Aemarys, witch of the Mazzi forest, last surviving member of The Ashen Circle, often spent her time studying the stars. The three sisters, the chimera, the weaver. She looked to them not for their beauty, but for their secrets. Not looking to them as just stars, but theater, stories left behind by ancient unseen hands. But no story gripped her mind like the wanderer.

A few speckled stars in the shape of a man eternally posed between the north and south star; his shape blotchy, like the hands had captured him mid conflicted step. She always felt a kinship with the wanderer. His indecision. There was a bleakness in him, forever frozen in a moment of choice. She knew it all too well. “Noone to help you. Noone to talk to.

A terrible fate only left for us most unfortunate few, eh?” Her voice purred through the old wood cabin. She soon found she was staring longer than she liked to admit. What was he paralyzed by? Fear? Doubt? Was this merely about a path or life and death? Aemarys imagined the wanderer, a small farm boy lost in the woodlands. A sinister choice. Maybe neither choice was correct. Maybe he’d walk the etheric trees till death found him.

She shivered and closed her book. Eldaria always said, “The stars are not mirrors but windows. Stare too long and you might see things. Or things may see you.” She hadn’t heard that babble since she was in her teens. To most standards, she was an old woman now, but the magic and her hobbies kept her young. She stood, having taken what she could from her stargazing, and continued her nightly checklist.

Aemarys had already tied her long spiraling orange hair up into a neat bun. She placed her crystals and gems out in the moonlight, her ingredients, parchments, bottles all organized by shape and content. Her movements mirrored an elaborate dance as she spun through every inch of the memorized cabin. She knew precisely where to step and how much pressure to keep the creaky floorboards silent. If there was one thing she was proud of, it was her memory.

From the drably shaded curtains Eldaria hung for her before she was tall enough to reach, to the worn runes scratched and re-scratched into the wood frame. This cabin was her sanctuary. Her pond of memories. Everywhere she looked, she saw one and none ever left. Eldaria always said, journey to the past and you’ll grow older. She laughed and shook off her unease. With the same swiftness, she snuffed out the lanterns, sending the room into a comfortable purple-blue haze. Nothing but the moon shone through the cracks in her ceiling. She had used her magic before to fix the place up, but she liked that feature. Aemarys strolled to bed, tucked herself in, and prepared for the next day. The wanderer, the stars, they would have to wait for her tomorrow.

She stumbled through a field of Anokau wheatgrass. The bustling sweetness of sugar blew through her nostrils and the crowded crystalline leaves tugged at her dress until it ripped at the hem and skirt. Summer kufki heat simmered in the winds, burning her nostrils, and the sky spattered with unnatural red splotches. As she walked, she grew heavy and tired. Her bones ached with heat. Eventually, she spotted a tiny figure in the distance, the splotches of red seemingly ablaze behind him. A boy. A boy with a gleaming golden sword too big for his little body. A boy no older than 15 wallowing in the red sky. The blade, now appearing a vibrant orange, pulsed a dark purple, as if it was alive, feeding off of the boy. Aemarys stumbled through the clearing. The boy flinched, and she locked eyes with him. Those cold blue eyes were pits of sorrow. Deep as the ocean, but empty.

“Y-you shouldn’t be here.” The boy said, his voice scattered and split, yet loud and forceful. “It’s n-not s...safe.”

Aemarys stepped closer, one hand up to the boy, ready for diplomacy and force. “Who are you?” She asked.

The boy twitched at the question as if it caused him pain. He fully turned and stepped towards her. His sword dragged along the dirt, leaving jagged cracks that seemed to stretch into the ground. “I-I didn’t mean to.” His gaze fell on the sword. “I didn’t have a choice!”

Before she could take another step, the skies shifted. The bloody red turned a deep purple-black. The boy glanced up and rambled twistedly in a familiar tongue. One she hadn’t heard in centuries. Her eyes widened as the boy took up a stance and dash for her faster than her eyes could see. She quickly stumbled back into the brush, but her feet betrayed her. The boy.

Took a leap and with regret in his eyes. He swung. She reached her hands out, trying to use her magic, but nothing came to. Before she had time for another action, the boy was at her neck. He swung, cleaving her head in one strike.

Aemarys Leapt up from her bed with a gasp. Her hands flew up, catching her throat as if she were still bleeding. Her my raced, her chest heaved. The symbols, the boy, who was he-why? She pressed her palms to her head and tried to calm herself but the boy-his eyes-his hollow eyes.

“It was just a dream.” She said, but the feeling still latched itself around her. She felt exposed, like the dream had reached inside and pried something feral out of her. The faint glow of a rune on the edge of her cabin caught her eye. Intruders? She sighed.

The sun hung low on the mercenary camp, bleeding a mystified orange beam of light along the treeline as Nekoiya crept through their shadows. Ahead the camp sturred with the beat of scurrying feet and tools. The acrid stench of kindle bane clung to the air like wet clothes to skin. Its smell mingled with the metallic tang of sharpened swords and made for a bitter concoction Nekoiya was forced to breathe in. Men barked orders then scurried themselves. Talks of the hunt to come oozed with an excitement for violence Nekoiya had only seen a few times from these men.

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Nekoiya’s heart pounded through his chest and reverberated into his ears. The viscous drumbeat of his fears shot through him with every step, almost loud enough to echo through the trees. His jaw clenched as he swallowed back his panic.

