hooking his sword through the gap between the metal and wooden grip, and pulls the ax out from the cannibal’s grip, sending it flying into the pond. He doesn’t give the second man a chance to recover and swings his sword. Roland feels the blood splatter across his face, tasting the rancid iron on his tongue as the cannibal chokes on his own blood while clutching his throat. He falls to his knees at first, then collapses on his side. The light fades from his eyes.

Roland turns his attention to the first ax-wielding cannibal who still writhes on the ground while clutching his bloodied face. He looks up in time to see Roland standing over him, sword held in both hands. His eyes widen with fear. “No, wait—”

He does not. The sword cuts past the skull and sinks into his brain, killing him instantly.

Two down, three to go.

Roland yanks the bloodied sword from the fresh corpse’s skull and hears a scream of pain coming from his left. He turns and finds a cannibal wielding a sword, the one Rena knocked into a tree, swinging her sword at the witch. Her right arm is no more than a bleeding stump, and her awkward swings tell Roland her left arm is not her sword arm. Rena does not dodge, but instead casts magick defensively; the air itself acts as her shield and rebuffs any and all attacks to her person. The woman yells in frustration despite the futility of her efforts, the pain making her delirious. Her last strike is repelled, and her sword knocked into the air.

Rena looks scornfully at the cannibal and makes a gesture with her hand. Roland hears a strange whistling sound. To his shock, the woman’s head suddenly slides off her neck. It bounces near her feet and rolls into the pond half-submerged. Her beheaded corpse stands still for but a moment before it collapses like a puppet with cut strings, falling onto its backside.

The witch pays no mind to the growing pool of blood at her feet, instead casting her gaze on the remaining two cannibals. The spear-wielding man is frozen, his face pale white from the shock of watching his comrades die in such quick succession. The woman, the only member of the group not holding a weapon, is in a similar state. She looks more terrified than her friend as she looks at Rena as if she is some sort of monster.

“W-what the hell are you?” the cannibal demands fearfully. “How can you cast magick without a focus?!”

Roland raises an eyebrow, unfamiliar with the term ‘focus’. He pays it no mind for the time being as he looks at the girl. Despite having every opportunity to run while her pursuers are distracted, she still sits in the pond, seemingly rooted in her fear. He doesn’t know who she’s scared of more, the cannibals or the witch accompanying him.

Rena offers no verbal response. Instead, she turns her palm face up and presses her middle and index fingers together, then flicks them upward. Without warning, a jagged spear of rock, wood, and mud erupts from the ground and impales the cannibal woman through her stomach. The man yells in shock and nearly trips over himself. It dawns on him finally that he is outmatched and has no hope of escape. Rena and Roland will kill him, no matter how much he begs for his life. He looks wildly about the clearing for any hope of escape and lays eyes on the stricken girl.

Roland realizes half a second too late what the man intends when he moves his legs. The cannibal is closer to the girl and will reach her before Roland can kill him. Rena’s hands are moving to conjure another mancy, but it’s too late. The cannibal man is right above the fearful girl and reaches for her.

The girl screams as she slams something she pulled from the pond into the cannibal man’s neck. For a brief moment, the man falls still before he crumples atop her in an unmoving heap while the girl beneath him thrashes and yells for him to get off her. Roland reaches the pair, grabs the cannibal man by the collar of his patchwork shirt, and pulls him off. The girl’s face is splattered in blood, some of it staining her mud-blonde hair. Roland is about to kill the dastard when he realizes the man is moments away from death. Lodged in his neck is an ax, the one he threw into the pond moments ago. It cut through his artery, causing him to bleed out.

Roland locks eyes with the dying cannibal. He looks pitifully at the soldier, his mouth opening and closing as if trying to convey an unspoken plea for help. The light eventually fades from his eyes. The body becomes a corpse. Roland looks apathetically at it before throwing it into the pond. He focuses all his attention on the shaken girl in front of him.

“Are you alright?”

The girl throws herself at him and wraps his arms tightly around his armored form, clinging to him as if afraid he will suddenly disappear. Her only words are sobs and mournful cries.

The forest falls silent once more.

X x X x X x X x X

This is the first time Knightsworn Greagor has met the High Inquisitor. His first impression is that she looks the part of her station and then some. He’s heard many stories of her tales, both from inquisitors and the occasional bard singing songs at the tavern, but the tales do not do her justice. Knight-Commander Tamara of the Church of Sacred Order is beautiful, almost inhumanly so, with long earthen-brown hair neatly tied into a braid and dark eyes the color of firestone. To his surprise, she is not dressed in armor but in casual clothes such as a white cotton shirt and dark-brown slacks.

