Judas woke to an empty camp. A wave of cold panic swept through him. Multiple times, he called for Julie, and the only answer was the echo of his hoarse voice. He stretched out through their bond and learned two important things: she still lived, and whatever barrier kept her from reaching her full potential had shattered. Somehow, she managed to shroud her presence, and he couldn’t get an exact location or direction. Her aura radiated everywhere, like reflections in mirrors surrounding an individual. No matter which way you looked, the reflected image continued forever.

He closed his eyes, searching in vain. The vast presence he always sensed in her was bound. Now, an unrelenting current poured into her, a torrent. He hadn’t felt this in anyone for a long time, not since the destruction of Xilor, and the death of his friend, the king. After the initial shock wore off, he reached out again for her.

What he could sense troubled him. Julie fortified her mind in a way she never previously achieved, but sporadic bursts of feelings bled through. Controlled yet uncontrolled. She burned brightly in his mind, like a beacon, but fading the more distance she put between them. He glimpsed her resolve, her fears and worries cast aside.

Perhaps, Judas mused, the fairies’ myth is true.

“You won’t find her,” a small voice spoke, scarcely louder than a whisper but tinkled like wind chimes. Judas turned and faced the small floating pixie.

“Is this your doing?” he demanded.

“No, but it was meant to happen. Even you cannot fight a fate foretold.”

“Bah! Fate! I should’ve never listened to the elder fairy. What did you do to her?”

“Nothing, Warlock Lakayre. What happened was destined to happen regardless.”

“Do you think you can keep her from me? She’s mine to protect, to train! I told the elder fairy this when she came to her!”

“Train? Like you trained her for the Corridor? You didn’t realize that she wasn’t a Plotus mage!”

“There were extenuating circumstance—”

“—Like you protected her from the assassination attempt?”

“Again, that—”

“—Like you protected her from the Corridor and all its horrors? From the likes of Mr. Pleasure? You’ve lost touch with what it means to be a teacher!” the fairy scolded him.

“It’s not my place to interfere!” he objected. The feeling in his gut confirmed the pixie’s truth. The guilt he held for allowing the Corridor to test her beyond her abilities festered like an open sore in his soul. Gangrenous. “It wasn’t supposed to happen. How was I supposed to know what it would do?”

“You didn’t, but you could stop it. Where were your morals, then?” Judas said nothing and let his legs give out, collapsing to the ground. She fluttered closer, wings sounding like a whistle, and landed in front of him. “Don’t ridicule yourself too much warlock; you did as foretold.”

“Where? Where did it say that I’d allow her to be tortured?”

“Actions are fluid, not stone, but we prophesied what you allowed to happen, long ago. All events, all planes of possibilities converge on her. It would happen another way, by another means, regardless of your actions.”

“Who else would drag her through the Corridor? No one!”

“Who said it’d be the scarrings of the Corridor? Perhaps another wizardkind left the scars? Maybe elyves? Sheol? What if I told you … had it been anyone else from other possibilities that she’d be physically scared, deformed? What if, by someone else’s hand, she turned into something worse than Xilor and killed everyone who opposed her?”

“I’d be required to kill her.”

“Yes, you’d hunt her down. But your blinding quality to see the good in everyone would prevent you from taking decisive action, and in the end, years would’ve melted by before you came to the precipice of choice. By then, she’d be able to destroy you.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t. We’re talking conjectures, Warlock.”

“If we’re talking conjectures, if she journeyed with someone else, nothing would have happened.”

“Alas, no.” The fairy shifted her weight, taking a step forward. “You have something that belongs to us. We want it back, now.”

Nodding, Judas called his pack to him, digging out the item she wished for. After a few moments, he pulled the small crystalline wing out and handed it to her. She took the wing in her hands, inspecting the last remains of an Elder fairy. With a flutter of her wings, she rose from the ground.

“Heed my warning, Warlock Lakayre. Trials await her. She must be molded and shaped into what she is to become. What she has to become. You will do more harm than good if you reach out to her. Stay away! We will be with her now—as it’s our duty to our Head of Creatures. She’s our prophesied one, meant to become what she will. If you come after her, we’ll hide her from your sight, but for now, take solace that we grant you that ability. Break our edict, and we’ll revoke the blessing!”

“And what is that? What’s she supposed to become?” he croaked.

