It grows from a seed.

Toward light, once seen.

From stem, to filament, to petal.

The root grows deep.

The soil, it kneads.

And at its peak, it blossoms.

Spores of pollen it breathes.

It sways in the breeze.

But never does it falter.

And when gone, it seems,

It grows back from nowhere,

In places not foreseen.

Thaeolai titled this one ‘Hope’.

She allowed herself the smallest smile. It was acceptable, she supposed.

It was quiet in the barracks. The fragile light of dawn melted in through the lone circular window at the back wall’s pinnacle – cool blue and ginger dying quickly in the shadow. It was only by this fleeting light that Thaeolai saw her work. But as soon as she finished, she hid it away beneath her pillow, carefully flattening the parchment away from the fabric.

Once she was done concealing her treachery, Thaeolai’s emerald eyes cast across the room. All of the healers were still asleep. Shallow breaths and quiet snores mingled in an uninspiring chorus. Up on the wall, above the door, the timekeeping grid ticked. A carefully engineered rectangular array, it spanned six columns wide. The top notch measured the hours by two, while the bottom notch measured the minutes by ten. Thaeolai read six hours and twenty minutes.

It was early; breakfast wouldn’t be served until seven hours at the earliest. But she wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep anyway. Her mind wouldn’t let her.

Silently, she slipped out from under her straw sheets and sat over the edge of the bed. She stretched her shoulders and arms and legs, but even after all this, she felt soreness as she stood. She felt the soft sting of her brain, as familiar anxieties came to greet her. In this life of running away, she wondered if there was ever truly any respite.

Nevertheless, she fled out into the corridor, and the biting torchlight blighted her tired eyes. She scrunched and squinted and rubbed her sockets with her fists. As her eyes adjusted and her vision faded into focus, she saw pale limestone brick walls and polished wood trimming, running along a cold stone floor. The lonely crackles of the fire echoed. Had she not known better, she might’ve thought this fortress an elaborate tomb.

Suddenly aimless with her thoughts, she decided to head down the corridor and wait in the great hall – when an old and weary voice behind her eroded her composure yet again.

“Thaeolai.”

Thaeolai turned and saw Ucankacei, standing crooked against his wooden crutch. A thin, patchy coating of silver now hugged his bronzed face and protruding cheeks, and a cloud blotted his once-bright sea green eyes. But as he had so many times before for his young, he found a smile from somewhere deep within, and bore it to her.

“Ucankacei,” Thaeolai offered, her tone gentle but reserved.

The old man opened his mouth, and she saw his lips stagger and waver as he searched for what to say. After a few seconds, he resolved with something small. Something less vulnerable.

“Glad to know you’re alright.”

“Same to you.”

Ucankacei nodded. And then he went past and down the hall, the wooden nub of his crutch clacking against the stone in a hollow rap. She didn’t tell him it was a sound she’d heard a dozen times already over the past two days, as he made his many rounds past the medical wing.

She allowed herself another quiet smile.

It was six hours and thirty minutes when she reached the great hall. Here, the stone floor gave way to oak, and walls gave way to a vast open space, enclosed by torched pillars, candle-crested chandeliers of iron, and a mountainous vaulted ceiling made of angled wooden planks, reinforced by rock.

A couple dozen siephalls were already stirring, spaced out at wooden tables across the great hall, wearing light linens free of their armor’s weight. Thaeolai’s first instinct was to sit by herself – she had no friends here to seek out – and she identified a table separated well enough in the far corner. But just as she started for her destination, she saw two siephalls she recognized sitting alone closer to the room’s center: Khoulane and the other who’d secured their escape from the camp.

At her mind’s constant creep, her desire to not be alone proved victorious. Her feet carried her to their table, and she sat. The two siephalls were silent and visibly tired, but Khoulane offered her a glance of acknowledgement. She saw his eyes glint with recognition. They looked less empty since she last checked on him days ago.

“I wanted to thank you two,” Thaeolai said, “for what you did. You saved a lot of lives at the camp.”

Now the other young siephall offered Thaeolai a glance; his eyes had once been downcast, but now he looked up. His blue eyes reminded her of someone, but there was less fire in his iris’ glow; she couldn’t decide this good or bad. His hair was loose and blonde and parted to the side, and his skin a soft gold, like a model Opelite. Like she’d once been. But something marred and darkened his expression. Like it did to all.

