They ride until New Charil is but a speck on the horizon.

Lush, green hills separate them from those towering stone walls. The morning is obscured in dark gray clouds, with only a few god rays sifting through. Indeed, only pockets of light peek through the dense cover-cover, soaking the shoulders of Raphael, Elena, and Fionnlagh.

Travel has been harsh. Between travelling off of the Empyrean’s roads to avoid detection, to dealing with the horses as inexperienced riders, travel has worn down the bodies and minds of the triad of resisters. Tall, birch trees sway in the bustling winds, while colorful, wild flowers beg with parched throats, looking for some relief.

And relief would come, for the ashen skies open up, drenching the triad of resisters in the moisture of recycled souls. It is akin to a winter’s rain, with a gelidity that sunk into their bones. With the rain and the wind, they shiver under their gambesons. They walk down long, verdant meadows, gazing upon blades of grass that whip in the wind.

Raphael and Elena stay close together while Fionnlagh strives to keep ahead, using his naturally heightened senses to detect any trouble brewing ahead of them. Amid the crashing rain, Raphael’s ears perk up when they catch Elena’s breathing, which is heavier than usual, and a sharp click of her tongue.

Raphael turns to her, who is to his right, and asks, “Hey, Elena?”

“Yeah?” she replies.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

Raphael, glancing back at her as she struggles, slows down his pace to match hers, waiting up for her as she catches up. Elena, on the hand, ganders upon this change angrily, and so she turns to him with eyes sharpened nigh of a glare.

“What are you doing?” she snaps.

Raphael gazes back at her, worry wearing away at his face.

“I’d rather not overwork you,” he answers.

“Overwork me? I’m fine!”

“No, you’re not.” Raphael shakes his head.

“I’m sorry.” Elena sighs.

“It’s okay. What’s going on?”

“It’s just…” she begins, before her voice turns into a mumble. “I’ve got my…menses.”

Raphael raises an eyebrow.

“Menses?” he says aloud.

“Not so loud!” she hushes him. “I don’t want both you and Fionn knowing.”

“But I don’t understand…” Raphael mutters, scratching his cheek. “What do you mean, menses?”

“Oh, you don’t know, do you? Of course not. Solasúian females don’t get it.”

Raphael’s face shrinks in confusion, his eyes searching her face. It isn’t until moments later that the realization crashes over top of him, his face expanding.

“O-Oh!” Raphael gasps, then lets go of his confusion. “I’m sorry. I’ve only actually read about it in books.”

Raphael begins to unbutton the arming doublet he wore for the mission. Unfastened, he slips out of the garment, unveiling his white, loose-fitting button-up shirt underneath. He then wraps the doublet over Elena’s shoulders, to keep her warm.

“Raphael!” Elena raises her voice, and he can hear her clearly even in this rain. “I told you I’m fine!”

And on cue, as if the universe is listening, she stumbles in her step, hurling towards the ground. But before she meets the dirt, Raphael reacts quickly, and he catches her, arm around her waist. Raphael can see his body reflecting from her amber eyes, the wet cloth of his shirt clinging to his bare skin like body paint, revealing the broad expanse of his chest, his lean, muscular torso.

Elena’s eyes etch around the softness of Raphael’s face, his convex features, and his lips part with the hint of a smile. Then a tinge of pain, for blood drips from his bicep—sliced by one of the many jagged edges of Elena’s shattered metal arm. Feeling the rain mingle with his blood, Raphael lightly jokes, “Look, now we’re both bleeding!”

Elena giggles at his stupid joke. Fionnlagh, hearing her laughter, halts in his stead and turns around. Looking at the two of them enjoying each other’s company in the hard rain, Fionnlagh’s long, sunken face lifts with a subtle smile.

***

After a few days, the rain lets up. The night descends upon the triad of resisters. Before the silver sun rises, however, they decide to set up camp. They gather up wood from the trees nearby, and Elena utilizes a little bit of Ardnite to set the flame, weaving a sign upon the wood. Surrounded by a circle of rocks, the flames rise like swords to go to war against the darkness, basking all with its warm, sallow light.

