“A fire? Really?” grumbled Ciro.

I watched as the large man hunched over, awkwardly lowering himself to the tiny hearth, trying his best to put out the flames using a nearby iron poker.

Milea had put us in her tiny living quarters to wait. But after seeing me struggling with the heat, Ciro braved another entrance into Milea’s forge to ask if she had any spare clothes I could wear to get me out of the furnace of my armor. And although I heard shouts of protest complaining of interrupted work, Milea eventually returned to provide me with a long white linen sleeping dress to wear while I was here in the underground camp.

Now suitably dressed for the climate and finally outside of the armor, I was able to relax and take in my peculiar surroundings. The small room had a humble cot, a few overstuffed chairs, and a floor covered with once-colorful carpets. The oddest thing, however, were the walls.

The crooked and cracked stone cavern wall was painted, quite delicately, with scenes of battle. Armored soldiers, dragons, and beasts alike fought valiantly against each other, with rich blues and reds glowing in the firelight. I saw Selphene knights, eyes wild, charging a group of cloaked soldiers, charging bravely forward, although their numbers were slim. The now familiar smoke of a void mage circled another serpent beast rider, already bloodied from battle. The focal point of the entire impressive mural was a woman, standing upon a high cliff by herself. Framed by glowing clouds, her palms upwards and at her sides, she raised her head in prayer.

“Ciro?” I asked.

“Hm?” he asked, still desperately trying to lower the flames.

“Who is that?” I asked, pointing to the woman.

Ciro turned his head to see where I was pointing, then back at me, brows furrowed.

“Illes. It’s the battle of Port Xeme. Not sure why she’d want to decorate her room with something so depressing,” he sighed.

“Who’s Illes?”

Ciro shut his eyes tight, apparently physically pained by my ignorance.

“Please tell me you know who Illes is… The Western Witch? Barren’s hero?” he sighed. “Of course you don’t. The mainland would try to bury her story, I’m sure.”

The Western Witch.

“I’ve read books who talked about… about the Western Witch. But never by name. She’s… The books don’t show her in the kindest light.”

“I’m sure that’s putting it lightly,” Ciro sighed again, resting his head in his hands. “The betrayal of Port Xene is one of the darkest parts of our history here in the Barrens. A Myrot spy had infiltrated our camps, even rose to respectable rank, all the while feeding back valuable information to the Four. For years, the coward went unnoticed, until one night, while they slept, thousands of Selphene and Herculea knights gathered, surrounded the island. Hidden below the black sea by Myrot himself, they finally stormed the shore. Although unexpected, Barren forces were able to last until morning light… Until the dragon riders came.”

Ciro backed up, leaning against the wall, looking up at the mural around us.

“It was a massacre… And it would have been worse if it wasn’t for Illes.”

“What did she do?”

“She did what she had to - to save those who were still alive. She had her small fleet of void mages, and each gave their magic to her, sacrificing themselves to create a great void beast to face the dragons. The distraction was enough to get a majority of the remaining people, soldiers and townsfolk alike, off the island in the few remaining ships.”

I looked up at the woman again, melancholy eyes of black, pointed towards the sky, silver tears on her pale cheeks.

“What happened to her? Did she survive?”

“Oh, she’s still alive, a bit older now, but she keeps to herself. She’s in hiding somewhere, a bit of a recluse. They say she refused to use magic ever again after that day,” said Ciro, scratching his chin in thought. “Can’t say I blame her.”

“I… I can imagine… with what she must have gone through that day.”

“With what who must have gone through?”

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It was Milea at the door, shoulders hunched to get through the low frame.

“Illes,” said Ciro, stretching and getting off the floor. “Are you finished?”

“Ah,” said Milea, “I see you’ve been admiring my artwork.”

“Did you paint this?” I asked, “It’s beautiful.”

“No, no. Not me. Someone else,” she mused, putting her gloved hands on her hips.

“Alright, enough chitchat - Don’t you want to see your weapon, Mira? Let’s go!” clapped Ciro, corralling us through the doorframe.

—

It was beautiful.