“It was nothing,” the siephall mumbled, as peacefully as he could.

He fought the sounds of war inside his mind, she deduced. They all did. The chatter in the great hall was low. Voices were hushed and fragile. A corrupting miasma blighted the torch-blotted air.

Thaeolai recited her poem in her mind. She parsed through memories that returned without her blessing. Sitting among a dozen siblings at a silent dinner table, adorned with pristine plates and silverware and gilded metal coverings. Quiet dread piercing the air as mother spied for any misstep, misleading gentility gracing her face. Fear and preservation blotting out hope and light.

She had to fight it. Somehow. Before it only consumed.

She embellished a warm smile as best she could and glanced between the two.

“Your name is Khoulane, I know that,” she recalled with a tone too light, before turning to the siephall: “What about you?”

The siephall looked up at her again – reluctant, but coaxed by her soft, guiding eyes of emerald.

“Axyphylei,” the siephall replied. “My friends call… called… me Ax.”

“Ax??” Khoulane blurted; he sat up straight and his eyes went wide.

The siephall let out a heavy sigh.

“Khoulane, we’ve been over this…”

At their sudden bickering, Thaeolai couldn’t hide her smirk.

“You two have been acquainted then?” she chimed.

Axyphylei let out another short sigh and reflected her smirk – just a little.

“Yes, we have.”

“I’m not going to call you ‘Ax,’” Khoulane declared, resolute.

“That’s fine, you don’t have to,” Axyphylei said with a light chuckle.

“What else would you call him?” Thaeolai wondered aloud.

“How about bullfrog?” Khoulane proposed. “He sounds like a bullfrog when he snores.”

Axyphylei let out a third sigh. Thaeolai grinned mischievously, glancing at the siephall as she egged Khoulane on.

“Is that so?” she mused.

“Yes, it is unfortunately very so!” Khoulane exclaimed, his lively voice filling the chamber. “Exactly like those bullfrogs you hear in the swamps past the docks. Half the barracks can’t sleep. His bed is right next to mine. I have to put my pillow over my head. Counting sheep doesn’t work when you got this bullfrog blaring in your ears. Can never get past one. One… one, two… brrrrrrrrttttttt!!”

A dozen eyes glanced toward their table at the sudden noise, but Thaeolai hardly noticed. She laughed and beamed, while Axyphylei tried to hide all association, shrinking between his shoulders.

“Bullfrog,” Thaeolai repeated through her coy smile. “That’s… that’s good. I like that.”

“Please don’t,” Axyphylei muttered.

“No, I think it’s very fitting.”

“Please don’t encourage him.”

“You know it’s true,” Khoulane doubled down.

Axyphylei exhaled once more out of surrender. He glanced toward Khoulane, who eagerly awaited his last challenge, but he could only concede with a weak smile. It was quiet again for a moment, and then Axyphylei nodded to Thaeolai.

“What about you? What’s your name?”

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The girl answered him. And then Axyphylei turned to Khoulane.

“Alright, Khoulane. Now I need you to come up with a nickname for her.”

Betrayed, Thaeolai gasped. Inside, she felt warm.

“I don’t need a nickname! My name-name is perfectly fine.”

“Look at how much she liked mine,” Axyphylei persuaded. “I think she wants one for herself.”

“I do not!”

“She does. Look at how she’s smiling.”

“I do not!”

“Yes she does. Look how red her cheeks are. She wants in, she’s just too embarrassed to admit it.”

Khoulane’s eager eyes whisked back and forth between them.

Their smiles unearthed his own.

~:{~}:~

“Scibu! It’s time! The sun’s first rise!”

Scibu heard Paru’s call. His first instinct was to ignore it. He wasn’t done yet.

He opened one eye and titled his mouth aside, breaking his meditation.

“Two more minutes!” Scibu called back.

Muffled behind the tent’s canvas, he thought he heard Paru curse at his time delay. It mattered little to him. This was more important.

Sitting with his legs crossed on his prayer rug, Scibu flourished an ornate wooden spinner from his side. He oscillated the spinner with his wrist, and a nob inside began to turn, manifesting a calming hum. He closed his eyes again, beneath center-parted strands of blackened brown. In Midan, he proceeded.