Despite the beatific smile adorning the woman’s face, Greagor cannot help but feel as if he’s wandered into the caenis den. Her beauty belies the fact that she is one of the most powerful people in Lixcyus, much less one of the most dangerous. Adding to the danger is the armored behemoth standing vigilantly behind her. He is a mountain of a man at least three heads taller than Greagor himself. The armor adorning his body is unlike anything the knight has seen, with thick dark-gray plates of metal covering every inch of his body with nary a trace of pink flesh or the thick hide of chainmail.

“Knightsworn,” the High Inquisitor greets him. “A pleasure to meet you. I trust no introductions are required?”

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

Greagor nods. “None, my lady. Your companion, though…”

“Pay Zarrick no mind. I can assure you, he doesn’t bite.” Despite her reassurance, Greagor eyes the man critically. Of particular concern is the war hammer that sits across his back. Between Zarrick’s beefy form and his weapon, Greagor is almost certain that man could crush his skull into paste with ease. “Take a seat, please.”

It is not a request.

It honestly rankles Greagor how someone from the Church has the gall to order him around, much less flaunt their superiority, but he knows better than to try and defy someone who could easily have him killed if not do the deed herself.

Withholding a weary sigh, the aging man sits on the couch across from her. Lorith stands behind him and takes a position similar to Zarrick, looking just as apprehensive of the man as her superior.

“I take it this has to do with the prisoner that escaped from the gaols?” Greagor surmises.

“Indeed,” Tamara confirms. “Myself and the Hierophant, as well as her Majesty, are greatly concerned that a dangerous heretic is now freely roaming the twin continents with impunity. Two of my most trusted subordinates were killed in his escape. Blood demands blood, naturally.”

“Naturally.” As a commander himself, Greagor can begrudgingly agree with her in that regard. If a common footpad killed one of his men, he’d spend no expense hunting the bastards down and hanging them from the tallest trees in Lixcyus. “But what I’d like to know is whether this is a matter of the Church or the military.”

“I believe it is all our concerns, knightsworn.” The way her smile doesn’t disappear from her face despite how vicious her tone becomes unnerves Greagor immensely. “It is my hope my Order of Theda’s Fangs and the soldiers of Austir will work hand-in-hand.”

Greagor narrows his eyes. “I would need Baron Daron’s permission before I agree to anything. We knightsworn serve our lords and the Crown first and foremost, High Inquisitor.”

“But of course.”

“Is that all, High Inquisitor?”

Tamara shakes her head. “Not quite. There is one other matter I need to discuss with you. I understand you and the heretic have a history together.”

Indignation flares in his chest. “The bloody hell does that mean? Are you doubting my loyalty to Wis?”

“Greagor!” Lorith hisses through clenched teeth. “Don’t!”

Tamara laughs lightly. “I mean no offense, knightsworn. Your history and reputation as Baron Daron’s most trusted knight is well known, even to the Church. However, the same can also be said of your relationship with the heretic. I understand you and Roland were quite close?”

Greagor sputters in shock. “What did you just say?”

“Were you not aware?” Tamara asks in genuine surprise. “The man we arrested several days ago is Roland, the former captain of Stormgrave.”

His first instinct is to shout in her face and call her a liar. It is only years of discipline that keep him in his seat.

Roland of Stormgrave is a commonborn, much like Greagor himself. They hailed from different territories, though they developed a comradery equal to brotherhood during their days in training. They were as thick as thieves once upon a time, often engaging in embarrassing activities such as stealing from the commander’s purses and sneaking into the private baths to peep on the lovely naked forms of the fairer sex. Ultimately, the two drifted apart when they swore themselves to different lords, and the divide only grew when he learned word of Roland’s brutal reputation.

That being said, it is that very same reputation that makes Greagor want to leap to his former friend’s defense. He is nothing but loyal, steadfast and unwavering. The idea that he would betray Wis, much less Baron Merkul, is unthinkable in his mind. That Tamara dares accuse Roland of heresy infuriates him.

“That was a lifetime ago,” Greagor says in the calmest tone he can muster despite the fiery storm raging in his breast. “The last time Roland and I ever spoke was during the tourney half a year ago in the royal capital.”

