Raya sat amongst a great black fog, the choking truth crushing down upon her in a sheet. The bed beneath her creaked as she turned, staring at the ceiling. Mother Reila’s home was quiet outside the village's central cluster, resting on the edge of a field of waving corn stalks. The bedroom was small and decorated with paintings of trees and waterfalls. Mother Reila had left her alone to rest, going off to help feed the wounded. The fading light shone through the window, the darkness around and within thickening with every breath.

Outside, two Rangers guarded a dead man. They had wrapped him in a blanket and laid him in a wooden shed. One of them, a pretty girl with red hair, had told her that she wouldn’t be bothered and that if she needed anything, she needed only to ask. Raya could see her reality reflected in the Ranger’s pity-filled eyes.

Her parents were dead. The fact was simple and accurate beyond doubt. Yet the fact slipped from her every time she tried to grasp it. The idea was so absurd that she was simply incapable of grasping it. Her parents were dead. Killed by a rot walker and killed in front of her.

The fact pressed around her, shrouding her movement. Every blink brought back the image of her father lying broken in front of her. Every gust of wind carried the sound of her mother’s screams. That truth was everything, yet it seemed so distant. They weren’t dead. They couldn’t be dead. Her parents couldn’t die. If she just closed her eyes and willed herself to wake, this would all just be a horrible nightmare.

Yet she was still there whenever she opened her eyes, lying on someone else’s bed. Her parents were dead. Raya was beyond tears; her eyes had long dried, and the uncontrollable screaming sobs had left long ago. Nothing remained but a blank emptiness. It hung over her, pressing down in an oppressive fog that left her unable to think of anything except the sound of her father crumpling into the wall and the smell of his blood. She longed to cry, for something to break through the wall of darkness that surrounded her. Nothing came, only the void.

She pressed a finger to her neck, feeling for the pulse underneath. She didn’t feel alive. She felt as if she was watching herself live, trapped underneath some great net that kept her still empty while others moved around her. The bump, bump, bump of her heartbeat moved under her fingers. She pulled the blanket over herself and closed her eyes, letting the darkness overtake her. She would find solace in sleep if only to wake again to the nightmare.

She twisted and turned underneath the blanket, trying to get comfortable. Were the gods so cruel that they wouldn’t even allow her this? She pulled the blanket tighter but found nothing but scratchy wool. She curled into a ball, straightened, and returned to the ball again. Still, comfort was lost to her. She sat up, hands pulling at her hair as it hung wildly.

Her breath quickened, but tears wouldn’t come. She wanted to feel anything except this nothingness. She wanted to hurt. She wanted to scream. She wanted to have anything, any feeling that would pierce through the numbness surrounding her. Something was wrong with her. Her parents were dead, and she couldn’t even cry.

I’m so, so sorry.

The words echoed in her mind. She looked around the room, trying to find where it had come from. She was alone, the room dark around her as the sun disappeared.

You don’t deserve this. Any of this.

It was only then that tears finally came. Her body shook as she wept, pulling a pillow to her face to stifle the sounds. Her parents were dead. The shaking changed to great wheezing cries and then muffled screams as she gripped the pillow tighter, screaming anguish into a black void.

----------------------------------------

Seren was cold. He gripped his spear, his cloak offering comfort against the dark. Jeorge’s blood had long dried on his forehead and had begun to flake off like rust. He and Trissa stood at opposite ends of the shed door, spears at their side. The Captain had told them that they would change shifts and watch over Jeorge at midnight, softly telling them to make sure the girl was not bothered. The haunted, empty expression on the girl's face made his skin crawl.

Trissa had been in to check on her periodically. Seren doubted he would be much help in these sorts of situations. She was silent as she leaned against the shed wall, her spear beside her. The safewood whispered behind them, the sounds of creaking wood and shifting leaves overlaying the night. A torch cast yellow light from a mount on the side of the shed.

Seren’s mind wandered in the dark. The rot walker. He had heard senior Ranger tell tales of the monsters. The stories of raving Mycellians, chanting in a forgotten tongue, with blades that would kill with the slightest touch. He had been taught every way that you could kill one. Aim for the joints, surround it with spears, and eventually hit it enough times to break the fungal armor. And yet he froze, stuck in one of his spells.

You’re nothing but a coward, boy. You’re not fit to work a field, not fit to swing an axe, not fit to clean boots. You’ll end up dead in a ditch with the Rangers if they can find a use for you that’s not digging a latrine.