The night drags on. Fionnlagh has already fallen asleep, having to wrestle his emotions the entire day, wearing upon his soul. The insomniac Raphael strokes the fire with a long stick, splintering embers across his pale skin. He sits with his legs bunched up in front of him, staring into the dancing flame, unaware that he is not the only one awake.

Elena too is awake, laying down curled up on her side, attempting to deal with the menstruation pain in her stomach. Raphael takes the stick and hooks a pot he hanged in the fire, pulling it closer to him. The pot is blazing hot, but he braves its flaming touch to retrieve its content. Inside, besides boiling hot water, is a cloth, one made from a piece of Raphael’s button-up shirt. He wrings the cloth out, then scoots over to Elena and places it upon her stomach.

Feeling the cloth on her stomach startles her, especially with how hot it is. Her head snaps up to Raphael, who nervously raises up his hands.

“Sorry, I was only trying to help,” he admits. “I read that warm compresses are helpful for easing the pain.”

“Don’t be sorry,” she smiles. “I appreciate it, Raph. I mean it.”

Elena’s reassurance eases Raphael’s height, lowering his hands. She then turns, with her back facing the ground. Raphael lays down beside her, and he gazes up into the sky just as she begins to. The clouds had parted from the area with the rain. A long river of heavenly bodies stretches out before them, lighting up the sky in a myriad of colors.

“That’s the Adama Stream, right?” Elena asks curiously, pointing a finger up at the sky.

“Yes,” Raphael confirms. “It’s said that Solasúians, even halflings, need adama to survive. There is an old story that when Solasúians came to this world, dozens of them died due to adama starvation. The great irony was: the more that died, the more that survived, since Solasúians produce adama when they die. You can say it’s kind of like a Solasúian’s soul.”

Elena lowers her hand and looks at Raphael.

“You really do know your stuff,” says Elena.

“It’s all thanks to Empyrean Divus,” Raphael states. “I was an illiterate, defenseless child servant before he plucked me from my chains.”

“You were a slave?”

“Yes, I was,” answers Raphael, then frowning. “Empyrean Divus was…the only parent that I had.”

“You never knew your parents?”

Raphael shakes his head.

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“I’m sorry,” Elena expresses. “I didn’t know my parents neither. Just a one-armed, one-legged girl before Master Malik came along and saved me.” She then laughs. “I still can’t read, but he gave me a sense of purpose.”

“You can’t read?”

Elena shakes her head.

“Nope!” she says.

A grin expands across Raphael’s face.

“Really?” Raphael replies, rising.

“Yeah, no. Can’t read.”

“We definitely need to change that!”

Raphael excitedly worms his way into his bag and retrieves a book, its thick, red cover illuminated by the fire’s light. Contrary to his bookmark—which is amid the book—he flicks through the pages; golden-brown sheets of paper swiftly flip until the flyleaf lays bare. Conveniently, the first word in his book starts with an A.

“This is an A,” Raphael says. “And it sounds like ‘ah.’”

“Ah?” echoes Elena, curiously cocking her head.

“Right.”

Raphael’s index finger scrolls across the paper, hoping to find a B. As he surfs through the book, he leans back, and his hand unintentionally rests upon Elena’s right hand. A series of images blinds her vision, swiftly and viciously assaulting her.

Suddenly, she’s no longer at the camp. Suddenly, she’s in this small, confined, signs-forsaken room. She can still feel his breath—warm, yet bone-chilling---brushing across the nape of her neck. His silhouette so much larger than hers, a tiny, frail little girl, as he tramps between her legs like a hunter stalking his prey.

She can feel his cold, long fingers grip and pin her right hand to the floor. She struggles against him, kicking and screaming for someone—anyone—to come save her, but there is not a soul willing. The man tears apart her gown until naught but her nakedness remains. As the man’s grasp tightens around her right hand—sending a chill down her spine—Elena clenches her left hand and lunges at the man, demanding, “Don’t touch me!”

However, to Raphael, she motions as if she just threw a punch, but there is no punch, for she has no left hand. Her blacken expression is painted in shadow as she draws closer to the fire. Raphael jumps forward and grabs her by the shoulder.

“Elena,” he beckons, shaking her, “hey! Are you all right? Elena!”