Tamara hums thoughtfully. “I see… Regardless, I hope you will cooperate with us despite your history. Whatever feelings of friendship you might have with that man, do not forget that the Church has declared him an enemy of the faith. It is only a matter of time before His Majesty and Amarys follow suit. When that time comes, can we rely on you?”

“An enemy of the Crown is an enemy of Baron Daron,” Greagor replies. “He will die all the same.”

Tamara seems pleased with his answer. “Very good. I look forward to our cooperation.” She stands up and gestures for her bodyguard to follow. Zarrick’s footsteps are heavy, each stomp accompanied by the loud sounds of banging metal.

The door closes shut behind the High Inquisitor. Once he’s certain she is out of earshot, Greagor rises to his feet. He doesn’t scream or shout, but his every movement is pronounced with mind-numbing anger. He doesn’t know what enrages him more, the fact that Tamara acted as if his cooperation was all but assured or that she rubbed Roland’s situation in her face. He cannot remember the last time they spoke, and Greagor spent the remainder of that time trying his best to avoid him if only because he thought the Roland he met during training was gone. The Roland of Stormgrave is a harsh enforcer who did what he thought was best for the baron; a feeling Greagor himself knows all too well.

Even if they have drifted apart, Greagor stills considers Roland a friend. He doesn’t know how or why he’s been declared a heretic, and he knows any chance of convincing the Church and the Crown otherwise is impossible. He is but one man and a lowly soldier, knightsworn or no. The best he can do is find out the truth.

“Greagor?” Lorith asks worriedly as he storms his way out of the meeting room. “W-where are you going?”

“Fetch me a messenger,” Greagor tells her without turning around. “I’ve a message to write.”

X x X x X x X x X

Roland and Rena arrive at Ginwind Village with the twelve-year-old child in tow. The girl, Rosalin, had barely spoken a word since they rescued her from the cannibals, and in that time she refused to leave Roland’s side. Even now she clung to his back, burying her face in his shoulder.

A man in leather armor with a metal helm and spear stands guard at the village gate. He sees them and turns ram-rod straight. He barely pays Rena any mind as his attention is focused entirely on Roland, or more accurately the armor he wears. “G-greetings, inquisitor,” the guard stammers. Rena realizes he is awfully young, fifteen years of age at most with freckles dusting his cheeks. “What b-brings you here to Ginwind?”

“We’re here because of her,” Roland says, gesturing to Rosalin.

The village girl raises her head and shows her face to the guard. Recognition passes between them in an instant. “Rosy?” the guard breathes before his form trembles in relief. “Oh, thank the Trinity! You’re alive!”

“Ronny…?” Rosalin murmurs sleepily.

The guardsman ushers the two into the village. Like most other villages in the borders of lordsmen territories, it’s fairly small in that there are only a handful of houses, all built from wood and brick. It’s one of the smaller villages Rena has seen, counting only five or six communal houses. The atmosphere surrounding the village is tense and forlorn. The younger folks she finds are hale and healthy, but the older villagers are unusually thin and frail. The guardsman runs off somewhere to inform the village chief and Rosalin’s parents of their return, bringing the younger girl with him in tow.

“Is it just me, or do these people not look well?” Roland questions.

Rena has a good idea as to why. For the last few years, the once fertile soil of Lix grew barren. Any attempts to revitalize the land with magick end with failure, and as a result, food shortages became common. The outer fringes of lordsmen territories and the shores of Lix similarly were hit the hardest. The southern continent of Cyus fared little better than its northern twin, though supposedly the prominent noble houses found a means to preserve their food storage and distributed their supplies to the mainland.

“The famine grows worse by the year,” Rena says plainly to Roland. “Even with the Crown offering support to the commonfolk, it is only a matter of time before all of Wis is unable to sustain itself.”

“If that’s the case, then why not seek outside help?”

She snorts at the thought. “Your friend did not tell you all of Lixcyus’ history, it seems. The twin continents are protected by the Fangs of Theda, jagged spires that prevent any and all foreign invaders. Unfortunately, those very same fangs prevent its people from leaving. For thousands of years, the Fangs of Theda and the mist that shrouds the surrounding waters has protected the Kingdom of Wis from prying eyes. Unless the mist were to vanish and the fangs were to crumble to dust, we are doomed to a slow death.”

