“What’s your favorite thing to make?”

After little over an hour of walking, Herah and Owen talked while overcast by the sharp shadows of the towering trees, almost as if cloaked in night with only the scattered patches of light reminding them the planet’s star sat high in the sky. Within the hour, the pair’s small conversation filled the quiet as the artist tracked down the odd rot scent that caught her nose earlier.

Herah taught the binder of her parents and feux de forêt (what the Cendreux called their cities): Sangviolette. The artist described the toxic and ash-choked air born from her planet’s conception, the metals and gemstones that comprised Cendreux architecture, and the red sky Herah knew all her life, always filled with a flyer or five.

The artist learned of Owen’s mother, Carol Vulcan, and their home colony, Lee. The binder spoke of knowing only endless grassy hills, streams, and rivers, cone homes of clay and stone, fair weather with nary a cloud or bird ever in sight, and various flows of different species walking all about. The most fascinating detail Herah learned was that of the many gifted crafts-folk of his colony, Owen held the claim as the greatest and the title of: The Marvel.

I can’t help but think, there’s a bit more to it though.

“Armor,” the binder answered as the pair passed a cluster of red trees, each twisted and wrapped around one another in a quadruple helix that climbed high above their heads. “I prefer my creations to save lives.”

“Some took em?” the artist asked, glancing down to her small companion with raised brows.

“Far too many.”

“Why?”

Owen frowned, staring forward as shame wafted through his scent.

“A foolish want for recognition.”

Herah noted a heavy weight to the words, a weight that perplexed the artist.

“No, why do you think your weapons took too many lives?”

The binder looked up to Herah, a firm steel held within his gaze that matched the newly emerging smell of something hot and spicy within Owen’s scent.

The smell of conviction.

“A single person dead at the hand of anything I create, is one life too many lost.”

Now, the artist frowned.

“Isn’t that the point?”

“Never should’ve been.”

A finality followed those words that called to Herah. The artist knew that if this conversation continued, an argument likely followed.

A verbal fight would be nice.

So instead of leaving well enough alone, Herah brought up an earlier thought.

“You don’t love what you make, or what you’ve made.”

The binder paused, stopping right next to a sapling, haggard with dead bark dotting it clearly in need of a drink.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You said it well enough. The taking of lives is what my tools are made for. Be it a weapon or armor.”

“Why’s that wrong?”

Owen turned to the sapling and raised a hand over it. Spectral green energy took shape before his palm, creating a circle as wide as his head with a square about half as large inside of it. Then a series of smaller circles and some triangles filled the space between both larger shapes. With a twist of his wrist, the smaller shapes began moving along the perimeter of the square, going so fast they blurred just as rain began pouring from the green construct.

Is that…. your Gift? the artist thought, watching in keen interest as the sapling drunk up all the water and began shedding its dead bark to reveal the vibrant red typical of this forest. No, Norwe calls you the binder and this doesn’t seem like it relates. This must be something else, like Science.

“I hate fighting.”

Herah snapped out of her thoughts, frowning as green flames flared from her nostrils.

“Why?” the artist asked, curiosity piqued by her companion’s odd statement.

No Cendreux would ever proclaim such a thing. At least no true one would.

“To fight, is to weigh your life against someone else's. And whether or not someone dies, ultimately, the victor asserts that their life is most worth it.” The green energy faded just as the sapling appeared fully rejuvenated, and the binder shook his head. “It’s the second greatest insult to life.”

“I disagree.”

Owen whipped around in shock, his scent turning appalled as his mouth gaped and his eyes blinked at Herah.

“What?”

“I disagree.” the artist reasserted before slowly exhaling another stream of green flames while smoke flowed from her nostrils. “Not with fighting being about weighing lives. I agree, especially with you more fragile aliens. I disagree with calling fighting an insult to life.”

“Why is that?” the binder demanded, shaking his head before saying, “You’re endangering such a precious thing for nothing!”

“Nothing?” Herah shook her head before making a fist and slamming it into her chest with a grin. “Endangering life is part of what makes battle so wondrous!”

