The cytrus sunrise awes the Kitford troupe to silence. Despite the mellow breeze, comforting showers, and perfect sky, not a single Kitford man slept last night. Before I left the Gully, I remember yearning to see the various phenomena blessed upon the land by the rich vanes of heartStone beneath the earth. I had never witnessed translucent clouds until tonight, but their cynosure is lost on me now. Oppressive is the regret for the fate of one who stood up for and taught me, the sadness for all of those who lost their lives for no reason at all, and the fate of all those we left behind in the tattered remains of the placid little Kitford. My tongue still aches from the many wounds inflicted upon it by my own teeth, and the palms of my hands have been torn by the unfamiliar texture of Brandon’s axe. I do not know how much of my cowardice has been drained away by the anguish of regret, but I do know that the next time a threat approaches I will fight it with all my might. I will fight the oppressive fear that hinders my every move. I will fight the coward within who begs me to flee. And, least importantly according to Brandon, I will fight the man in front of me - not to harm, not to kill, but to win. Whichever form that takes.

The eight of us have been riding since sunrise. My mare began to show signs of discomfort an hour into the trek, so I have been walking with the herd since. Aduren thinks me weak to give in to the whims of a horse, but I don’t mind walking. Aduren thinks everyone weak for one reason or another. Perhaps we are. If not for his fraught relationship with Brandon, I would likely believe him. I cannot, and surely will not, put to words the manner by which I know Brandon’s strength was purer than Aduren’s, but I feel a certain clarity on the matter. I have never had a role model for strength, and I am grateful for both Brandon and Aduren’s presence. They are both powerful men, but one exalts everything I have learned to avoid. He praises violence, dominance, and chaos. He, unfortunately for me, is the one still living. I called him a zealot as we broke camp this morning, and he believed it a compliment. I don’t think he understood the word.

The farther north we trek, the more dynamic the landscape becomes. The horse trail we now walk is the only band of level land in sight, suspended midway between jagged peaks and deep ravines. The slopes and crags are carpeted with a dense fur of northern foliage unperturbed by extreme inclines, loose soil, and perilous deadfalls. Far below, Quarius' Fingers wend between the colossal high rises. The Fingers are the oldest, largest body of water in the Imperium’s Kyveli sector. While labeled as lakes on footmaps, my ancient version of Larconica’s Geographical Compendium claimed that they are in fact wide, slow-flowing rivers. The same water-marked pages told of the monstrous sky-blue deepwater predators that venture in from the ocean to prowl for wayward travelers and careless children. Children have been known to disappear this far north, but I suspect it has more to do with idle soldiers than sea monsters.

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Ma has always been wary of soldiers. She believes the Legions warp good men into weapons, and weapons are bound to sow violence and terror. I made a pledge to the stars last night that she would never learn of my travels with murderers and legionnaires, but as I clutch Brandon’s axe I am unsure if I can hide such a thing. Only two days ago I was a virgin of war, but already I can feel myself changing. I have read that fear and despair can alter one’s psyche significantly, but I have never witnessed such a transition. Much less experienced it. I must not spend any more time traveling with soldiers, lest I transform into something I cannot hide from my Ma. What am I thinking? Never before have I even considered lying to my Ma, and now I plan on it. Who have I become?

I always expected that fear, real fear of death, would linger indefinitely long past its point of origin. I assumed that the condition of post traumatic stress was a derivative of fear. Perhaps an overcorrection on the part of the body’s survival instinct. Apparently not. Instead, my trauma taints all perceptions with a new asinine terpene of menace and suspicion. I still remember how it felt to adore the world, but it is no longer instinctive. I try to appreciate. I try to admire. It is difficult.

I did not realize one’s mind could suffer so much damage in so short a time. I do not know what is happening to me, but I know I must fight it. I did not know how to fight in the streets of Kitford. I did not know how to fight in the raider’s lair. But fortunately, this is a different kind of fight. In order to regain the ability to feel, I must best only myself. I can do that.