At that moment, the guardsman returns with a small band of commonborn folk behind him. A woman resembling Rosalin approaches the pair with the young girl in tow. Beside them is an elderly man so thin Rena fears a tiny breeze of wind would fell him, his fine clothes hanging loosely off his frail form. A braided beard of white hairs adorns the bottom half of his face.

“Sir, this is the village chief and Rosalin’s mother,” the guardsman introduces the pair.

Rosalin’s mother bows her head in gratitude. “Thank you so much, inquisitor. When little Rosie disappears, we thought…” A quiet sob briefly passes through her lips. “Thank you. T-thank you…! You’re a saint, milord!”

Roland shifts uncomfortably at the praise. “Anyone would do the same in my position, but you are welcome all the same. I am…Burke. This is my companion, Rena.”

“Well met, sir and madam,” the village chief nods in respect. “I am Doriem. I may be getting on in the years, but I serve this place and the Crown faithfully. It might not be much, but I can prepare a lodging for you and your companion.”

“You have our thanks,” Rena says. She recalls the cannibals they encountered earlier and frowns. “If I may ask, the group who attacked Rosalin earlier… How long have they plagued Ginwind?”

“Truth be told, we only learned about them recently,” Doriem answers honestly with a weary sigh. “One of our hunters, Louise, found a roaming pack of myzims a few days ago and went to hunt them for their meat.” A haunted look appears on his face as he looks mournfully at the ground. “We found what was left of him just the other day. We thought he ran afoul with marshkin at first, but when we saw the teeth marks…”

“Speak no more, please,” Rena says when she sees the old man’s distress. “I did not mean to dredge foul memories.”

“Thank you, my lady,” the chief says gratefully. “Follow me, please. As I said, we won’t be able to offer you very much, but I hope you’ll appreciate what we have. Harvest has been poor as of late, and we haven’t had much luck hunting the beasts outside.”

Doriem guides them to their lodgings and leaves them to set up for the night. The communal house is home to one other family, a father of four children. Like the rest of the villagers, the children are healthy whereas the father looks as if he hasn’t eaten for several days. Although Rena is glad to see they are prioritizing the children first and foremost, she worries what will become of them if the adults do not take proper care of themselves.

The family is amicable and friendly with them, more than happy to share housing with the traveling pair. The children are quite taken with Roland and waste little time in accosting him. Inquisitors are a rare sort in Ginwind, a fact that works in their favor as it means there’s little chance of anyone recognizing Roland as the escaped heretic.

As they settle into their new lodgings, Rena catches sight of an altar set in the far back of the room. A small bunch of neatly tied twigs sit on either side of a wood statuette. It is not carved in the shape of the Trinity, but of a faceless woman garbed in robes. At the statuette’s feet is a small wreathe of neatly woven black feathers.

“The foreign goddess?” Rena inquires in surprise as she looks at the father. “I was not aware her believers were this far out in Austir.”

The father glances worriedly in Roland’s direction. The soldier sees the altar, but displays no animosity. If anything, he’s curious. “Who is this foreign goddess, exactly?” he asks. “Rena spoke of her briefly, but all I know of her is that she’s a god of death.”

“You…do not care I am not of the Trinity’s flock?” the father asks in surprise.

Roland shrugs. “I am not beholden to their faith myself, truth be told. My circumstances are…complicated.”

It is a flimsy excuse, but the father buys into it with ease and visibly sags with relief. “To tell you the truth, even I know very little about the goddess herself. No one knows her name, not even the coven of witches of the dark woodlands in Stormgrave who revere her. All I know is that she is a mother of lost and wayward souls, guiding them to the path leading to a new life elsewhere beyond the mortal plain. She cares not about race or religion. In death, all are equal, or so it is said.”

The father looks at the effigy of the foreign goddess of death with a somber look. In his eyes, Rena sees the look of a man who has suffered a great loss, one he has yet to recover from. “It is a curious thing to think about, Sir Burke… We know not if there is a life after this. If there is a reward for all our deeds or punishment for our crimes. If there is a good life that waits for us, then I… I’d like to believe it exists.”

Unlike Roland, Rena cannot bear to look at the man. She did not have the heart to tell him the truth.

In the dead of night when all are sound asleep, Roland dreams. He finds himself in a wasteland, the earth dry and dead and gray. The sky is dead and dark and overcast with angry clouds that bring with them the threat of rain and thunder.