“Wh-What?” Owen sputtered out.

The artist ignored this, bringing her other hand to her chest as a passion that only came with talks about art filled her flame.

“Fighting with all your heart in defiance of death or worse creates beautiful works of art unlike any other.”

“That is such, such a picturesque outlook!” the binder shouted with an almost agonized disbelief, one of his hands going to his hat and tearing it off to reveal his short and messy brown locks. “What about the blood, the pain, the terror that such a thing can inspire? Do you even think about that?”

“All a few of the materials that go into the art of battle.”

Owen bared his teeth at Herah, balling his fist as anger raged behind his smell.

“You’ve never witnessed the aftermath of such things!”

“And you have?” the artist raised a brow. “You told me you never left your home.”

“It came to me.” A silent moment followed, the binder staring off towards something that Herah couldn’t see. Something the artist didn’t want to see. Then Owen shook his head and turned away from Herah. “I’m sorry, but so much of what you said goes against everything I stand for.”

The artist tilted her head to the side, eyes focused on her companion as curiosity welled up inside of her.

Everyone always says that aliens think differently, but I never realized to what extent. Amazing, I must learn more.

“Which is?”

The binder turned back to Herah, still frowning, before looking up over her head, like one might look to a higher power.

“Pacifism.”

The artist couldn’t recognize the word, it sounded like a foreign tongue that’d never met her ears before.

Intriguing.

“What’s that?”

Owen blinked before furrowing his brows.

“A disbelief in violence, that it's never okay. A belief that our problems should be solved peacefully.” The binder looked down at his feet, one grinding into the dirt in a careful manner to avoid harming any nearby grass. “That’s why I focus on armors and trinkets, not weapons.”

Owen paused for a moment before whispering, “Give em a sword, you send them to war. Give em a shield, you bring them from the battlefield.”

Herah’s ears twitched at the words, understanding that they weren’t meant for herself.

“What was that?”

The binder looked back up at the artist, his scent shifting towards a light shock before his lips loosed a sigh and his reply followed.

“Something my mother says all the time.”

Herah felt her flame cool as her interest in the argument died away and curiosity towards Owen’s mother took its place.

“You said your mother smithed too?”

The binder nodded.

“Taught me a good portion of what I know about the craft. She’s also part of the reason I could elevate my skills to the level that I became our colony’s Marvel.”

“It’s bigger than that, isn’t it?”

Owen froze up, alarm filling his scent as his response came through trembling lips.

“Bigger than what?”

“Your colony.”

The binder locked eyes with the artist, searching inside of Herah for something.

I wonder what.

“What makes you say that?” Owen asked.

The artist grinned and crossed her arms before leaning down to eye level with the binder.

“Perception is one of the biggest skills of an artist.”

Owen nodded, accepting the answer for what it was before sighing.

“I’m the greatest smith of my world, proclaimed such by Lady Walters herself.”

Herah froze, stunned both by the revelation and how casually the binder revealed it.

“Why didn’t you say that earlier!?”

“Because it’s just a title, nothing else besides that.”

“A title that declares you the best of your craft. That isn’t nothing!” The artist put her hands behind her head and began to walk forward once again, “You’re odd.”

Herah felt Owen's eyes on the back of her head and could smell his confusion at her words. Soon, the sound of his feet denting dirt rejoined her own.

“Humility isn’t a thing with the Cendreux?”

The artist glanced back at the binder, her face twisting in confusion as her nose flared and smoke shot from it.

“The fuck is humility?”

Owen returned Herah’s expression.

“To be humble.”

The artist tilted her head from side to side then looked away, a few moments passing before the dots connected.

“Oh, we call that being weak.”

A small silence followed as the pair continued forward, passing by a thin red tree with what Herah thought might be moss dotting it.

That’s the fuzzy green stuff, right?

“Wow,” The binder shook his head, “The Cendreux are….. odd so to speak.”

The artist frowned at Owen and crossed her arms again.

“I’d say the same for gnomes going off you.”

A small chuckle slipped from the binder’s lips, his shoulders slumping and his scent turning embarrassed.