“It’s been over a week since I’ve last seen you,” Scibu began. “My beloved Oyuuna, and my strong, brave Scibii. I don’t know how long it’ll be before I see you again.”

Scibu paused. The other Tekhal would frown upon him for praying this way. Prayer was meant to be between them and Parun alone. Anything else disrespected the station of a follower. Scibu thought differently. These words, he needed to say. If Parun was just – Scibu thought – He would listen with love. He’d listened before.

“I hope you’re getting by,” Scibu continued. “The kheziu saw to it that the village would be taken care of, but I can’t help but wonder. With most of the hunters gone, will the land be kind to you? What if I’m not back before the seasons change, and the leaves brown, and the winds cool? Where will you go? What if famine strikes again in the winter? What if the crops do not endure?”

Scibu paused. Then he adopted a half-smirk, eyes still closed.

“Though I suppose it’ll be a lot easier for you without my eating habits,” he chuckled. “You used to tell me I ate enough for two whole families. I refuse to give you credit, Oyuuna. You made me self-conscious, but… I can see now, living off camp food… maybe I was in fact the problem. Me and my ‘three stomachs.’”

Scibu snickered to himself.

“I can already tell Scibii takes after me there. I apologize in advance for leaving you alone with him. That little terror. Maybe while you’re teaching him math, you can convince him that less is more. I don’t know how you’ll do it; you were always smarter than me. But I know you, of all people, would find a way. Secrets of genius, I suppose. I’ll never–”

“Scibu!” Paru shouted from outside, less forgiving with his tone. “It’s time to go!”

A heavy sigh escaped Scibu’s lips.

“Ingrate,” he muttered under his breath, with a non-lethal dose of venom.

He dropped the spinner in his lap. Its hum went silent. He heard only the wind in the trees. His russet eyes opened and fell on the floor, flickering with sadness.

“I miss you so much. I love you both so much. When… when I come back, I will lead you away… to a place where we can find peace.”

He paused one last time.

“Watch over them, Parun. May the blessings of The Island be brought forth through your will, and through my hands. And may we find shelter in its ever-life.”

Finally, he stood.

He shook the prayer rug off so that no dust or dirt lingered on it, and then he rolled it and placed it in the corner. Then he readied himself. He outfitted in a bison wool doublet, slipping it over his light linens. He grabbed his bow and his arrow quiver, slinging both over his shoulders. Lastly, he took up his blade – a long, thin, and notched katana made of the finest steel, with a relief of the sea dragon Iliaothe etched in gold along its flat edge. He sheathed this weapon in an equally grand scabbard, securing it along his belt. And at last, he ventured into dawn.

“I thought a Serpent of Soorona would be more punctual,” Paru jabbed, leg crossed on a nearby stump as he shaved his nails.

“Keep taking that tone, and you’ll find my blade to be very timely.”

Scibu stopped and smirked at Paru beneath his thin, dark beard. For a moment, Paru was blank-faced – but then he smirked back. The two shared a quick laugh, and Paru got to his feet.

They lingered in a Midan satellite camp at the edge of the forest. Paru mounted his horse, and Scibu mounted his: A strong, brown Tekhal mare named Yemeph. The dawn’s light was fragile on this day; thick and feathery cloud-wisps trickled like rainwater through rivers of slated blue and simmering orange, as the sun fought to scale the trees in the east. Through this shade, they had the perfect cover, as they rode south toward Alaris Khi Thung.

It would be a two-hour journey, at least. The sunlight brightened and skewed through the tall, narrow trunks as they went. Long shadows crawled along the ground. To pass the time, they spoke in hushed voices.

“Don’t tell me it doesn’t at least concern you,” Scibu said.

“‘Concern,’” Paru scoffed with a dismissive grin.

“Fine. Tell me it doesn’t at least… intrigue you.”

Paru rolled his tongue against his gum. Scibu took this as consideration.

“You said the one called Heror lifted the Sword and when it was hit, a giant phoenix materialized and blinded everyone,” Scibu went on. “And you don’t think it’s possible the Gods don’t favor you?”

“We already knew certain Gods didn’t favor us,” Paru clarified. “They simply proved their power in turning Heror away. He had earned his place among us. The Aktaku championed his presence. And yet, he was coaxed away by Their pull. We knew Them to be capable of this.”