“She’ll be a balance of darkness and light, a champion of life and a harbinger of death. Stay away, Lakayre, or you’ll do more harm than good.” She hovered in front of his face before fading into nothing.

Alone in the swamp, an anguished cry echoed out.

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Chapter 43:

Wizard’s Pass wasn’t the most legendary of villages, but the cozy reprieve was like a part of home, despite being so far from a civilized municipality. Many people deemed the small settlement as a haven to retire from the bustling life of the city. Those who didn’t retire here often visited.

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

T’son Hans, in his role as the local barkeeper, mused over his luck at working in such a place. Most were oblivious to his colorful past,and he planned to keep his secrets.

The door burst open. Towel in his hand forgotten, the wet ale mug dripped on the floor, and a lone figure stood in the doorway.

“Well, com’n an’ shut th’ door, will ya?” T’son said with his thick accent. Someone not from their village wouldn’t understand what he said. Most of the time, he played it up—he could speak passably well, but when excited, his thick accent returned in force.

The figure stepped inside, closing the door behind him. T’son’s eyes adjusted to the darkness again. “Well, if it ain’t an archangel, then it’s got t’be Warlock Judas!”

“Greetings, T’son.” Judas shuffled forward, his feet heavy, mood solemn. “I told you I’d come.” He hid his emotions under an expressionless mask, but his voice failed to obscure them completely.

“Y’ur ‘prentice, whur’ is she?”

“Gone.”

“E’en tho’ ya’ gone all noble ‘n us backwoods fo’ks, ya still got ya’ sense o’ humor, I see. Whut can I git for ya’? ’Ow ‘bout a good, col’ ’warf ’ew, er—maybe a Bloo’y Vampur?”

“Not today, T’son; I don’t feel much like drinking.”

“Oh, one of tho’ things. Well, I’d like to spot ’em hooey snooty c’me down ‘ere an’ tries ta’ su’vive. They won’t. Thur ta fancy an’ got all thur delicacies…”

Judas let out a weary sigh as he sat down opposite his friend. T’son looked him over, and for the first time, he noticed his less-than-jovial mood.

“Shades! You weren’t jokin’,” T’son exclaimed, dropping his thick accent. “Ya’ look like shit! Wha’s th’ matter wit’ ya’?”

“My apprentice. She’s gone. I failed her more than I’ve ever failed in my life.”

“Oi! Don’ be so hard on ya’ self. It can’ be tha’ bad.”

“You don’t understand T’son; I let terrible things happen to her. I failed her in the Corridor. I should’ve stepped in and stopped the madness … and now, she’s gone. She left because I abandoned her when she needed me.”

“Oi! Shu’ it! I’ve known ya a lon’ time, Judas, thru’ thick an’ thin, in good an’ bad, an’ when th’ whole of Ermaeyth wa’ thrown in ta chaos, an’ never once did ya fail ta see the good in people. Even when they don’ deserve it. Ya give the shirt off ya back to clothe someone less fortunate than ya. I don’ pretend ta know wha’ happened, but I know tha’ yur lawful. Too lawful for ma likes—but ever’one has ta have some fault—an’ ya moral to ya core, and tha’ is somethin’ as sure as the risin’ suns. Ya made a soun’ judgment based on the facts at han’. If she lef’, an’ lef’ angry, eventually she’ll know ya had the bes’ intensions at he’rt. She’ll remember in the en’; they all do.”

Judas gave a weak smile. “Was that speech something you had prepared beforehand?”

“Always had tha’ speech prepared fur ya—ages really, ya jus’ never needed it till now.”

Judas’s smile broadened and swiftly fell. “I just can’t―”

“Oi! Enuff! No sense dwellin’ on the pas’; it’s fur the dead. The future is a youn’ virgin too far away ta care abou’, bu’ thur’s no time like fuck’n’ in the presen’.”

“Fucking in the present? That’s it? There isn’t a line to come after that?”

“No, ya ass, it’s a play on wor’s. Shades, ya thick.” T’son laughed heartily at that, and Judas couldn’t help but laugh too.