“I’m not a good model for the gnome people. I’m actually a weirdo amongst them.”

Herah stopped walking, widened her eyes, and turned to Owen in uncharacteristic silence. The binder grinned back, his grin twitching as his eyes looked the artist up and down uncertain.

“What?”

“You’re like me.”

Herah whispered her words, a small, soft smile now on her face.

“Oh,” Owen gave the artist a wider smile in return, “You’re a weirdo too. What makes you different?”

Herah shrugged and snorted out another puff of smoke.

“I’m old fashioned. The heathens say I show too much respect for traditions of the old.” A weak laugh escaped the artist followed by a shrug, “Only my parents and goddess accept me for me. And my old teacher now.”

The binder nodded.

“I’m considered strange because of my aforementioned views on battle and my own craft.”

“Why, are gnomes warriors?” Herah asked, tilting her head up as an amused grin came to her face at the thought.

Warriors that small must have the most fire in their hearts.

Owen shook his head.

“We gnomes are a race of inventors, whether it be weaponry, tools, or even strategies we all have an inherent inclination to make.” The binder raised a hand and stared down at it. The artist imagined for a moment, Owen looking at his DNA. “The only gift from our progenitor we bear. And we’re taught from a young age to be proud of that and to love whatever it is we’re good at making. Like you, only my mother and goddesses care for what I believe.”

“Goddesses?” Herah looked back down to the binder, stunned once again, “You worship goddesses?”

“Uh, yeah,” Owen glanced at the artist, brows knit, “Is it weird to worship multiple gods with the Cendreux?”

“No, La Flamme has siblings which we once paid tribute and prayer to alongside her magnificence.” Herah scoffed, a small sliver of green flames leaking from her lips. “The heathens think it weird to worship anything not ourselves nowadays.”

The artist shook her head and waved an arm at the binder.

“But why three? You said progenitor not progenitors, so I don’t imagine all three helped in your people’s creation.”

Another shake of his head.

“None of my goddesses had a hand in the gnome’s creation. At least, not a direct one.”

“Oh,” Herah pursed her lips and leaned away just a bit, trying to put Owen in proper focus now, “Why do you worship them then?”

The binder smiled, clearly more for himself than for the artist, his scent gaining hints of fondness and a flood of love.

“Because they were there for me when I needed them. I built a lot of myself and beliefs around them,” Owen, hat still in one hand, scratched the back of his head with the free one, “I know that’s kinda odd—”

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

“No!” Herah shook her head, a grin stretched wide across her face, “There’s nothing odd about that. It’s the same for me.”

“Really?” the binder’s eyes lit up and his smile deepened, “Your goddess, her name is La Flamme right?”

The artist nodded.

“La Flamme, goddess of flames and life. And yours?”

“Lady Walter, goddess of war, Lady Grey, goddess of life, and Lady Reese, goddess of matter and energy.”

“You hate battle,” Herah breathed out a wisp of red fire before tilting her head to the side and scrutinizing Owen, “Shouldn’t war be even worse?”

The binder let out a weak laugh, clearly not a new thought for his ears.

“I do hate war, but smithing is inseparably tied to it.”

Thoughts of the Cendreux’s own history flashed through the artist’s mind, the Guerre des Cendres and the age of the Gardien de Feu, a warm feeling growing in her chest at the thought of harsher but greater times for the Cendreux.

“You must acknowledge the full weight of your art and all that goes into it.”

Herah felt Owen’s eyes land on herself, surprise filling his scent before acceptance followed.

“Yeah, never had it said to me like that before, but you’re right. War helps to perpetuate smiths, while smiths help to perpetuate war. And due to that link, Lady Walter, while not named one, is also a goddess of smithing.”

The artist grinned, realizing the truth at the heart of what the binder just said.

“Goddess of Crafts and War.”

Owen matched her grin.

“Yes.”

The binder put his hat back onto his head before raising a fist towards Herah.

