“Do you see them, Heror?”

A woman. With curls of brown and blue eyes. She looked down at him.

“Do you see the mountains?”

Gentle and hushed was her voice. She smiled a forlorn smile.

“Do you see the mountains? Do you see the waves? Do you see the wolf?”

It faded.

“Do you see…”

And then he was there again. Underneath the tree. Its roots sprawled out in a spidery web and spilled into the shimmering waters of the spring. The deep indigo glow of the sky reflected within the ripples. The eclipse loomed eternal.

Heror glanced to his right. The eight-eyed fox was gone; he did not know where it went. And so he stepped into its place. He wandered past the spring waters, to the ledge. And then he peered out at the horizon of hills and cliffs jutting out in the distance. On the horizon, the silhouettes of men still walked.

There were more of them now. Far more. Where they marched, Heror did not know. There was light on the horizon, but was there a source beyond? Or was this the end of the world? And they were doomed to circle it?

His questions carried his vision forth, and his eyes cast down from the ledge, and across the blackened landscape. His sight sped forward, through shadow and stone, images blurring together. The woman’s voice echoed in his head again, distorted.

“Do you see them…?”

Faster, the visions spliced together. Merging and fissuring and merging again, in a cacophony of light and texture. And then suddenly, it stopped.

He was on the ridge. The amber glow of the world’s edge was closer now. Echoing quietly in the air, he heard the effervescent flapping of wings. He glanced left, and as he did, an atlas moth, adorned with black and white-ringed markings and long antennae, fluttered in front of his face. It twirled and danced in the air and hovered in his sight – white and black wings catching the fires of the corona – until it grew eager to climb, and it ascended away. He looked up. There were stars.

Now he looked ahead again. The silhouettes stretched on for miles in front of him. He was behind the final marcher. And just as Heror arrived, they stopped in their tracks.

The last one slowly turned, and when he did, Heror saw the face of the young siephall. The one Heror had killed, despite his pleas for mercy. As he peered past the siephall, he saw others. He saw a siekangh’s blue cloak. He saw the horns of an elinji. The tattered robes of an emaciated djauul.

A different voice now. Twisted and heavy. Gravelly and low.

“Do you see them… Heror?”

Heror took a step back.

“You see them,” the voice hissed and drawled. “I know you do…”

The siephall glared, eyes burning. Heror turned to run. His foot scraped against the rock, and he kicked up dust behind him. He scrambled down the ridge, but he only took three steps before the cliff crumbled beneath him. Rock turned to sand, and sand turned to dust, and dust turned to darkness. And as he fell, it swallowed him. He felt it engulf him. Walls of shadow closed in. Air rushed from his chest and lungs…

And then his eyes parted open.

He blinked. He let out a quiet, shaky sigh. And then he sat up.

It was mid-morning. He had ridden past the Midan highlands. Past the flooding river basin and the great lake – through ankle-deep waters – to the northern woods. He had ridden until he came to a soft grove, and then he and Shaadur stopped to rest. They slept through dawn and daybreak, until the overcast began to fade. Through strands of silver, blue sky began to show. It was time to move again.

As Heror sat up, his back ached from the flat grounds. He stretched and turned and gritted his teeth, and then he rose to a knee. The sibling swords clacked against his leg.

He should have dropped and left it. He didn’t know why he kept it. The Sword of Sparhh’s winged design taunted him in the broken light beneath the trees. Shadows danced inside its flat pommel and grooved obsidian handle. Wings of flame, but no fire.

His misgivings were lies. He knew full well why he kept it. He’d heard stories before, of cursed rings and talismans that spoke to their wearers, and weapons that snared the souls of their bearers. That wasn’t the case this time. He knew there was no deception here.

The Sword was cold and lifeless to the touch. It did not speak to him. It gave off no energy, no pulsations through his skin. It was simple. From this thing that did not speak, Heror was still waiting for an answer.

He hated that he was. It was pathetic.

Heror glanced down at the Sword for only a moment before averting his eyes again. As he looked over his shoulder, he saw Shaadur lying on the ground in a deep slumber. He regretted that he would have to disturb his horse. But the quicker they rode through the steppes, the better.

Heror stood and turned. He knelt down beside his horse and ran a hand along the horse’s side.

“Shaadur,” Heror breathed. “Shaadur…”

After a few strong pats, Shaadur woke. Heror glanced down at the horse’s ankles and hooves. The horse had taken the water riding in stride, but the undersides of his hooves were packed and caked with mud. Heror let out another gruff exhale.

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Adjaash had shown him how to clean the hooves once – before their first trip into the desert – but they had never been this bad. And Heror didn’t have the proper tools. He couldn’t leave them like this, though.

As Heror stood again, he beckoned his horse with a light tug.

“C’mon, Shaadur,” Heror said softly. “Up.”

With a small, tired whinny, Shaadur rose to his feet. Then Heror tried to clean the hooves as Adjaash had taught him. He pressed in close to Shaadur’s side, then bent down and grabbed the fetlock on one of Shaadur’s front legs, hoisting up the hoof.

Grimacing, Heror dug into the matted dirt and mud with his free hand, pressing his fingers into the slop. Shaadur yawned, wobbled, and tried to lower his hoof to the ground. Heror tugged the hoof back up and frowned.

“Shaadur, be patient,” Heror grumbled.

Heror lifted the hoof again. Shaadur lowered it again. Heror huffed and gave the horse a look of frustration.