“Where…?” Roland does not understand he is in a dream. His senses are overwhelmed, as if something obscures his mind’s eye and blocks him from the truth. He doesn’t understand why, but this place frightens him. It brings an icy cold down his spine. He feels there is danger here, but he does not understand where it is coming from. “Rena? Rena, where are you? Anyone?!”

Roland reaches for his sword, only to grasp at air. He looks down and sees that he is not wearing the inquisition armor he absconded with. Instead, he wears bloodied and broken armor that feels familiar to him. It clings to his skin as if it is an old friend.

“Is-is anyone there?!”

Roland continues to shout and scream for help, for anyone with sentience to hear him. He receives only silence. The air itself is still, carrying not even so much as a tiny breeze. His voice does not even echo in this strange gray realm. As he looks desperately for any sign of life, to find someone—anyone!—he catches sight of a figure in the distance. They are so far away he can barely make out the black cloak clinging to their body.

“Rena?! Is that you?!” Roland shouts as he runs toward the figure. “Answer me, dammit! What’s going on?! Where am I?!”

Roland runs for what feels like hours, and yet he is no closer to reaching the cloaked figure. No matter how far he pushes himself, they remain in the distance and out of reach. The armor grows as heavy as stones and begins to hinder his movements. Each step feels like he’s trudging through muddy water, and his back groans as if carrying a pack of rocks. Sweat falls from his face like a waterfall. Roland finds himself unable to speak; his mouth feels as dry as a desert.

He reaches futilely for the robed figure and takes another step forward. The ground beneath him suddenly gives away and turns to dust. He falls into an inky-black abyss that swallows him whole, robbing him of all sensations. The sounds of clinking metal fall silent, the armor becomes weightless, his exhaustion meaningless, and the pale light of the gray dead world above disappears.

Darkness. An ungodly pitch-black.

Roland screams a voiceless scream—

He snaps awake, flinging his body upward with a startled cry. His chest heaves up and down as he gulps for air like a man pulled from the ocean. Cold sweat clings to his damp skin. He looks around wildly, and once he sees the familiar dull walls of the communal housing and the sleeping forms of the four children and their father, his panic begins to subside. A heavy sigh of relief passes through his mouth.

“A dream?” he asks himself.

Roland wants to dismiss the gray dead world as nothing more than the stress of his situation getting to him, but he cannot forget the terror, the horror of that alien realm. It continues to gnaw at his chest, reminding him of what it felt like to be robbed of everything. He can still remember the horrid, vivid sensation of what it was like to be unraveled, to lose all notion of who you are.

The soldier slowly rises from the bedroll, hoping the icy cold water from the basin will clear his mind. It’s then he notices something odd: Rena is not in her bedroll. He frowns and looks around, but cannot find her. Before he can think to stir the father awake and ask him to help find her, he sees her cloaked form outside and making her way toward the village gate.

“Where the hell is she going at this hour?” Roland asks himself. He has half a mind to leave her to his own devices, but curiosity and the reminder of their bargain compels him to pursue her.

He follows her at a distance, uncertain whether she will take kindly to his snooping. Roland does not have to follow her for long as he quickly recognizes the path she takes. It is the same path they used when they dealt with the cannibals that threatened Rosalin.

The corpses are right where they left them. They have not moved so much as an inch, evidently spared the fate of becoming a deadwalker for the time being. Roland was content to leave them where they were, feeling that the fate of becoming a wretched, disease-ridden corpse was nothing short of karma for their desire to eat flesh. In their rotten state, they would pose little threat. All it takes to kill a deadwalker is a single swing to the neck and a quick trip to the pyre.

Roland does not understand why Rena came back to this place. He remains in the shadows of the trees while studying her movements. She gathers the corpses and lays them side by side and places their hands over their chests. She briefly inspects them as if searching for flaws before she closes their eyelids and rises to her feet.

“What’s she doing?” Roland mutters.

He soon has his answer when Rena searches her cloak for something. She pulls out a small black pouch and slips her hand inside. She sprinkles pinches of what looks like a powder over the corpses, then returns the pouch back inside her cloak. She summons a red flame of pyromancy in her hand and proceeds to alight the corpses. When the flames make contact, they turn dark blue. The sight entrances Roland in a way he cannot describe, transfixed by the way the flames ebb and bob.

“How long do you intend to be a voyeur, Roland?” Rena calls out, breaking him out of his trance.

He realizes now that Rena knew he was following her the whole time. Bashfully, he steps out of his hiding place and walks up to her side. Oddly, he cannot feel the fire’s heat. Even as he draws near the pyre, he doesn’t feel any warmth from it. It’s as though the fire carries no heat within at all. When he attempts to reach out and touch the flame, Rena’s hand slaps his wrist.