He felt selfish, worrying about himself when a Ranger was dead and a girl had lost her parents. His arms were tired and hung at his side loosely. A night of fighting and a day of clearing rubble left his body feeling thick and slow. He could see Trissa turning something in her fingers beside him, her shadows shifting in the light. The coin caught the light as she turned it around with her fingers.

“Where’d you find that?”

Trissa’s hand closed around the coin, “none of your business.”

“You’re being stoic again.”

Trissa held a fist up sharply. “I can’t right now, Seren. I just…can’t talk about it.” Her mouth was a tight line underneath her hood.

Seren sighed, staring up at the sky. The stars scattered themselves in the inky black in an array of white pinpricks. Fyrun glowed white, the half-moon like a beacon amongst the maze of smaller lights. As Fyrun watches in silence, so do we—our hands in service, our hearts in honor, our lives in vigil.

“I froze.”

Trissa was silent. There was a faint crackling from the torch. A bat fluttered across the sky, darkening the stars as it passed.

“I froze whenever I saw it. I could fight. I wanted to fight, but I couldn’t move.”

If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

“You did fight it, and you hit it more than I did.”

Seren shook his head, “I just got stuck. I couldn’t think, couldn’t see. If you hadn’t grabbed me, I’d be dead.”

Trissa sighed, tucked the coin beneath her cloak, and rubbed her face. “What do you want me to say, Seren? That you didn’t freeze? That you charged headlong into battle with a sword in hand like Fyrun made flesh? You froze, but you fought. You’re letting yourself get so caught up with the fear of being afraid that you’re throwing aside everything you did and focusing only on your fear. “

Seren was quiet and scratched at the patches in his beard. The fear of being afraid. “I’m sorry, I’m being stupid.”

Trissa pushed back her hood. The firelight made her pale skin seem luminous in the night. She looked at him, leaning her shoulder against the shed. Her gaze had shifted from its hardened look to a softer expression, her eyes seeming broader and more deeply blue as she stared at him.

Her voice was quiet as she spoke, “You feel like your heart’s going to burst from your chest. Everything moves too fast, and that makes your heart beat even faster. You feel like everything around you is too loud, hurting your head. You feel like you can’t breathe, like there’s a weight pressing down on you from all sides, and you can't push it away.”

Seren shivered as a cold wind blew behind them, fanning the torch as the trees groaned. “My father says I’m a coward.”

Trissa's eyes were vacant, as if she was staring at something behind Seren as she hugged herself. “You’re not a coward, Seren.” Her next words were barely a whisper, almost lost to the sounds of the forest. “Lya wasn’t a coward.”

“Who’s Lya?”

Trissa blinked. She clearly didn’t think he heard that. Her soft gaze was replaced by something else, something so like what he saw in Raya when she met his eyes. A horrible heaviness. “My sister.”

Seren turned to face her, leaning with her in the torchlight. “You mentioned her at the circle stones. I never even knew you had siblings.”

Trissa stared through him. He could practically feel her eyes boring through his body, watching something beyond him. “I don’t. Not anymore.”

Seren started to open his mouth to ask that horrible question, but the sound of footsteps broke through the night. He turned to see Mother Reila returning, flanked by two senior Rangers, her dress stained with dirt and blood. She nodded appreciatively at the pair and opened the door to her home, closing it without a word.

Seren and Trissa saluted the seniors. They saluted back. One walked closer, pushing back her hood to reveal a scarred face. Seren recognized Ira immediately. The weeks of grueling drills and yelling burned her image in his mind.

“The Captain has called for both of you. We’re to cover the rest of your watch. He’s in the old library.”

Seren looked at Trissa, who shrugged, pulling her hood back over her face. All vulnerability had left her face, replaced only by a stony indifference. The darkness overtook them as they walked back through the fields of corn, the lights from the village serving as a beacon in the night.

----------------------------------------

“Reports have come in from Camp Baelon.” Gareth felt even older, if that was somehow possible, as he sat at a table in the center of the small library. Books lay behind him on a shelf that took up the back wall, lantern light giving the room an eerie feeling as the trainees sat across from him. Mother Ruthe had brought him tea that had long gone cold. “We found Fyrn. He’s dead.”

Seren’s eyes widened at the shock of it. Trissa's face was unmoving as she sat staring at him blankly. Gareth couldn’t imagine what it was like for the two of them. Fyrn was a good man, respected by his peers, and one of their best hunters. They had only been stationed there for a little over a month, but deployment at the camp tended to bring Rangers together.

Trissa was the first to speak. “How did he die?”