“Still, when have you heard of the Gods intervening in such a way?” Scibu argued. “You’re not at least curious about the encounter? You don’t question it at all?”

“The Divine Artifacts have power,” Paru surmised with a shrug. “Think about our history. Kcirun Tylei and Caitan Thynox narrowing our borders, by the will of the Divine Consortium. Think about the Kingdoms’ history: Hiirvanos and the Scourge. There has always been power behind these instruments. To think the Gods would act drastically to save them is not so improbable to me.”

“The question remains, Paru: It doesn’t concern you?”

“I believe in the will of our Gods. And I believe in the destiny of the Aktaku. He stood at The Lighthouse and returned with sight. He reunited our land. He made us strong. I think They feel threatened by him. This is why They acted.”

“He sounds to be a great man. But this ritual you speak of… a sacrifice. A human sacrifice. A living soul itself. When has Parun ever asked for this?”

“It was the power of the Artifact that demanded such a cost. If only it hadn’t been wasted.”

For the first time, Scibu went silent. It occurred to him that this conversation was a circle. There was conviction in Paru’s words – a conviction that both impressed and disconcerted the Serpent. Almost as much, that conviction vexed him. How could anyone be so sure about the workings of the Divines? How could anyone truly know?

In Scibu’s experience, confidence never strayed far from ignorance and arrogance. And those faults – all too often – corrupted one’s perception beyond repair. He avoided those illusions as best as he could. His father – alongside Tenh-sho – had taught him the Way of the Current, the Sooronayan – that the responsibility of the medial blade demanded a clear mind, unsullied by the worst emotions and prejudices. He treasured those teachings. It was the last he had of him. It was his duty to keep those teachings alive.

Scibu would’ve never traded a day with his family, but a part of him wished he’d been there – to see the phoenix’s flight and decide for himself.

The farther they went from the road, the more the forest overwhelmed. The sun’s beams broke and scattered before they reached the ground, lighting the emerald canopy ablaze and little else. The horses slowed to a trot – as fast a trot as the riders could manage – hooves sifting and churning through a bedding of pine litter and underbrush, passing over sprawling roots and beside rippling trunks.

Paru knew the way better than he, and so when the Tekhal rider turned his bearing back to the southeast, Scibu followed suit. They’d been riding for a bit more than an hour now. Surely, they’d reach their destination soon.

Scibu focused his eyes now, studying each gap in the trees with matching intensity. He knew how easy the woods could play tricks on the eyes; the clutter and crowd of the oaks and pines dulled the light and muddled his sight. But over his right shoulder, he caught a glimpse of a barren structure hidden among the vines and thickets, its form distorted. By instinct, he latched the reins.

“Paru, what’s that?”

The Tekhal leader followed Scibu’s eyes, and it only took a half-second’s examination for him to shake his head.

“That’s not it.”

“But what is it?” Scibu asked. “Could it be an outpost? A supply cache?”

“Scibu, that’s not–”

But before Paru could finish, Scibu started toward it. At a brisk and brief canter, he led Yemeph through the growth, and he just as soon emerged into a small grove, where the sun’s morning light trickled in stronger. Within this unkempt grove sat a lonely hexagonal structure made of clay and stone.

It was a sturdily-built hut, perhaps one-and-a-half stories high – not dissimilar from the ones Scibu remembered back home. This one had long been lost to time; its carved, circular windows were draped by leafy snares and rogue branches, and its once-smooth walls now pocked and weathered. But seeing the familiar Midan architecture, Scibu’s tepid, anxious curiosity took hold.

The Serpent dismounted his horse and approached the structure. He wandered around to the other side, where a doorway sat eternally open as if a cave, sheathing darkness beyond it. Scibu slowed as he reached the doorway. His feet froze at the rush of a chill from inside. He took a deep breath, and then he entered.

As his eyes adjusted to the low light, Scibu saw that all of the structure’s furnishings were gone. And on the flattened clay floor, in place of a home, was a mass burial, spanning from wall to wall. A mound of bones, blighted and bared by millennia, stood almost ten feet high at its summit. He saw djauul and elinji and servesi skulls. Their silvered sheen haunted his pupils. The air was idle and unflinching and menacingly silent. The kea shrieked. All at once, he felt compelled to leave. Quickly.