“Are you a daft fool? Simply because you do not feel pain does not mean you should go seeking it,” the witch lambasts him.

I wasn’t trying to hurt myself, Roland thinks privately to himself.

“What are you doing out here this late at night?” he asks her. “We’ve a long day ahead of us, you know.”

“I wanted to give them a proper burial.”

Roland frowns. “Why? You saw what they were going to do to Rosalin. If anything, you were better off leaving them to be deadwalkers. Frail and hungry as they are, I doubt the villagers can’t handle them.”

“I am not giving them a burial to spare them the fate of becoming undead,” Rena denies. “I’m simply giving them their final rights. They should be allowed to depart this world in peace, regardless of who they once were.”

Roland doesn’t agree. He looks at the pyre in contempt, but he doesn’t have the energy to argue with her. The dreadful memory of that dream lingers in the back of his mind.

“…why is the flame blue?” he decides to ask. “It looks different from normal pyromancy, at least from what I’ve seen.”

“The magick itself is normal,” she answers. “The incense itself is special. A means to give the dead their proper rights. Lixcyus’ connection to the world of the dead is off-kilter. Contrary to what its people claim, the deadwalkers are not natural. Neither are the spirits and ghosts who persist. The incense is meant to serve as a bridge.”

“So they won’t come back?”

“They shall not.”

“…will the foreign goddess find them?”

Rena’s silence is curious, as is the expression on her face. She looks as if she is dueling with unpleasant thoughts.

For a brief while, the pair sits in silence of contemplation.

“…we should stay in Ginwind for a short while.”

Roland rounds upon Rena in disbelief. “Excuse me?”

“You’ve seen what has become of the people.”

“They are not our problem, and we have more important concerns,” the soldier argues. “Did you already forget what happened at the gaols?”

Deep down, Roland understands Rena’s concerns. Even if the children are healthy, that will no doubt change in time. Ginwind Village will not be able to sustain itself if its hunters are willingly starving themselves to feed ensure their children and neighbors have full bellies. If the able-bodied adults are weak and frail, then the task of defending the village falls to the younger folks, and none are capable of adequately defending themselves. Many of the children are as young as nine years of age. The idea they could hunt wild animals and use bows and knives was laughable. He understands why Rena wishes to help them, but Roland ultimately knows their help will only matter in the short-term.

As Rena said earlier, Lixcyus suffers from infertile soil and a growing lack of food. Even if they stay and help Ginwind Village by securing herbs, wheat, and meat, they will only be able to gather so much before they are forced to look for food elsewhere. Worse, Roland is a wanted man. Even if the village is seldom visited by the inquisition, it is only a matter of time before a wandering group happens upon them. If the Order of Theda’s Fangs accompanies them and learns the village harbored Roland and Rena, they will not listen to their excuses and claims he lied. They will only care about the fact and kill them, just as they killed Burke when he tried to stop them from taking Roland.

Roland does not want to see that sight.

“They will die without help!” Rena argues.

He glares her down. “They will die even if we do help!” he snapped. “How much aid can we offer them before even that won’t matter? If we stay, then the chances of the Church finding us grow, and when they do find us, what do you think will happen?”

“So you suggest we abandon them?”

“Yes.”

For a moment, Roland swears her eyes glow in a dim crimson light. “Even if our actions are a temporary reprieve, it will still be worth it. Even if our actions are ultimately for naught, even if it buys them only one more day, then that is enough.”

“Why?” Roland demands incredulously. “Why is this so important to you that you’d risk our lives?”

“Because one more day of living means they’ve lived their lives to the fullest.”

Her response gives Roland pause.

Living life to its fullest? What the fucking hell does that mean?

The witch and the soldier glare at each other, neither willing to back down. The cold fire next to them cackles. The corpses are reduced to burning piles of ashes. Soon, there will nothing left of them. It looks as if the two are about to come to blows, Roland’s hand tightened into a trembling fist while small embers flicker around Rena’s thin hands.

After a tense moment, one finally relents. “One day,” Roland says bitterly. “That’s it. One day. We leave at the morn the day after, and not a moment later.”

“…thank you, Roland.”

“Do not thank me yet, witch. Do not blame me if the inquisition comes down on Ginwind with steel because of your bleeding heart.”