“As a worshiper, all three in some way help improve my smithing. Lady Reese provides me with the materials, Lady Grey the strength of body to create, and Lady Walter the magic that I use to enhance my creations.”

The artist noticed Owen look down towards the ground, the binder stepping over a large root as a small smile formed from his lip.

“And my mother was the one to get me started, she shared with me what she knew and even introduced me to the three Ladies.

“You owe her everything.” Herah said with another small smile.

Owen nodded in response.

The artist’s smile widened as her thoughts went to her own parents and La Flamme.

“And you’ll do whatever you can to respect them and what they stood for.”

The pair walked in a once again comfortable silence for a few moments, both smiling to themselves, before Herah nodded and looked back down to the binder.

“Owen, I—” the artist paused for a moment, thinking her words over before shaking her head and continuing, “I don’t agree with you, but I can respect what you stand for. From one worshiper to the next.”

The binder looked up to Herah, still smiling.

“I don’t agree with you either Herah, but I can do the same.”

Both let out a laugh as red flames spewed from the artist’s mouth and the sound of Owen’s tunic jingling filled the air.

“So, what about yourself?” the binder asked, causing Herah to blink back questioningly, and Owen to let out a chuckle, “I’m asking what’s your craft? I can tell you want to be a smith.”

“How’d you know?” the artist asked, her smile slipping into a grin.

“Perception is one of the biggest skills for all artists.” the binder responded cheekily.

That got a snort and laugh from Herah before the artist looked forward again and the pair stepped into some light that managed to punch through the treetops. Cool starlight bathed both, causing Herah to look up at the planet’s red star before answering.

“I don’t have any real specialization, I’m just an artiste.”

“Artiste?” Owen blinked, working the word over in his mouth as if foreign to his tongue. “Like paintings and drawings?”

The artist rolled her eyes and shook her head before continuing her steps and plunging back into the darkness of the forest.

“More than that. Dancing, singing, fighting, etc. If it’s an artform, I can do it.”

One of the binder’s brows tilted up.

“Including smithing?”

“Yup.”

Owen let out a pleased hum.

“I’d like to see your creations sometimes, if you want I could even lend you a forge to make stuff.”

Herah shook her head.

“I’m above average.”

The artist felt the binder blinking eyes on the side of her head.

“My skill in art comes from my Gift, Traduire. It makes it so no matter what, I’m always great at whatever artform I attempt. A skilled practitioner, but not necessarily a master.”

“Oh,” Owen seemed taken aback for a moment, his scent shifting to reflect wonder and amazement, “That must be very useful.”

Herah lets out a grunt, green fire flaring from her lips at the action.

“I hate it.”

The artist didn’t have to look to know the binder frowned again.

“Why?”

Herah stopped next to a tree, causing Owen to stop as well. The artist looked down to her hands, her fingers wiggling as they suddenly itched to make something.

“Ever since I could remember, I’ve been able to draw portraits, make sculptures, create and sing songs, do anything involving art if I could put my mind to it. But I never understood how it worked. Things like anatomy, perspective, tune, composition, and more,” Herah shook her head, “I had no idea what they were.”

The binder scratched the back of his head again while tilting it to the side.

“What’s so bad about that?”

The artist let out another breath before continuing to walk once more; Owen followed.

“It’s disconcerting to be able to make so much art but not understand the how and why. And for me, understanding both,” Herah raised both of her hands and clasped them together, “Allows my art to become proper vessels for the stories I wish to tell.”

“Stories?”

“Oui. Behind all my art there is always a story,” The artist took a small breath then huffed out a flaming version of the Cendreux head that healed the binder earlier. It banished the shadows encompassing the pair, “Such as the Tête de Volcan.”

“That’s funny, we share a name.” Owen stepped up to the flaming head and just stared at it, “What’s the story?

“During the centuries long Guerre des Cendres, a three-way war between my people and our two sister species, a Cendre by the name of Vulcan lived.”

The flaming head grew out the rest of its skeleton before flaming skin and scales cloaked it, revealing a long snouted, four legged, and winged lizard that lazed within the air over the pair.

“A dragon.” the binder said, staring up at the Cendre in amazement.

