***

Brachen did his best to calm Dhanur on the few occasions she woke from the lull of Dekha’s mechanical steps and explained to the slinger what had happened at the temple, to which the Uttaran warrior could only scoff.

“About time,” the slinger said when Brachen explained how a spirit drove the Ascetics of the Light from their home.

Vatram practically rose from the ground like an extension of the jungle behind it. Its imposing palisade was constructed of entire trees, sheared off at the top to make a walkway with enough left over to be shaped into the wall’s teeth. A few of the sturdier trunks still showed the char of the Scorching, while others were stripped of the burned bark or replaced. Brachen and Janurana spotted a few torches, as well as multi–colored specks of light milling about the parapets. In the jungle similar lights danced among the trees as Uttaran scouts ranged through the brush to find any Daksinian scouts or spies. Janurana thought she heard a small clash or commotion deeper into the woods, but the night’s silence made it harder to tell. She was fairly certain though she only heard northern words.

As they approached the city, the lights stopped moving and Slima and Ramti both lit their weapons in reply. The lights moved about again. Rather than the bonfires of the southern cities, the northern walls were protected by the spirits who could quickly shoo away any prying creature or southern scout.

Brachen tightened his grip on Dekha’s rope. They passed by the new defenses the city had erected. Ditches peppered the ground in front of the walls, each armed on either side with sharpened stakes. The ones into which they could see were empty, but for a few arrows. Janurana caught the glint of bronze in one with the armor from a southern scout propped up as a practice target. After the pits, smaller, more haphazard walls were ready, armed with spikes as well. Massive boulders were strewn about the entire area to break up formations.

The thin path to Vatram’s gate wound between the defenses and they had to walk single file. At times Dekha barely squeezed between the spikes and boulders. Neither Brachen nor Janurana could find the gate yet. The wall continued around, unbroken, but the path came to an end.

“Open the gate,” Slima called.

Four Clan Tree guards atop the wall popped up

Ramti greeted his fellow Tree Clan, but half way through, Slima spoke over him as if he wasn’t there. After a small, disappointed back and forth between them and Slima, they descended the temporary, movable stairs behind the wall.

“Taking us through the main gate,” Brachen said to Janurana who had looked at him confused as the spot looked like every other section.

Soon, the trunks in front of them were wreathed in green. All four Tree Clan guards raised their arms and the magic extending from them yanked the trunks from the dirt. Brachen bowed to Slima as he passed, who spat at his feet.

“Come, Dekha, Janurana,” Brachen said to both of them as he passed the threshold into Vatram.

Janurana watched in awe as she walked under the floating part of the wall. Trickles of soil fell and bounced off her cheeks and she chuckled as she had to pluck a worm from her hair. The northern light didn’t affect her at all, just like she remembered. During the war she had caught sight of a few skirmishes and northern traders weren’t that rare before the conflict.

“Haunted burner!” one of the guards yelled at Brachen. “Whatever. Take a left, along the wall, third house with a white roof. That’s the healer.”

“Um…” Janurana tried to piece together what he had said, only fully remembering “white”, but followed Brachen who understood.

The tree trunks thunked back into place, closing the gate, and the green light disappeared back into the guards.

The Inside of Vatram was louder than a normal city at night, half because of the night’s silence, and half because of the overcrowded walls. There were almost more guards than the wall could hold sitting on the teeth or watching the shimmering shapes in the night. Most had the mark of Clan Macaque. But a few were Clan Tree or Fish, with others such as the white horn on their nose of Clan Rhino or the black splotches on their faces of Clan Leopard. Spirits strode among them. Each warrior snapped back to attention to make way for their spirit commanders. A couple stuttered between spirit and mortal planes, but most walked as easily on the walls as Janelsa did at the temple. Some had animal heads, as the macaque spirit did be it a Clan Rhino who stood three heads taller than Dhanur or the smaller Clan Leopard who was sharpening her claws on a whetstone. Others looked as Human as anyone else, but every northerner knew to whom they must bow with hands at their sides. Some spirits sported dented armor, others nothing at all, others simple clothes.

One normal looking spirit complained that she wanted to be out on a nightly patrol against southern scouts, but a leopard headed Clan Spirit motioned to yet another far off scuffle in the jungle and returned to his watch.

A warrior called out for Janurana and Brachen to halt, only to have a spirit’s hand appear on his shoulder who transitioned out of the spirit plane, and inform him they were allowed Inside as the information from the gate traveled along the wall.

As Janurana listened, regretting how little northern she remembered from the bits she had picked up, the spirits stared at her, having picked up her scent. The few times she met their gazes she looked away instantly with an odd mixture of embarrassment and confusion. Her back wasn’t spasming, she wasn’t seizing up. She had forgotten what it was like around the few southern spirits she had seen, that they didn’t have the same effect on her as her mother.

Dekha fidgeted as he passed each of them. Janurana and Brachen kept him moving, barely. He snorted and chuffed constantly as if each spirit was a new and imminent threat.