Raphael’s calls echo throughout the night. The loudness of his calls abruptly ends the visions, and she is freed from her prison of memories. She returns to reality, blinking several times as if to regain clarity. She does not turn to face Raphael, but the darkness of her expression recedes. There is then a long, awkward silence between the two, where only the crackle of the flames fills the space.

“I’m sorry,” Elena exhausts a sigh. “I can’t do this right now.”

She can still feel him on top of her, the coldness of his touch upon her fair skin. Without any further word or clarity, Elena lays down, resting her head upon a round rock. Raphael realizes that he’s not going to get an answer if he proceeds, but accepts it regardless. He returns back to the other side of the fire, where his belongings are, and lays down for the night.

***

As the night grows older, the collective world rests its weary head, but not all travel to the land of Nod during this late hour. Indeed, in the quaint town of Tertius—which lays south of the trio—rests the tall, daunting walls of Duke Maelius Ishvara’s manor. The rain gently falls upon the gargoyles perched at the top of the manor, cascading down their gnarled faces like teardrops.

The illusion of moonlight glimpses through the cloud-cover. The nigh-fullness of the moon occasionally peeks through, casting silver light into the duke’s bedchamber. His bed rocks hard and rhythmically, followed by a flurry of soft moans. This bedchamber is more likened to a den of vices, where the wine flows and the intercourse is vigorous.

Indeed, the duke’s wrinkled face coils with an imperious grin as he thrusts into one of the several girls on hand. The others laid upon each other as they wait their turn, impatiently gnawing on each other’s breasts or attempting to satisfy the other with tribadism. A mirror reflects the duke’s action in its entirety, which only compels him on. They are as beasts in heat—there’s little love in the act, but there is much passion.

Without warning, there is then a knock at the door. Maelius pulls out of the Solasuian female and shoos away the others surrounding him. They peel off of him, off of the bed, and go to retrieve their clothing.

“Enter.” Maelius calls.

The door slowly pries open, revealing a small-framed human maid. The young woman is assaulted by the sights and smells of the evening, of the numerous naked females who dress back up and rack their disheveled hair with their fingers. As the females depart into the night, the young maid enters the domain of Maelius Ishvara.

The duke comes off of his bed, his sweat-drenched body glimmering in the moonlight. Slipping into the silken robe at his bedside, he slicks back his silver hair and sets his sky-blue gaze upon the maid in his presence. He observes her placing a plate down at a table in the room, a plate of a local delicacy: black pudding.

Seeing the food served to him, Maelius sits himself down at the table. But something bothers him, like a fly buzzing around his head: the maid merely stands there, head hanging low. Maelius loosens an arrow-sharp glare upon the woman and says, “You don’t want to be the next human used in this pudding, do you?”

Sheer, icy cold shoots down the maid’s spine, whose face blackens at the thought. She urgently bows her head.

“I’m so sorry, my lord. Please forgive me.”

The duke then lashes his finger towards the door.

“Get back to work.”

The maid swiftly retreats from the room. As she opens the door out, there is another male there, eyes glowing blue. He is dressed head-to-toe in chainmail, with a surcoat overtop. The chains rattle as he approaches his master, the great Duke Maelius Ishvara.

“My lord,” the Solasúian says, dropping to a knee.

“Ah, Arrius,” Maelius slices into his pudding, “what news?”

“We’ve located the fleeing Descendants. As you expected, my lord, they are approaching Tertius. They shall arrive here by tomorrow.”

A devilish smirk spreads across Maelius’s face as he slices another piece of his pudding.

“Good.”

“What shall we do, my lord?”

Maelius stands up from the table and begins to walk over to his right. There, standing before the gilded walls of the bedchamber, is a splendid suit of armour—his armour. The helmet alone stands out from the piece; a great helm sporting a pair of tall, majestic horns. The breastplate itself tells the tale of how Maelius conquered the old world many years ago. He affectionately strokes his hand down its entirety, replying to his soldier, “Let the rats come to us. We have a human flagellation tomorrow. Let them attempt to resist intervening.”

“Yes, my lord,” the soldier bows his head, acknowledging his lord’s order.