“Shaadur.”

Shaadur sang and ruffled his ears. Heror leaned forward so that the horse saw him. Shaadur glanced at Heror with a rigid, guilty look, then his eyes shot ahead in avoidance. Heror sighed heavily.

“You’re difficult, you know that?”

To Heror’s relief, Shaadur complied thereon. Heror pried the dirt and mud out of each hoof with his fingers as best he could, and then he brushed away the loose grains and dust until the grooves were clear. When he was done, he brushed off his fingers on his shirt. Shaadur gave him a nuzzle as he did so. Heror let a small smile show.

“See, that feels better, doesn’t it?”

Now Heror circled around his horse, to the packs strapped behind the saddle. He sifted through and took inventory for the supplies on-hand. His smile faded.

He’d left the Midan camp without having a chance to restock after the second desert expedition. Only one canteen of water was left full, and another was half-empty. There was one jar of dried meat left. For the horse, there were only berries. If they were to survive the journey north, he had to find more somehow.

Now Heror went to the horse’s side. He gripped the reins, lifted his foot into the stirrup, and vaulted onto the saddle. And then, with a squeeze of his heels, they started off again.

They rode through a deciduous forest of sage green, where the ground was supple and flat. It was the same forest, Heror surmised, that he’d ventured through before emerging onto the steppe. He rode at a trot – not a gallop – his eyes glancing back and forth for any sources of food. His stomach growled. He forgot the last time he’d eaten, but he forced himself to abstain for now, while his supply was so low.

It was a quiet morning. The winds on the trail of the storms had calmed, and there was little more than a light breeze, whispering through the leaves above. A deep blue sky appeared through cracks in the canopy, as the rose gold light of the sun crept up the cluttered horizon to the east. As the birds woke in their nests above, they sang – their calls converging into a soft symphony that echoed in the heights.

Traveling so often, for so long, Heror’s eyes had begun to sharpen. Even when tired, he could make out shapes and forms through the trees. And as late morning approached, and the sun’s light tilted through the cover of the weald, he could just make out the square outline of a cabin, not far in the distance.

Heror gently tightened the reins, and Shaadur slowed to a stop. The horse glanced back at Heror and questioned his rider. And then, after a short pause, Heror started ahead again. He closed in on the cabin from the south, roaming close to the trees to stay hidden.

Once he got close enough – around fifty feet away – Heror stopped again and observed, from the cover of the trees. It was a small, rustic cabin with a low-lying roof, made of thick logs. It was set in a small clearing, with massive elder trees rising all around it. From where Heror hid, he faced the front door, but on the east side of the house, he could see a small raised bed garden with various vegetables. An apple tree stood near it.

It wasn’t long before Heror noticed the djauul – a man with long black hair and a beard. The man knelt down at the far end of the raised bed garden with a wicker basket, and was plucking tomatoes to harvest.

Shaadur let out a low, impatient whir, and Heror shushed the horse under his breath. Heror watched as the man filled his basket. Once the basket was stocked with plump scarlet tomatoes, the man stood and turned. Then he disappeared around the north side of the cabin.

Heror waited. The man did not return. Now Heror’s eyes went to the garden.

Quietly, he slid to the ground. He stepped forward and pressed a hand on Shaadur’s mane.

“Stay, Shaadur. I’ll be right back…”

Now Heror started toward the cabin, staying behind the trees. He shifted from trunk to trunk, peering out to make sure the man hadn’t come back. He reached the edge of the treeline and crouched, peeking over shrubs and brambles. Still, there was no one, but he wanted to be quick. He took a deep breath, readying himself…

… and just before he started to emerge, he saw movement, and he hid again.

Running out from behind the house was a small child – a boy, perhaps only five or six. He scampered into the grass clearing beside the raised bed, and was soon followed by a woman – a mother. The mother was holding something in her hands, her palms gently cupped together.

Heror took a small step forward. Hidden in the brush, he trained his eyes.

It was a bird. A yellow songbird. A juvenile. And as the woman folded back her fingers, Heror saw its wings flutter. Perhaps it had been wounded. Perhaps it had been nursed back to health.

The woman parted her hands, and cautiously, the bird climbed up onto her wrist. The boy – barely knee-high to his mother – idled anxiously, craning his head to look at the bird. After a moment, the mother knelt down and held out her wrist toward the boy.

Heror could see the mother smiling softly as she whispered something to the boy. The boy blinked, with an expression caught between awe and fear. And then slowly, he held out his hands next to his mother’s. The bird tilted its head, and then it hopped from the mother to the son, wrapping its spiny toes around the boy’s finger.

Now the mother motioned for the boy to hold out his arms. The boy stretched out and held his hands high. And after a moment, the little bird took flight, letting out an energetic jabber as it returned to the forest heights.

The young boy jumped up and down with glee. The mother knelt down and took the child in her arms. They embraced. Heror looked on.

Do you see them?

His eyes glistened.

Then the mother stood again, and she took the boy’s hand in her own. And they ventured back around the house. Soon they were gone.

Heror looked on, brown curls flitting in the breeze.

After a few minutes, he composed himself. He blinked, and he breathed, and then he rushed out into the clearing. He reached up and grabbed several apples from the tree. He swiped two hearts of lettuce from the garden. And then he turned around and rushed back behind the tree cover. He stowed the spoils and mounted his horse, and they were off again.