“Interesting name for one of our sister species,” Herah responded, “As I said earlier, we call them Cendre.”

The Cendre started walking on air before the artist breathed out a small flaming horde of ore, which the Cendre dug into.

“Vulcan refused to participate in the fighting and was known to spend his days chewing metal and gems. A glutton, Vulcan often overate and would regurgitate their undigested food as lava.”

The horde dispersed leaving in its remnants an acier who appeared heavily wounded which the Cendre licked at before vomiting up a small puddle of lava.

“Vulcan found my great-great-great grandmother after a battle left her half dead, and the Cendre fed his lava to her weak form to restore her health.”

Herah inhaled her flames before looking at Owen, who smelled of amazement and fascination.

“That’s why it healed me?”

“Yes.”

“Oh wow,” The binder’s scent shifted to realization before Owen nodded, “I can see what you mean. And I can respect it.”.

The artist let out a short laugh.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

The pair settled back into silence, their conversation over as they emerged from the darkness of the forest into a small meadow. Soft blue flowers danced under starlight with no breeze to cause their motions. Each smelled of fire and smoke; a comforting scent for Herah.

Smells like home. the artist thought before glancing back to the binder. I wonder just how much you miss yours? Must be hard for someone so young. Actually, how old are you?

“Owen, age?”

“Huh?” Owen, likely in deep thought, snapped his head up in surprise as the pair made their way through the meadow. “I’m three hundred eight, how old are you?”

Herah let out a sputter of red flames, reeling in shock from the reveal.

You’re older than Feu Rose!

“Sixteen.” the artist answered after a few moments of grappling with the binder’s age.

Now Owen reeled, his tunic letting out sharp jingles as his eyes looked Herah up and down.

“When are you considered an adult!?”

The artist blinked a few times to herself before nodding.

Fair question, it’s likely we have different rates of maturing. The first aliens we conquered, the Fotsretaw and Muirtan, matured a hundred times our speed.

“Twenty,” Herah pointed at the binder, “You?”

“Three hundred twenty-four,” Owen tapped his chin and tilted his head back while his scent fluctuated in a steady pattern reflective of deep thought. “I wonder how old that makes you in gnome years?”

“We call them cycles.” the artist said before during a quick calculation in her head. “I’d be two hundred fifty-nine in gnome cycles. You’re nineteen in Cendreux cycles.”

Surprise flashed across the binder’s face before glancing up to Herah.

“That was quick.”

“There’s an art to math too.”

The pair exited the meadow and slunk back into the darkness of the forest, but this time, about five feet into it, the artist’s nose twitched as the smell of rot tickled it having grown thick.

Herah paused.

“We’re close.”

Owen stepped up next to the artist, looking where her eyes pointed.

“To the rot?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t see or sense it.”

Herah’s nose twitched, working over the distance in her mind.

“Eight ertèmolikas.”

“Ertèmolikas?”

The artist blinked before glancing down towards the binder.

“Oh yeah, measurements probably aren’t the same.” Herah huffed some more smoke while tsking. “How do I explain this?”

“We use CCA for our measurements.” Owen offered.

“CCA?”

The binder took his hat from his head and reached into it. His hand returned with a thin metal cylinder topped by a glass cap that covered several symbols with a moving needle.

The ash is that?

Owen raised the cylinder towards the artist.

“Compass for distance and direction,” The binder ran a finger along the length of the cylinder causing it to elongate unnaturally with a pop. “Cylinder for volume and density, and” Owen ran his finger along the bottom of the cylinder, causing two slits to appear on either side of its length and open the cylinder into a scale, “Anchor for mass and weight.”

An interesting device. Herah sniffed the air. Silver-copper alloy, wonder why? And is it Scientific?

“Ours is called euqirtém, does all of that as well.” The artist pointed at herself. “Can you tell how tall I am?”

The binder collapsed his cylinder back into its smallest form before tossing it into his hat and sitting it back on his head. Hands free, Owen scrutinized Herah for a moment then nodded.

“About eight points.”