They passed the first house with a white roof, constructed from, not the mudbrick used in the Capital, but wood overlaid with a colored ocher. Daksin’s pocket forests were nowhere near sustainable enough to fuel the constant need for fire on the city walls, every house, brickmaker, blacksmith, and also build said homes or temples. Large projects too needed wood not only for scaffolding but for making palisade walls when a massive mudbrick wall would have taken too long. But in the north, chopping down one tree would spill countless seeds and they would take root without issue. Thus, nearly every building was made of the jungle’s bounty, but rather than being monochrome, as much of the southern Capital could be with its tan, though occasionally painted, bricks as far as the eye could see, Vatram’s buildings were all as varied in color as the clan markings the northerners sported but broken off into general sections. With only one main street to the city, from the main gate to the back, the clans in Vatram were forced to come up with the segregation on their own. But the houses the pair passed weren’t the green roofs of the Tree Clan or the white winged doors of Clan Moth. Rather, they were covered in random splotches of paint of every type with no pattern, covering the brown and black walls and door frame with two white tusks. Janurana thought back to the members of other houses she had seen as a child, who all had their sigil emblazoned on their clothes, and figured facial tattoos were much more efficient.

‘Wouldn’t have to put a new patch on every sari,’ Janurana thought, touching her own long faded bull sigil.

The streets of the city weren’t paved brick of the main way, but simple trodden earth. It wasn’t for a lack of trying. There were plenty of dips in the roads if one had a keen enough eye. They had almost all been beaten down after many years yet they showed the past efforts of the northerners who continuously tried to pave their roads with wood, only for it to rot in the moist soil. Although, a few craftsmen continued to claim they had found the perfect way to transmogrify wood into stone and thus, the dips were remade every ten years or so.

Along the streets were packed huddles of men, women, and children in tattered clothes, mud and dust caked onto their worn sandals or boots. They were haphazardly dressed. Some had clothes that looked brand new while others wore pairs of pristine sandals coupled with shirts for which threadbare was an overstatement. Many had tattoos, making a living where they could, stealing sleep in their clan’s sections. But there was only so much space to go around. Those without a marking were the most haggard. Without the land to support a functioning clan like every other one had, those without a tattoo had nowhere to go. They were ragged, but not hollow and dying as homeless and wayward people in the south’s Outside could be. Even after a few years, the displaced from specific clans and even the clanless of the war were partially taken care of, or had become deft thieves. A few woke and stared at Janurana and Brachen, and instantly scowled. They were both sure that if it wasn’t night, the refugees would have had the energy to take what revenge they could.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

Brachen spared them little mind, focusing only on finding the healer’s house. He had paused for a moment to see if Dhanur was alright, but only a moment.

They reached the healer’s home and Brachen let out a prolonged wheeze. Dhanur had since passed out again from the pain so she didn’t react when he scooped her up once more. He rushed past the large group of refugees outside the healer’s house. They looked the most plump out of all the ones Janurana had seen thus far, and were sleeping so soundly none stirred when Brachen bolted inside.

“Healer!” he bellowed.

A withered old man snapped up from a pile of straw in the corner of the room. The healer brushed himself off. There were as many men and women sleeping inside on every surface and the wooden floor so he did his best to maneuver in the dark. He accidentally stepped on a woman clutching her child who didn’t flinch but he came to a dead stop when he could make out the Light monk in front of him.

“Yes?” he asked in the southern tongue.

“No games, Pavar!” Brachen barked in Uttaran. He rushed past him, past a macaque headed staff at the center of the room, and brought Dhanur to the healer’s bed of straw. “Zirisa needs healing!”

Pavar toyed with the dark, wiry patches of hair on his chin and cheeks. Underneath, his cheeks were slightly paler than the rest of his complexion, as if covered with faded white paint. “Zirisa. Zirisa. Oh. Yes. Yes. The little girl of yours, so big now,” he said in his own language, seeing who Brachen was.

“She is northern!” he yelled, none of the displaced stirred. “Enough! No retribution! I do not want to mission! I do not want to clear spirits! Please!” He choked. “Please.”

Pavar turned to Janurana, who was peeking in through the door. She leapt back to Dekha’s side when he looked out to the top of the wall. The guards were all looking down on them, but not attacking. Dhanur had awoken and began wracking with coughs and dry heaves.

Pavar brought his sleeve up to cover his mouth. With a flex of his hand a green aura slipped down his arm, and coated his sleeve, snapping it to his neck like a mask.

“What happened?” he asked, resigned.

“She was fighting a spirit.” Brachen stroked her brow tenderly.

“Oh real—” The healer began to jab but Dhanur coughed and groaned, her body trying to curl in on itself but recoiled at the bones that still fractured.

“It attacked us. It hurt her with a… a silver, sa—Um, a statue. She was there—No, sick before. She was sick before. I think she still is a little. Her cut got sick.” He struggled to find the words in Uttaran, but the healer followed well enough and walked around a packed bed, the only one in the hut, to rummage through a trunk.

“That is powerful bronze she has.” Pavar let his sleeve fall as he concluded the coughing probably wasn’t a contagious sickness. He pulled a fistful of dried meat from his trunk, passing over the figurines of boars hidden under a tarp. “Thought only southern warriors got those.”

“Yes.”