Tekkon was somewhere around the camp–triple checking supplies, barking orders at men, or perhaps already looking for him. Whatever he was doing, the boy hoped he wasn’t looking for him. His mind lingered on the talk they had the night before. Again, Nekoiya had asked to join them on the hunt for the Sacha-Runa, and Tekkon again said no. His words echoed through Nekoiya’s mind, “You’re not ready. You’re too young.” Tekkon wasn’t mean or forceful, but his sternness and Rocky demeanor would give anyone pause that, combined with his overwhelming stature, made Nekoiya just a tad fearful.

Slipping into a brush that seemed lower than others, Nekoiya made way into a burrow that gave way to a steep hill. One moment he was fine, the next he'd lost his footing and he tumbled to the bottom. He froze for a moment, his breathing sharp and pained. His hands were caked in soil, and a spike of shame made way in his chest. He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to be sneaking around His own camp. He didn’t want to lie and hide and be a coward. He wanted to march straight to Tekkon’s tent, look him in the eyes, and say, “I’m going. I’m just as much a man as any of you. I have to earn my keep like everyone else. So by Seies, give me a sword and let me fight!” But he soon felt another wave of anxiety burrow its way through his stomach.

The shadows around the campfire crept to life the more time had passed. Figures darted back and forth, lugging supplies to wagons or waking up others to do the job for them. The final preparations were closed. Nekoiya edged closer. Every step was a silent gamble as he crawled through where the underbrush was thickest. A group of mercenaries passed close by. 3 of them. Each one of them’s armors clunking together a whirling metal song. Nekoiya pressed himself against the base of the dirt and stilled his breathing. He watched as the trio trudged by. Arvien, the tallest of the three, let out an exhausted yawn, his axe and rations bag tilled the soil behind him as it dragged. As if the contents were too much for his meager body to hold.

“Coulda been done with this already, had they minded their own and let us work.” He spoke with a soft accent Nekoiya didn’t recognize.

“You mean to let you work,” Thalvak lazily shot back. “Gods know you’d sooner trip over your own feet than pick up the pace.”

Zephim, one of the few grey-skinned men in their camp, let out a disgusting chuckle while fixing his ill-fitting chest plate to his lanky frame. He was a peculiar man; Tekkon had once told him that such a man was a Kretna, but Nekoiya hadn’t inquired further about the meaning. Just that their skin was funny.

“I’m just sayin’, why all the fuss? We know the drill. Pack up, haul ass, swing a blade, collect our coin. Who cares if it’s perfect?” Arvien huffed.

“This is Tekkons mission.” Thalvak said, to the dismay of the other two.

“Tekkon. Bah! When’s the last time anything’s gone smooth under his watch? He knows how this stuff goes. Some things are bound to fail,” Arien said. The other two collectively rolled their eyes. Then Thalvak took the last bite of his Grenfruit before chucking the husk to the ground a few steps from Nekoiya.

“Well, just let someone else stock the wagon. It’s not like we’ll be the ones yelled at if something’s missing.” The three trudged off into the distance, their silhouettes fading into the black of the trees.

Nekoiya pondered for a moment. Had this journey really been more than he bargained for? Those men spoke as if this plan was destined to fail, and someone was bound to get hurt—and they certainly didn’t want it to be them. But he pushed the thought aside as a small supply wagon at the edge of the camp caught his eye. He knew he couldn’t sneak on to the mission on the main road. Tekkon was busy, but he wasn’t oblivious.

He’d spot the boy before they left ten paces away from the camp. Barrels and sacks loaded the rusted wooden frame of the wagon. If he could sneak on, he’d probably go unnoticed for most of the trip, and by the time they noticed him, it’d be too late to turn around. Nekoiya scratched at his face. His mind tumbled the risks around once more. If Tekkon were to catch him...

No, he couldn’t think about that now. He had already come this far and any thoughts to sway him would Force him to back down. And he wasn’t about to lose his chance. Staying nearly chest to the ground. Nekoiya darted across the open path, attempting to avoid any spots of sunlight. He quickly slid along the ground, crouching down beneath the wheel. With a flick, he scanned his surroundings to make sure no one saw him. The camp was a storm of activity as men rushed from cart to wagon to tent. But nobody seemed to notice, or at least they didn’t make it known. Quietly, he climbed into the wagon; the wood scraping against his already dirty hands. Once he made it to the back, he clutched his knees to his chest. He tried his best to cram himself between boxes. But a soft drumming in his chest began and he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking.

The time dragged by And Nekoiya felt the pinch of sleep pulling at his jaw. Finally, the sound of boots approached and the wagon’s sharp dip to the left accompanied it as the driver took his seat.

“Move out!” A strong, familiar voice boomed through the open field. A bag flew from the front and whacked Nekoiya in the head. He bit his tongue in pain.

Nekoiya caught his breath as the wagon lurched forward, the steady rocking of the unbalanced wheels soon, the few footsteps grew too many and the wagons behind soon rode its line. As the camp faded out of view, a sudden thump hit Nekoiyas’ mind. He hadn’t thought this far yet. He didn’t have a weapon. He could fight, but not well enough to beat a Sacha-Runa. And worst of all, he didn’t have any food. As the sun rose, so did the doubt in his chest, and it's only intensity with every passing member who peered into the wagon to see him. He wanted to shake away the fear. He wasn’t just doing this out of spite; he needed to prove himself. He wasn’t going to be left behind. Instead, he tilted his head to the sky and watched as the clouds rolled by. Hopefully, it won’t storm today. He thought.