He gasped for clean air and inhaled only death. His throat tightened. He whirled around and veered toward the door – but when he did, Paru blocked his escape from the hut. The Tekhal rider stood in the doorway, backlit by the envious, enveloping greens of the forest. As Scibu caught his breath, Paru stiffened his gaze.

“You ask whether or not the Gods favor us,” Paru said gravely. “What kind of God would favor this?”

It was only when Scibu acknowledged him that Paru stepped outside and allowed him to leave.

Another half-hour of riding passed, and soon, they came across another Tekhal who’d been sent ahead of them. His horse was tied to a rope, and perked its ears at the approach of two more – but with a soft clicking sound, the Tekhal managed to calm his steed. Paru and Scibu offered a nod. Paru motioned ahead with a tilt of his chin.

“Anything yet?”

The Tekhal shook his head, and they pressed on. Not sixty seconds later, Scibu saw their target through the trees: A massive, reinforced fortress standing atop a short, wide knoll – its guard towers and peak rising high enough to inspect the low-lying clouds, as its inner and outer walls coalesced to form an impenetrable cocoon.

They loomed near the fortress’ western edge, far enough inside the woods to remain concealed. From where he stood, Scibu saw no activity in the clearing past the outer wall. But up above, among the towers and atop the fortified barriers, he could see the muted gold and bronze of the Ardysi soldiers, as they carried out their morning patrols.

Paru didn’t wait long before he started forward again, and Scibu followed. They traveled perhaps fifty yards, until the front entrance of the fortress was in view. Beyond the fortress’ head, a vast and flat yard stood as a natural buffer, populated by over a dozen smaller guard towers. The towers preceded a vertical metal gate, but the southern end of the yard had also been strengthened by a makeshift wooden barricade. The barricade barred off a dirt path that curved from the main road. At that bastion, Scibu saw over a dozen guards already shuffling about.

Ushering as light a nudge as he could with his ankles, Scibu let his horse drift forward – when Paru raised a fist to stop him.

“Not any closer,” Paru advised. “The trees give us cover here. We can see everything we need to. We’ll tie up the horses and come back to watch.”

And so Scibu followed his orders. They ventured back into the woods, only to tie their horses and walk back to the treeline. There, they watched and waited. They waited. And waited.

The sun finally eclipsed the spires and let its amber glow flow upon the land. The windblown leaves prattled and chanted, as the breeze brought warmth in its wake.

Another shipment of food and supplies came from the south. The guards waved it through.

Orange became blue. Starling, cyan blue. The sun reached for greater heights.

As he crouched, Scibu leaned in toward Paru. He spoke in a whisper.

“I wasn’t neglecting all that our people have endured,” Scibu clarified his earlier explorations. “I just… I don’t want us to become what we’ve grown to hate. If we presume the Gods’ will–”

“Our war is justified, Scibu,” Paru interrupted, his voice firm. “Their war was borne out of greed and hate. Ours is the justice that comes of their sins. The divine order must be shifted, if these sins are to no longer persist. The Aktaku will make it so.”

Scibu did not voice his reservations again; he had no time to, regardless. As soon as Paru’s last words escaped his mouth, an armored carriage came into view on the distant southern horizon. Then another. And another. Until a half-dozen metal cars – bearing the seal of Ardys on their sides – rolled toward the fortress barricade.

There was a shout from the guards on the road, and that command was relayed to the gate. A few minutes later, an Ardysi official donning a blue cloak appeared in the yard. He strolled to the barricade with a detachment of soldiers, just as the carriages halted at the edge of the flats.

The bluecloak walked around to the rear of the first carriage, and its doors opened. Out stepped a tall Opelite in black armored robes, sleeves and torso smothered with golden markings signifying Ardysi royalty. A pauldron of bone sat on his shoulder. His hood was down. His skin rivaled the brilliance of his marks.

As the Opelite exchanged greetings with the official, Paru turned to Scibu.

“The Kci Talon is here,” the leader said, his voice rushed and his eyes wide. “I’ll bring word north. You stay.”

And then Paru hurried into the woods, leaving Scibu alone at his post.

Scibu watched. His mind, however, was elsewhere.