Since I’m one point ninety-three hundredth etermas tall, that means about every four points equals one etermas for us. The artist shook her head before looking forward and doing some more math. The conversion only matters if we need to share measurements though, I just needed to make sure you had an idea of how tall I was.

“Multiply that about four thousand times and that’s how far the rot is.”

Exasperation filled the binder’s scent as Owen sighed and shook his head.

“That isn’t close at all, that’s at least another hour of walking, maybe two.”

Herah shrugged.

“I could get us there in less than a second.”

The disbelief and side eye from the binder told the artist her words weren’t believed.

“R-really?”

Herah looked down at Owen, smirking.

“Yup.”

The binder frowned back then sighed.

“That means you carrying me?”

“Yup.”

Owen looked the artist up and down, and his frown deepened.

“I wish you had clothing.”

“Uncomfortable?” Herah asked, raising a brow.

The binder looked down at his feet, grinding one into the dirt.

You’re careful not to step on any plants you can avoid. the artist thought, noticing how Owen’s feet only touched dirt, even while walking through that meadow earlier his feet stepped between flowers where they could.

“I don’t want you to feel indecent.” the binder answered, causing Herah to raise a brow.

“Why would I?”

Owen snapped his head up, locking eyes with the artist while tilting his head to the side.

“Do you not wear clothing for common decency?”

“No,” Herah mirrored the binder’s motions. “I wear them so I don’t have to sever the nerves on my back and chest.”

“Why would you do that?”

“My skin is naturally super sensitive; all Cendreux skin is. A speck of ash brushing any of my skin bar my face would send shivers throughout my body.” The artist raised her arm and waved it. “Since I can’t control my sense of touch well, I must rely on our people’s clothing and my scales to let me feel without feeling too much.”

Pity filled Owen’s scent.

“Sorry to hear that.”

Herah growled and lifted her nose.

“Don’t be, just a feature of my perfection.”

The binder chuckled, his frown turning to a smile before laughter followed. The artist smelled Owen’s amusement and the disappearance of his pity, so joined in his laughs. Herah laughed alongside her companion for a small minute, and once the last chuckle left, the binder gave the artist a light poke to the stomach.

“So, that’s all numb right now?”

“Yup.”

“Well,” Owen looked away, a blush dusting his face. “It’s good you’re not uncomfortable.”

Herah tilted her head the other way.

“Are you?”

“A little.”

The artist closed her eyes, focusing on the warmth to the right of her heart. One thought sent this warm spreading all throughout her chest then—

FWOOSH!

Red flames poured from the pores of her skin, causing the binder to fall away from Herah as the fire fashioned itself into a tank-top and shorts. Once formed, the artist looked to Owen and gestured towards her new wear.

“For your comfort.”

Climbing back to his feet, the binder stepped towards Herah and looked up for permission. The artist nodded, and Owen touched her flaming shirt.

“How does that not burn you?” The binder pulled his hand back and stared at it, “Or me?”

“Immune to heat damage, and my flames don’t hurt what I don’t wish them to.”

Curiosity welled up within Owen’s smell, his eyes studying the fire in a cross between admiration and amazement.

“How?”

“La Flamme’s fire destroys, but also creates, shapes, and comforts. My mistress extends those options to all her children.”

“That’s beautiful.”

Herah smiled widely.

“Agreed.” The artist extended a hand to the binder. “Now, let’s go.”

Owen nodded, before taking Herah’s hand and rising into the air with her pull. Thanks to his size and lightness the artist could hold the binder easily with one hand but thought it more respectful to sit Owen atop her shoulders.

“Grab tightly onto my horns.”

While not as sensitive as the rest of her body, Herah’s horns did have nerves so the artist felt the binder’s small but rough fingers wrap around her natural head ornaments.

The hands of a craftsman.

“Close your eyes too, wind will irritate them.”

“Got it!”

Believing her passenger all set, Herah held his legs to her shoulders and unfurled her wings. While the treetops were dense, the large distance between each cluster allowed the artist to fully spread her wings.