Pavar knelt and placed the offerings at the base of the staff. “I guess she did us proud in her own way… She was a very strong girl when she was young too.”

“I know.”

Pavar took in a breath and clasped both his hands together. The green aura leaked from his skin once more then he grabbed the staff. It sunk in and reappeared inside the macaque’s head at its tip. Its eyes flashed, blinding Brachen and Pavar, and making Dekha bleat in concern outside. Inside, Brachen rubbed his eyes, adjusting back to the night, and saw a Clan Macaque spirit that wasn’t there before stepping over the sleeping bodies in the hut, lightly tapping each displaced person’s eye. He looked as confused as the old Ascetic, having been ripped from his own plane and brought to the mortal one.

“Yes?” He turned to Pavar and scooped up the meat offering. “Am I not doing enough, Boar Clan?” he asked, annoyed.

Pavar rubbed his cheeks, hoping to hide the faded tusk tattoos more than his facial hair, then bowed. “You are, great spirit. We thank you for coming down all this way from beyond the jungle to assist our people as the others have, great spirit. But one of us requires more assistance than sleep.”

“Uh huh.” Clan Spirit Kunya of Clan Macaque curled his nose, smelling Janurana outside the hut. Like all the others, he saw no one was attacking her, so he looked to Brachen and Dhanur. “No wonder you pulled out the best,” he said, savoring the meat. “Looks like a traitor.”

“She has done right by our people on the field of battle. She fought with the enemy, but gained glory regardless, showing the southerners that we are as formidable as they are, if not more.”

Kunya smirked. He loomed over Brachen, giving him a single slow blink, and then returned to his food.

“Alright.” He shrugged and addressed Pavar, not Dhanur’s father, “In exchange for her glory and this offering, I’ll get her on her feet, no more.”

Pavar agreed for Brachen.

Kunya gave a few taps to a stirring displaced’s eyes and kneeled down at Dhanur’s side. With a hand half covered in fur, the spirit ran his fingers up and down her body, stopping where she winced or gasped in pain. When he found a spot he lifted his hand, angled it as if grabbing the bone inside her, and twisted or pushed as needed, snapping the bone back into place. With each one Dhanur shrieked in agony, making Dekha stamp his hooves, as if about to charge, but relenting as she calmed. With the same unease as Brachen who clutched her hand for comfort and held it to his forehead, Dekha endured the terrible cries as if he knew she was being fixed.

On the third snap, Brachen cried out along with Dhanur. She’d squeezed his hand so hard it broke. He fell back, bumping into the wall and biting his robe.

Kunya didn’t look over and continued to put the remaining bones back into place. There weren’t many as Brachen had fixed most of them, but the process still felt like it took the entire night to Dhanur’s companions.

Finally, the spirit patted her shoulder wound and curled his fingers like he was holding a string. He yanked back, pulling Dhanur towards him as he extracted ropes of oozing, tainted blood from her yellowing wound. Kunya pulled twice more to remove the last bits of infection lingering after Brachen and his disciples healing before running his finger over the cut, sealing it.

“There. She’ll be fine,” Kunya said.

And like that, he vibrated and faded to an outline, then vanished into the spirit plane. Brachen continued to nurse his hand. The fracture wasn’t a full break like he thought, but it still screamed whenever he even twitched a finger.

“I suggest you find new clothes for yourself and friend. Zirisa will probably be fine if she says she won the armor,” Pavar said.

“Thank you.” Brachen crawled back to her side.

“I heard something rattle from her belt.”

Brachen couldn’t argue with that request. Surprised it had stayed on her through everything, he fished out a few cowries from Dhanur’s purse.

“Why hide your clan marks?” Brachen asked, stroking Dhanur’s brow again.

“Better to be clanless than a boar nowadays,” Pavar shook his head at the macaque staff.

A hint of confusion leaked through Brachen’s fatherly concern, but he kept his eyes on Dhanur. “Since when?”

“Abbaji?” Dhanur blinked awake as Brachen lifted her one handed with her arm over his shoulders.

“It’s okay, Dhanur. You’re healed. I’m okay. Your bull is okay. We’re in Vatram.”

“I-I think I can walk.” She shakily pushed off him, stumbling, but able to limp along.

Rather than fight her, Brachen stayed right beside to offer support when needed. Dekha only stopped fidgeting when his master stumbled out of the healer’s home.

“Worried, buddy?” She gave him a weary tap on his horns. “It’s okay. I’m back”

“Stay at the inn,” the healer said from the doorway, his wards still sleeping around him.

“We will. Again, thank you.” Brachen bowed. “May the Light always shine on you,” Brachen added in perfect and practiced northern.

“Burner. But you cared for one of ours.”

Janurana smiled feebly and held her hands together, wringing them as she approached Dhanur. “I’m very happy you’re alright, Zirisa.”

“Don’t call me that.” Dhanur took Dekha’s rope and tugged him away.

“The inn is—” Brachen began, but Dhanur cut him off.

“I know. They’re always near the front.” She walked ahead of them both.

“It’s not your fault,” Brachen said as he passed Janurana.

Janurana wrung her parasol, not sure if he was convincing her or himself.