***

As the cold darkness seeps into their life, it is soon burned away by the great fire in the sky. Indeed, the sun incinerates all of the frigidity and all of the blackness. Raphael, Elena, and Fionnlagh are all greeted to an amber hue, for the morning sky absorbs the light from the sky like a sponge.

Wanting to waste no second of light, they hit the road at the crack of dawn. They travel southwards, cresting the edge of Nomos’s Boot—a large, boot-shaped peninsula south of New Charil. After riding for hours, they leave their horses in an old, abandoned shack, and proceed forward to Tertius.

Before they reach Tertius, however, they must proceed through the province. They gaze upon the length of the Imperial-controlled plantations, where human slaves are hard at work tending the land. They hardly look the part for such work, as they are dressed in mere rags. And there, observing the humans, is the angry eyes of a Solasúian, whip firmly in grasp.

After some time of walking, the trio arrive at the gates of Tertius. Tall, adamas-coated walls surround the town—a show of the affluence upon the otherwise archaic town. Several Solasúian guards patrol the area, but they aren’t like the Loyal Knights of New Charil. Their chainmail rattles in their step, and their steel bascinets and aventails conceals their faces. They sport a surcoat over their mail, depicting several circles overlapping each other like a spiral of coins—the heraldry of House Ishvara.

The torrential rain continues to pour, soaking the shoulders of the trio as they enter the town. Their cloaked figures immediately draw the attention of the guard, whose glowing eyes stare directly at them. Indeed, it’s as if they know who they are. The streets are surprisingly bare, but even in this rain, Raphael and Fionnlagh can faintly hear the roar of people the closer they got to the town square.

Within minutes, they arrive at the town square, which has been wholly consumed by an ocean of bodies. In fact, there is barely any room to squeeze in, but the trio submerges head-first into this absolute sea of people. They weave through the bodies, drawing closer to the center of the square. They can’t see what is happening, but they can most certainly hear the thick, sickening crack and snap of a whip at work.

The crowd bellows thunderously as the whip drains the blood of the two naked victims. Over the hills of heads, Raphael catches a glimpse of those being whipped. His heart sinks into his stomach when he beholds one of them: a human girl, barely older than a child. She stands precariously upon a thin wooden post, enduring the scourge of the whip through her big, watery tears.

Raphael turns to his comrades with clenched fists.

“We can’t stand here and do nothing,” he insists. “I’m going in!”

Raphael begins pushing his way in, but a hand quickly grabs his shoulder.

“Wait,” warns the deep tone of Fionnlagh. “This is a bad move. Between your injuries and Elena’s disarmament, we stand little chance against an entire town full of guards.”

Raphael shrugs off Fionnlagh’s hand.

“I’m doing it. I can’t watch this!”

“Raph, calm down and look,” says Elena. “Look around us.”

Raphael looks to Elena—the voice of reason—and then peers out into the distance. He finds the glowing blue eyes of the patrolmen scanning the crowd; swords grasped tightly at their hip. His gaze swiftly shies away from the guards as sweat trickles from his forehead.

As they splice through the blanket of people, they gander upon a man in a full suit of glorious, ornate armour, including a great helm with tall, magnificent horns. This man is the duke himself, Duke Maelius Ishvara. His cape flaps in the wind as his glowing sky-blue eyes rushes over the many faces of the crowd. Maelius raises his hand, signaling to the guards to stop the whipping. His gravelly voice then raises, “Silence!”

The collective throat of the crowd quickly stiffens upon his command, save mere whispers about the duke himself. Maelius walks over to the little girl being whipped, pulling her body into him by her auburn hair. He draws his side-sword and raises it into the air.

“Hear me, Descendants!” Maelius roars, then putting his side sword to the throat of the girl. “I know you’re there. You have exactly until the count of five to reveal yourselves, or else this girl’s death will be yours to bear!”

One.

The crowd turns unto itself for answers, shuffling their heads around.

Two.

The trio of resisters frantically look to each other, with Elena asking, “What are we going to do?”

Three.

“I can’t stand here and let this happen,” Raphael states, beginning to step forward.

Four.

Fionnlagh grabs Raphael’s shoulder yet again, yelling, “We can’t expose ourselves!”

Five.