Quick and easy, just got to make sure not to hit any trees on the way. Hate to make you upset by killing some by accident.

Herah leaned forward, dulled the nerves in her nose, then flapped her wings.

Faster than a blink, the artist flew tens of thousands of feet. There wasn’t even a blur, just suddenly one place then another, before a flap of her wings forward halted her momentum and landed the pair at the edge of another tree line.

It took a second for everything else to catch up.

BOOM!

BOOM!

The distant sound of the sound barrier breaking came out a microsecond before the close sound of it followed, a shockwave rippling out from both areas and sweeping the forest. Herah didn’t feel the second one, standing and serving as the point of origin, but felt her bones and organs rattle as the first one swept by. All around, trees shook, leaves fell, and dirt flew; but nothing died as a cloud of dirt blotted the artist’s vision.

I saw what I needed though, good thing I numbed my nose.

Herah waved her wings, clearing the air of the dirt and leaves.

“We’re here.” The artist glanced up to Owen, the binder leaning over her head and looking forward with narrowed eyes and a light cough.

“My gods,” Surprise and fear colored Owen’s words and his scent.

Can’t blame you for that, A sour taste filled Herah’s mouth, and a pit of disgust welled within her gut as her eyes swept over the stretch of land before them. There is nothing right about this.

As if a void spilled out into reality, a well of inky black liquid submerged hundreds of feet worth of forest. From this well, drops of the black substance defied gravity and fell up towards the sky. The several trees unfortunate enough to sit within this liquid all stood rotted, bent over, and grey.

“This is the rot you were talking about?” the binder asked, dropping from the artist’s shoulders and slowly approaching the ruined land.

“Yes,” Herah stepped forward as well, dropping down to a knee when they both reached the very edge, “Never seen anything like this.”

“Neither have I,” Owen looked down and stared hard at the black liquid, “Is this some form of dark magic?”

“Weird you say that,” The artist inhaled and then exhaled, an idea coming to mind, “Pseudoscience is more likely, but I’ll need to analyze it closer.”

Herah felt the binder’s eyes land on her, several chinks marking his unsure shaking.

“How will you do that?”

“Gift.”

“Traduire?” Confusion flowed with Owen’s words, “Are you going to make something like you did to fix me up?”

The artist looked to the binder and frowned; misbegotten memories called forth from her flame with the question. Flashes of sterile and cruel faces overlapped with Owen’s.

You’re not them. Herah thought to herself as the binder maintained his confused look, You’re Gifted like me. Not a threat.

The artist closed her eyes and nodded to herself, the memories falling back to her flame, before looking back to the rot.

“My Gift allows me to observe all that makes up whatever I focus my senses upon.”

“Your Gift does a lot.”

Herah blinked then looked back at Owen.

“All Gifts do a lot.”

The binder blinked back at the artist.

“How do you know that?”

Herah looked away.

“You’re not the first Gifted I’ve encountered.”

“Oh,” the smell of realization followed Owen’s single word response, “Who?”

The faces of several étincelle came to mind instantly, some twisted in anguish, others fear, a few smiles.

“Cendreux like me, fifteen others.”

The binder let out a small laugh.

“Lucky they didn’t get chosen by Norwe.”

The artist didn’t laugh, her lips going tight as her eyes stared into the black. Memories that deserved no description followed, memories that occasionally haunted her sleep even now.

“Couldn’t have, they’re dead. All but one, I found out today.”

Herah felt Owen freeze up next to her, shame and worry flooding his smell.

“O-Oh, I’m sorry.”

The artist shrugged even as a dull ache throbbed in her chest.

“Don’t be, you didn’t kill them.”

A dead silence hung over the pair as Herah continued to stare into the black. Moisture gathered in the corner of her eyes as the artist took a few slow breaths.

Herah felt the binder put a hand on her shoulder.

“You okay?”

“Sure.”

The artist let out a growl and ignited in orange flames, causing steam to rise from her eyes and Owen to let out a yelp and leap back.

“What was that for!?”

“Burning away my weakness. Now, it’s time I check this out.”