I wake.

I’m on my back in the snow. A frozen stream of tears burns my eyes and cheeks. I raise my eyelids, but they refuse to open. I scratch away the ice and notice a small rhythmic pain beat against my waist. I turn to my side. Seywa kicks me. She stands above me. From this angle, it’s almost as if she eclipses my size.

She unstraps the ritual knife from her hip. She flips it into the air, catching the blade flat in her hand without injury. She invites me to grab it by the hilt. She motions to the corpses before me. I understand her desire, but there are so many others. I look to the flock of sprites above us. Each with a name we do not know. Each with a body we don't have the time to dig through the snow to find. Knowing her heart, she'll want to return to this place to free the rest if we get our justice from the King. I stand up next to her, shaking the snow stuck to my clothes. I look down at her and ready a suggestion that we move on. Her eyes meet mine in defiance. For a moment, I consider plucking her from the snow into my arms and forcing her to resume our journey. But I relent and begin Esinowa.

"Only for them." She nods accepting my terms. I recall what I’ve learned from the knowledge I’ve gained from her channeler’s curse. I hold the knife by the hilt in my fist. I rest against my chin and close my eyes to be resealed by frost. I bring the lovers' souls into my thoughts and then move them to the heart of time; the 8-foot chase. I know the vow of each paw.

Valor, Grace, Instinct, World, Heart, Harm, Cause, and That Unspoken. I remember the trainings of Great Mafa and speak in augurs these traitors defiled:

"Their names were…" My voice shakes. They are undeserving.

But their cowardice cannot bring shame upon my display of our traditions. I return pride to my voice.

"Their names are Salfa and Bravor." Now I assign which vow their deeds embodied.

"Salfa, whose spry was taken by the cold, met a beast who enjoyed this advantage. She gave her Bravor charm and confidence. A vow of strength shall they chase."

"Bravor stayed behind with his love to tend to her wounds before making his word that they’d rejoin the tribe. A vow of heart shall they chase."

"The frost took them. These are unsung deeds… that…

Then my thoughts falter again, back to the path of my spite. They may be unsung but they are traitors still. They were among the first to give into the white cloaks’ schemes. They may be owed Esinowa from their courage and sacrifice but their betrayal of our custom…

Then I feel Seywa through the flicker and pulse of her àṣhẹ.

For her, all who perished on the trek through the peaks are our kin. All of these sprites share our blood. They all know the crimson sands, sweet fields, and purling brooks of our homeland. Now, they seek to aid us in avoiding sharing their fate. She urges me to speak. I let her joy replace my rage.

“I cleanse you of treason and return you to The Chase.”

I raise the knife for the final steps of the ritual, with her blade hanging in the sky, searching for the outline of the sun through the veil of the elements. I see its faint outline and trace a depiction of Skleh and Heno in simple shapes, chasing each other’s tails. A thin line of sleet and clouds begins to circle. They twist, bend, and then start to take the form of two wolves above us. I begin what the mages call “the first poy” of our people, holding the knife to my hand, and sing:

Which loved first?

Which lit the trail?

From which fangs first will blood soak the tail?

All flows from their chase

Trial, wisdom, grace

but when their heat ceases

our lives they will take

A faint blue light from the sprites stops me. It shines from the blood-ready blade in my hand. It splits to shards, severing my connection to Seywa. They've rejected Esinowa. There spirits may stay here as is there right. Our ancestor’s wishes must be observed and not challenged. Yet, is this another betrayal of trust from traitors? Do they mean to kill us? Our blade, Oponri, allows The Pulse to flow between us. Without it, I won't be able to protect her. I'll have to rely on my àṣhẹ and may slip beneath The Stir. Her innocence may have killed us. They may blame us for their exile. Beside me, Seywa lowers herself to her knees, almost disappearing into the snow. She flicks her head to side motioning for me to the same, then bows to the sprites. I have no choice but to stash my pride for our survival. I fall to my knees, and bow to them. Making a plea to traitors I whimper

“Salfa… Bravor… I will keep your souls knit to the mountain. Please return our blade to us.”