After T’son coaxed Judas out of his shell of lament, he served his long-time friend many drinks, drowning the stress and anxiety of losing Julie. His mind was filled with regret, and T’son could discern the shadow in his eyes, the haunted anguish, but the foreigner steered him clear of anything that’d bring up the events of the Corridor or his apprentice. When it was evident that he couldn’t accomplish this, T’son asked him how the consul, Kayis Dathyr, was doing, and if they were friends again. That started Judas on an uproar, grandstanding his detest of his old apprentice. The conversation switched to politics and the lost cause the Kothlere Order had become before digressing to the real reason he was here.

“Wha’ ya come ‘ere for? Not order’n’ ya aroun’ righ’?”

“Yes, well, the finer points of exile is lost upon the ignorant, but no, not orders. I got to see you again, always a plus. Unfortunately, war is coming.”

“Ah, ya talkin’ abou’ the broadcas’, aren’ ya?”

“What broadcast?”

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T’son quickly summarized the events of Xilor’s realm wide broadcast. “So, he finally did it. He’s out.” Judas rubbed his temples to knead out the building stress. “I warned them that this would happen. Are you prepared? Do you have any men available?”

“‘Course. They haven’ been doin’ nothin’ since the las’ attack—no’ since the war. Thur all slouchin’ aroun’ ‘ere somewhur, gettin’ all fat an’ bored.”

“Good, call them here. We need to be prepared just in case, and if Xilor’s out, then it may be too late!”

T’son scurried across the wood-planked floorboards of his humble, rickety establishment. It wasn’t the nicest place, never came close, but it was T’son. Compared to the grandeur of Ralloc, this equated to a horse stall. But Judas also felt comfortable here, even with the dark swirl of thoughts shrouding his mood. Worries washed away in the simple life they held here.

T’son reached the front doors and flung them open. He yelled. “Oi! Drabass! Get yur rott’n, sodd’n bottom up in the pub. Ge’ all ‘em;Sergyn’ of th’ Guards, too!”

Judas covered a smile in the palm of his hand. T’son screaming at his underlings brought back fond memories for the warlock, remembering where they met, on the deck of T’son’s ship on Judas’s maiden voyage. The trading ship was christened Floating Dreams, and T’son ferried cargo from port to port, out on the open sea or up and down the rivers. When times were tough, the former kaptyn smuggled people, weapons, and other rare, off-limits items. He recalled T’son’s tale about being the only one ever to venture out into Lake Feral and make it back out alive.

Much later, Judas learned how T’son’s made his income. Their main means came from raiding pirates, looting their pillage, consuming the goods, and absorbing the less dangerous crew members. The others, the kaptyns, first mates, and the loyal crew, were placed in shackles and returned to the nearest port for the bounties. Occasionally, they’d hire themselves out for private purposes. T’son and his crew were merchants, smugglers, and even mercenaries, but under T’son’s banner, they managed to be the good guys, just not lawfully validated.

T’son would still be sailing had he not lost the two loves of his life. His first mate—who was also his wife—and then his ship, when his cousin, Oslo Hans, won it from him in a card game. Upon winning the ship, Oslo renamed it The Keeling Bitch. After that, T’son took his earnings from all those years at sea, chose a town, and settled down to make a home.

Judas looked up as T’son returned to the bar.

In short but precise order, all the men and women gathered to hear the governor and Judas explain the possible impending war. Many were disbelieving, though some did, hearing about the vampire’s attack on Dlad City. The news of Judas’s public shaming in Ralloc had reached Wizard’s Pass, the consul calling him a renegade and menace in the hopes that someone would warn Ralloc if he showed up.

“Look,” Judas said in exasperation, “is it so hard to believe that a second war is possible? Xilor is out; he made a broadcast, apparently one that I missed. Maybe it has to do with the fairies.”

“Fairies?”

Judas waved T’son’s comment away. “He’ll be coming for blood.” Murmurs rippled through the gathering, some agreeing and others not. For confirmation, all turned to T’son, hoping he’d renounce or reaffirm what Judas said.

“Why ya lookin’ at me fur? I ain’t any po’erful mage, jus’ a gov’nor. If Judas says it is, then it is.”

“You can stand and fight, or you can run,” Judas said. “The victor of the first battle, wherever it may be, will determine the motion of the war. We must do what we can for anyone who wants to travel through the Corridor or make it to a coastal city where they can sail to relative safety. By nightfall, I want decisions on whether people are preparing for fortifications or fleeing.”