Joren inspected his work one last time. The boy Ruan was stable at last. Unconscious, having brushed up against death itself, but he would live, Joren felt confident about that, judging the strength in his spirit. And that was all that mattered.

Thick bandages were wrapped around his skull, shaggy hair sticking out at the edges, though the back was entirely shaved. The dreamsmoke had settled in the room now, and for the first time in an hour, Joren felt only his own pain and exhaustion. The procedure had taken a spiritual toll greater than any he’d performed in years.

Urla rested her head on her son’s chest. With eyes struggling to remain open, she watched his tranquil face, the cadence of his breathing.

Joren moved around the table to give them space, but Urla seized hold of his wrist.

“Was it enough, shaman?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

She didn’t know it, but Joren was certain the boy would not have survived the procedure if his mother had not been present. Which explained the level of her exhaustion. As he neared death, the boy’s spirit had lashed out, as spirits often did, searching for strength, anything to keep them tethered to the only world they knew.

Ruan’s spirit latched onto his mother’s, drew on her strength. It had nearly taken her to the brink of death herself.

“Yes, Lady Consul, I believe it was enough,” Joren answered. “But first, he must rest. And so must you.”

Few in this world understood the true power of a parent’s love. It was tangible, spiritual. Ruan had drawn on Joren’s spirit too, along with the rest of his family’s, but only Urla Pelasius could have offered what her son required.

But she too would be fine. With rest.

Joren smiled at her. For all the differences between Faltara and Attica—or Taika or Valucia, or anywhere else—they were not so different. This had been his greatest lesson during his Wandering. It was good to be reminded of it once more, now, of all times.

The woman looked up to him with pleading eyes, loving and grateful eyes. “Thank you shaman. Truly.”

Joren squeezed her hand. “Children bear far too much of the burdens of war. Any chance the gods give me to relieve it is a chance I thank them gladly for.”

Urla pondered this. “You’ve seen war before.”

“Sadly, yes. I left Faltara for a time. It’s a bit of a tradition among our most restless youths. We leave, experience some of the depravity of the southern world. Nearly all return soon enough.”

“Which war was it?”

“I was… conscripted by the Taikans. Served as a healer.”

“The Taikan Rebellion was my first campaign,” Urla said somberly. “And one of the fiercest campaigns I ever experienced. The Good Emperor had yet to unite the Dragon Lords. They were hoping he’d fail.”

“Yes, the fighting was brutal,” Joren said. “I tended many spirits as they passed to the World Beyond. The memories have never left me. But I saved many lives as well, and for that, I am grateful to the gods.”

“I don’t believe that you were only a healer in the way, shaman. I saw the way you fought against those shapeshifters.”

“No one is just a healer in war. Certainly not amongst the Taikan.”

“They were far more tactical than expected. The Attican generals underestimated them. I learned later that the campaign lasted a year longer than necessary because of their poor judgment at the outset. They thought them mere barbarians. Nomads. Hunters. I’ve never seen a cavalry so united. And the Dragonmounts were sparse at the time without the support of the Dragon Lords. If Vitruvian hadn’t led the air assault himself, I wonder if we would have won. Attica may have fractured entirely. How different the world would be.”

“It was another life,” Joren said, pushing back gruesome memories. “I try my best not to go back.”

Urla sighed. “Would that war still disturbed me the way it did then. I’ve seen too much bloodshed, shaman. Even at my own husband’s death… I could not find tears even for him.”

“Do you regret your path, Consul?”

“No…” Her voice drifted, eyes closed.

Joren wasn’t sure he believed her, but she said no more.

“You should go, Lady,” Joren said. “Sleep. Your son will not wake until morning, the tinctures will make sure of that. And you’ve an important task ahead tomorrow. And a long march.”

“No, I should—”

“Your son is safe, Urla. There is nothing more you can do tonight.”

Urla nodded and managed to rise with a great degree of effort. She crossed the room but paused at the door. “I meant what I said. I do not wish any more harm to come to your people.”

Stolen story; please report.

“I believe you,” Joren said. “But you more than anyone knows that war cares nothing for our wishes. I must spare who I can, which is why I must lead my people away from this place.”

Urla hesitated. Joren could sense a turmoil in her spirit, though he was too weak to make sense of it just now. “Good night, Lady Consul.”

Urla left.

Joren did one last inspection, monitoring Ruan’s breathing and pulse, as well as his spiritual resonance. It was much steadier now, despite all he’d endured. He was fully tethered to this world once more.

He burned a prayer of thanks and turned to leave, only to find Malik, standing in the door where Urla had been moments ago.

His son’s expression was hard to read, though his spirit was unsettled.

“I know you think the Atticans are the enemy,” Joren said.

“And you don’t?”

Joren chuckled. “Oh, I know they’re the enemy. I’ve seen the empire do far worse things than anything that’s occurred here.”

“On your uhmskara.”

Joren nodded.

“Why don’t you ever speak of it, father?”

“Because my experience of the outside world only further complicated my already complex understanding of the world. And you were not ready.”

Malik scowled. “I came of age. I’m a bloody shaman, now. When else would I have been ready?”

“You needed to sort out your own beliefs. I did not wish to sway you. And son, you’ve done better than I could have dreamed.”

“What?” Malik’s eyes welled with tears.