Their sprites seem unmoved by words. They must know my hate for them. "Ancestors. We're the last of our kind that I know of." Tears well in my eyes as my heart is full of thoughts of my people. A love mocked by these sprites. "Please." Then, thin trails of clouds spin from them, engulfing the murky shapes of the wolves I’ve summoned into the air. A tunnel of icy wind bends toward my hands, narrowing the closer it stretches to me. Each shard of iron slowly floats into my hand, reforming Oponri. I nod my head in respect and then look at Seywa. She looks at me with a snide but approving grin, which I can only recognize as Mafath’s.

With a mind of reluctant thanks for my ancestors, I watch their sprites float onward. We follow them forward to a place where the snow falls less. A pingo offers respite, lessening our tread to a march. Though sparse, rock, bush, and brush are welcomed as a reunited friend. Bare trees stand taller as the snow becomes shallow. A trail cut with the grooves of last spring’s wagon wheels. On both sides of the trail, the trees grow thicker with fur the higher up they are. The trail winds forward and bends to the left, leading to a hollow cavern. Greenery and vines line its walls, twisting into braids like she has me weave into her hair. Far and Further down the mountain, a drove of trees. The dell lined on its edge by the sun.

A flash from the mountainside.

A spell shatters a few of the sprites. Their crystalline corpses break into spears of hail. The rest of them scatter, disappearing into the air behind the clouds. My cloak tears, shredding both skin and sigil. A harsh neigh the scent of blood pierce the air. I turn to see our steed’s last buck. Seywa is thrown out from under her blanket and sent skidding across the ground. Her white hair following behind her like the winter star fall. From her sheath flies Opnori, cutting her eye as it travels past her. She’s stopped by the snow. I go to her. The Pulse quickens once more. I must… protect her. I pick her up. Her clothes cover most of her, but the chill wind steals her heat like a field shrew to scraps. She shakes like a fresh pup in my hand. I lift up the wool sleeves, revealing bruises. The cocoon of wool managed to lessen the impact. I wish it could have granted her the wings to fly away from this place. Before me, the remainder of our steed’s body strewn at the base of an outcrop of rocks. The entrails steam releasing their heat. She presses her shaking hand on the left side of my neck.

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Levin.

She wants to attack, but it’s too soon. I don’t know where the mages are positioned or how many are among their number. We need to protect ourselves first. I need to protect her. I place her hand on the side of my arm, cradling her. A sear. Her hand enters the fresh, unseen wound, yet the cold burns more.

Aegis.

It will not fully conjure. Her sigil tore with my skin but we still need its shield. Her dark eyes brighten from beneath the white veil of her hair. Her trust brings warmth against the wind. The Pulse churns. I pull her close in one arm, then press a clenched palm to my head and whisper.

lock blade to sheathe

rob spell of wit

foil plans to guide

our deeds to myth

stir with my mind

that I may know thy form

A surge hits under where her fingers rests in my muscle. The sigil is torn, so the spell eddies like an oar lost to a whirlpool. The snow slips away to sleet. Then my sight drifts beyond again.

I see our village aflame.

I hear the howls of that night again…

Where a rumble crossed the plains.

Then, water as tall as a hills on the horizon. The cries of our tribe collapse into a wail. Underneath me, a vortex of black water. A song so deep it ruptures my ears. A single voice shakes at the bottom. It sounds just like hers. I follow it back to the Surlain peaks.

I can return.

Noumena!

For a moment, a golden glow paints the frosty wilds. From the blood trailing out of my ears, whisks of light escape to form a spotted shell around us. Its gleam returns just as the second volley of ruin seeks to bring us to the same fate as our steed. Blades of air sneak through the openings. I turn to protect her. Their wind cuts at my back. The broken shield saved us.

I hurry to collect the scattered blankets. I try to wrap Seywa but the tatters create too many openings. Her shakes grow more violent. I feel her àṣhẹ start to fade. I grab and run with her to the outcrop as another volley of ruin makes its impact, sending a cloud of snow around us. I pat my hand around me till I feel the warmth. "I'm sorry seywa." I shuffle the red tendrils and flayed skin over her. She coughs at the stench, then helps me hide her in the corpse of our steed. I collect the wool and reform it into the makeshift cocoon, hoping to deceive the white cloaks that she is still with me. I sprint from the fog to a tree and place the bundle behind it. Kneeling beside it, I convey the shield to its position.