Gareth leaned back in his chair. “We found him with his throat cut. His wounds were black with poison.”

Seren spoke between slow, controlled breaths. “So, the rot walker killed him after he sent the message.”

“Or there’s another one out there,” Trissa answered for Gareth.

Gareth nodded slowly. Everything felt heavy. He doubted he would sleep tonight even if he tried. Gods, he wanted to fight something. “The wounds were too fresh for it to have been the same. He died with a sword in his hand. He died with honor. More importantly, his wounds took him before the poison. His body is being taken back to the fort. We’ll honor him with Jeorge.”

Seren nodded, his breathing slowing as the lad took control of himself. “Captain,” the boy stared at the floor. “This has never happened before, captain.”

“We’ve fought rot walkers since before you were born, Ranger.”

This time, Trissa spoke. “They’ve never been like that, and there’s never been two this far into the safewood. What would you have us do against that?” She held his gaze with an ice he would’ve deemed disrespectful under different circumstances. He knew no lie or rousing speech to boost morale would sate them.

Helrir straightened from where he stood in the corner, his voice sharp as he barked at the trainee. “Mind your tone when you speak to the captain! I’ve a mind- “

Gareth raised his hand, and Helrir fell silent. He scratched his beard. He wished he had his pipe. No, that wouldn’t do to smoke after people had died. “They fought it, Helrir. They have a right to their concerns.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. It's about what you do now that matters. He let the mask slip just the slightest bit. “You’re right. We’ve never fought one like that before. They said it talked about a child of mist. And now I hear the Ferrews saying that a wisp wight appeared in their home, speaking to that boy from the woods.”

Seren shifted uncomfortably in his seat, still staring at his feet. “Sir. What happened with the girl? Raya, I think her name was. We didn’t press because, well…gods, we’re not cruel. But it was like she…used magic.”

The room grew colder at the implications of his words. The unspoken taboo left a sour taste in the air. Helrir grunted beside Gareth, shaking his head.

“Magic is lost to us, boy.” The lieutenant's voice was wary as he spoke. The words seemed thick on his tongue. “Speak no more of it.”

Even Trissa, unshakable as she was, looked at Seren awkwardly. These things were not spoken of, not thought of. But Gareth could not blame the lad; thoughts of the same manner had filled his head of late.

“I saw what happened, sir. I can’t think of anything else to explain it. Maybe somehow that girl-“

Gareth shot a sharp look at the boy, who stammered as he stopped talking. He would not suffer talk of this. Not tonight. Not when he was so tired. “We have no magic. Not anymore. Our Transgression was too great, and the gods stripped it from us. What you saw was Ioleth’s intervention on our behalf. Be thankful that you witnessed this. You can tell your sons how you laid eyes on the earth goddess yourself.” The words didn’t feel right as they left his mouth, but he could not have Rangers spouting talk of magic. Not until he knew more.

The door creaked open slowly, and the sounds of men murmuring and clattering about grew louder as Sylen peeked his head in. “Sorry to disturb captain, but you need to come out here.”

“And why is that, Ranger?”

Sylen paused, standing in the doorway like a specter in the night. “You need to come out here, sir.” Gareth stood from his chair, nodding at the two trainees as he passed them. As he stepped through the open door into the cold of the night, what he saw waiting for him left his jaw agape in awe.

Men, made of interlocking pieces of fungus and alight with a blue glow, swarmed out of the safewood. They bore no weapons in their mishappen hands. Some carried baskets of berries and wild fruits. Others carried deer carcasses slung over their shoulders. Their blue light filled the village as they walked through the streets like many pale suns had come to Earth. Some villagers opened doors, shying away from the light that threatened to blind them. No one moved to musters arms. No one screamed. They aren’t here to hurt us.

The Mycellians laid food baskets before the bewildered townsfolk, chittering in their strange tongue. Others began to carry off piles of rubble that had been cleared away, working in perfect unison as they hauled away shattered brick and wood with ease.

“I’ve never seen so many in one place,” Sylen muttered, his expression one of awe.

One of the Mycellians began to approach Gareth. He was taller than the others, and a great beard of lichen hung from his face. Blue pulsed from within him, dimming as he got closer. He carried a jagged blade of black glass in a weathered belt at his hip. Countless mushrooms sprouted from his shoulders and back, and his arms were covered in a layer of moss, like the sleeves of a coat. His voice was guttural as he spoke, his hand on the handle of his blade.

“You are Gareth. Captain of Rangers. We must speak.”