Joren had been hard on his son for two long years. It had been necessary. After his brother’s death, Malik had needed to learn to be strong. It had been pained Joren every moment. Each day wondering if he was failing. As a shaman, a father.

Joren strode over to Malik and pulled him into an embrace.

“You had the courage to speak truth. To me. To the council. To all our people. I’m so proud of you, son.”

Malik sobbed into his chest, and Joren held him tight.

It was sometime before Malik released him. There was a tremor in his spirit.

“Father, there is one more truth I need to speak.”

***

“And… you believe her?” Joren asked when Malik had finished.

In the quiet of the Sacred Hall of the temple, Joren, Malik, and Madri stood before the Valucian rebel.

A coil of rope bindings were spread on the floor, beside a leathern leg brace. Ava Rykus sat calmly in the chair, hands propped on Joren’s desk.

Madri nodded to him. “The girl speaks truth. I feel it in my spirit.”

Ava’s eyes were heavy, cheeks flushed. She looked to have been crying, but she was perfectly even-keeled now.

“If my father can get to your Gate before the Atticans, we can end their rule.”

“You told her of the Gate of the Ancients?”

Malik shook his head. “She knew already. Or at least had a very good suspicion.”

“Or she peered into your mind, son. She’s skilled with cerebral magic.”

“Malik is right,” Madri said. “The girl has seen a Gate like ours before. She showed it to me. A Valucian secret known only to a select few.”

If there was another Gate, then theirs could not be the only path of the Crossing, just as other nations claimed. Another Gate was proof that their foundational myths were incomplete at best.

“Where?” Joren asked.

“In the Ever Sea,” Ava said.

Joren shook his head. “Are there more Gates than that?”

Ava shrugged. “My father says so. In other remote parts of the world.”

“Like Elya?”

“Perhaps.” Ava shrugged. “But I’ve only ever seen ours.”

“You wish to destroy the gate?” Joren said. “There is a faction of our people who have proposed this same thing for years. But the proposal has always been dismissed.”

“And look where that’s gotten you.”

Madri shot Ava a hard glare.

The girl nodded. “Sorry. Sometimes my mouth speaks before I do.”

Joren smirked. He sensed the flash of hish brushing up against his spirit, knew the girl was subtly trying to impress charm. Ava was good at it, he had to give her that. But he sensed sincerity, and if Madri—whose intuition was leagues beyond his own—felt the same, then the matter was settled.

“I was left here to prepare for what’s to come,” Ava said.

“When will the rebels return?”

“Tomorrow.”

“With an army?”

Ava’s mouth twisted. “The Atticans wish you to believe that we would turn your island into a battlefield. They may even truly believe it themselves. But we do not have an army. Not yet. The Valucian kingdoms fear another uprising, no matter their hatred of Attica. We have only a small company to carry out this mission. But if we succeed…. If we do cut off the Attican Empire from their source of power, that could raise a true army.”

“What of the Elyans?” asked Joren.

“We have one runeship. The same as Siga had.”

“And those Morph creatures?” Malik asked.

“Okay, not exactly the same as Siga. But they are not Elyan exactly.”

Joren raised a brow. The girl was still holding things back.

“Do you want us to trust you, or don’t you?” Joren asked.

“The Elyans are concerned about the growing threat that Attica poses under Athanasius’s reign. My father has learned Elyan magic, taught it to me all through my childhood. Taught me to enter minds. To cover up my tracks. To work my way amongst the enemy just as he’s done all my life. The Morphs are a twist of Elyan and dark blood-magic practiced by Beirusian witches. My father has gained other allies across the world. Chardonians. Valgs. Taikan. All fear Attica is on the brink of dominion over all Îrithèa. And that would forever alter our world. And this is what most concerns the Elyans, I expect.”

“The empire has ruled Îrithèa before,” Joren said softly. He did not believe the dismissive words he spoke, but he wanted to see how Ava reacted. “Why is this time so different?”

Ava drew a breath. “Because Emperor Athanasius is different than his predecessors. Many fear another Age of Fire is descending once more. As well they should. We have not forgotten the devastation the Dragonmounts wreaked in Valucia.”

Joren had not forgotten imperial devastation either. But he had also seen the fruitless toll of rebellion. Taika’s people suffered more now, than perhaps ever before.

Ava was pressing on his mind, and he did not hold back from her. He pictured the slaughter in the Taikan rebellion. Hundreds of thousands slain. An entire city burned with dragonfire. Most rebels died instantly. The few who survived wished they’d joined their brethren in instant death.

Joren could still smell the charred flesh, picture the vacuous eyes, hairless skulls, limbs stripped to the bone by flames. He could hear the screams of the desperate dying, as he tended their wounds, knowing it was already too late.

For years, Attica declared the Scorching a necessary evil to bring peace.

And it had brought peace for a time.

For a decade, there was no more rebellion in the empire. Other resisting nations surrendered. Attica united. And Emperor Vitruvian became known as the Good Emperor, the Uniter. The Peacebringer.

After his death, war returned.

Athanasius had proven perhaps less ruthless, but undoubtedly more ambitious. And all knew his predecessor’s heinous act was not out of reach. It was the fear of what Joren experienced in Taika that ruled the world now, that quelled rebellion, that prevented nations from banding together.

For so long, Joren had told himself Attica was a necessary evil. Better for them to rule than for another Scorching. But he had been wrong. All of them had. He saw that now.

“What would you have us do?” Joren asked.