Leaping to my feet, I walk backward attempting to trace the mountainside for our foe. My new wounds start to burn as they freeze. I wince, trying to maintain my sight. l stalk behind the trees to gain what little protection I can. I glance upwards. The peaks seem to bend with the weight of the snow gathering on them, and then I catch a slight movement. I recall the poy of Levin and request The Pulse; she provides, but The Stir does not show itself. Spite’s beard, I can’t remember it. I think to myself:

when void of rain

you spark forests’ end

ignite air to hale soil

from air, I bend

common fear

and seldom friend…

But still stays The Stir. A crack. Spite again! A blast of their ruin splits the tree I’m taking shelter behind. I’m blown back and feel skin and sigil shred once more as splintered bark sails through the air. A chunk of wood cracks against my shin. Several bits cut my cheek. And a small steak hits my chest, hitting something vital. From I lift my cloak and see bark lodged into my chest… right where her scribe for Levin rests. But they know not the lengths we plan. The master scribe for Levin still rests on my neck, untouched by the wounds of the day.

I look up from the ground. Jagged chunks of bark hover before me. They are impaled in a wall of ice. It glows with a faint blue with the remnant of àṣhẹ. Had these spikes met my skin, I would have been lost to dreams. The ice wall fades, causing the wood to fall in a pile before me. What spell has saved me? I seek her in The Pulse, Seywa says its not her. Then a grating chorus of whispers passes by my ear:

“Eyes to the mountain!”

I return my focus to scour the mountainside. I’m downwind, so the white cloaks won’t be able to track me with extrasense. I look for a shake of a tree or a tufting of snow. I recall the harsh tongue of our tribe’s huntsman from years before Seywa was born, and I was touched by her magic.

I must hear the deep pulse of the land and answer. Their twin howl begins to ring. I hear their silks whip in the wind. Forward, a half-torv headed east. My senses have frayed under their attacks. I need the eyes and ears of Skelh and Heno. I close my eyes. I begin slamming my fist against my chest, chasing the tempo of my heartbeat. I find the rhythm and begin to roll my voice at the base of my chest. It is not a ploy but a plea to the gods of my people. Entreating ancient alms, I silently chant.

Rend n’ Hale n’ Rend n’ Hale n’...

The pelts on my shoulders wake, risen by a share of Skelh and Heno’s breath. The busts of two wolves are now perched on my shoulders. Their backs arched with the same dignity they bear to greet the moon. Though my shoulders are solid, they are not as solid as the rocks they once perched on. Their claws plunge into my muscles as they echo the voices of our precursors. They let loose a blue squall from their fangs, matching the dim shine from their eyes. They share their color and force with mine. Now, I am only a step out of pace with nature; I see all as they do.

There is only one of them. A tree with six branches with a four crant wide stump. The mage is panting in panic. He knows I am tracking him. I can hear him muttering a poy. I can’t make out the words, but the cadence I recognize. The bond I share with my whisper wolves fades, and with it, some of my àṣhẹ.

I pull myself up and steady myself up as I rise. Seywa connects to me, The Stir back within me. I extend one palm starward and one outstretched towards my target. I recite:

how brief your might

though you sunder sky

and wrench fear

to mortals’ minds

now stir with mine

so I may know your form

Noumena

In the distance, I see crimson stain the snow on both sides of the stump. A moment later, a jagged Levin arc travels to me. From where he lay to my palm. I turn to return to her, then see him.

Before me is a man-shaped beast in greater clarity than in the journey through the memory of the sprites. The beast is of the same kind that killed my ancestors. His chest is twice the width as mine, and his waist fellow to a wasp’s. Fur like hardened feathers cover his body unmoved by the wind. What light made it through the clouds glistened for a moment. With it, a faint array of colors danced and bent around him. Over this odd skin, he wore a carapace lined with scales from some foreign beast.

His face gave me pause. It was as a man’s yet with fleshy low indents where his sight should lie. The grim craters have no trace of wound or scar, showing his eyes having been wrested from him. His brow is steeply angled and unmoving as the firmament. Seated above the arch of contempt sat a gem black with such pitch that it swallowed any light that graced it. Even without eyes, he seems to know sight and glares at me. As if speaking my nature back to me, he stands as wide as the wingspan of the nighthawks, ready to kill, but bears the expression of prey regretting its fate. A slumbered rage seems to quiver at his sharply pursed lips. In only one arm, the wretched body of our steed. Within it she lies. He lifts his free arm, motioning towards the mountain.