The blackened steel blade was inlaid with the same obsidian black stone of the Halmore armor. Two thin twin blades started at a single flattened base affixed the swirling, carved hilt, ending in two deadly points, one longer than the other. The handle of the blade was sturdy, yet my hand fit neatly into the smooth grooves as if molded. As I weighed it in my good hand, it felt light, balanced, and far more dangerous than the sticks I had been practicing with before. The blade was long, and although thin, it was no fencing sword. I could not peel my eyes away.

“It’s a modified falchion. It’ll be light enough for you to wield without struggle, long enough to suit your reach, and sharp enough to keep you safe,” said Milea, cleaning her tools with a dirty cloth.

“Of course, you’ll have to name ‘em,” smiled Ciro, looking intently at the sparkling weapon.

I gestured for him to take it, to have a closer look, but he shook his head.

“I can’t,” he said, “Bad luck.”

“Does your halberd have a name?” I asked, turning the fine blade in the firelight and watching the light dance through the dark stone inlay.

“Of course,” laughed Ciro, “Myrtle.”

“Myrtle?” exclaimed Milea.

“Yes, Myrtle. After my horse,” he smiled, twisting the large blade in the air with ease.

I couldn’t help but laugh.

Moments passed as I stared, mesmerized by the craftsmanship of the falchion, unlike anything I had ever seen before, or even illustrated in the books I had read. This beautiful thing… was mine. It was made for me.

“I… I don’t know what to say, Milea. It’s beautiful. How can I repay you?” I said, feeling tears at my throat.

“You can repay me by cutting off Herculea’s head. Selphena’s too, while you’re at it,” Milea said flatly, still diligently cleaning a small chisel on the workshop table. “Pretty as it is, won’t be much help without magic.”

I turned to Ciro, who was already frowning.

“Come now, let’s get this over with,” he grumbled.

After a long and winding path through the underground camp, long after passing the lantern lit shops, and walls of endless doors, with skinny metal stairs and feeble looking ladders leading to hidden dwellings, we came upon an odd little door. Partially out of the way from the rest, and much further down than the other tunnels, the door was flanked by two armored soldiers. Their armor was odd, with pieces of Selphene and Tumet design alike, welded together and oxidized to a smokey gray finish. They were quite still at first, possibly sleeping, but when they saw Ciro, they immediately stood at attention.

“Ciro, sir -” said one, unsure if he should bow or salute, as he did an odd mixture of both. “What do we owe the pleasure, sir? If we knew that you were coming, we would have better prepared, sir. Such an honor, sir.”

“Hi, yes,” said Ciro, impatient from the heat, “We need to see the anasilan.”

“And what’s your business?” said the other, much younger knight.

“His business? He doesn’t need to tell you his business,” scoffed the older knight in disbelief. “Just open the door, you idiot.”

“But Milea said -” exclaimed the younger soldier in a whisper.

“Apologies, sire. Please enter,” said the older soldier, opening the door with another awkward bow.

As the heavy door shut behind us, we found ourselves once again in complete darkness, met only with the muffled argument of the two soldiers behind the door. A sudden earthy smell, that of rich tilled dirt, hit my nose. It was oddly cold in the dark, and I had to hug my bare arms to my chest to keep warm in my new attire, awkwardly holding my new weapon over my shoulder. I kept close behind Ciro, as an unpleasant unease of the unknown settled over me.

Ciro stopped in front of me and stepped aside, as we were at the mouth of what seemed to be a small room. My eyes began to adjust, but it was still difficult to make out what was in front of me. On the wall we faced, two pink eyes, like that of a blind rabbit, glowed in the dark, unblinking. I felt my breath catch in my chest, and my heart began to race.

“Hello,” spoke an invisible voice - not from the cave, but echoing silver-clear in my head. The sensation was so bizarre, that I almost dropped my new weapon, then and there.

Suddenly, a mass of glowing insects, too bright to be fireflies, appeared, swirling from invisible openings around us, illuminated the small room as they slowly landed and started crawling on the tunnel walls with a low hum of wings. I held in a reflexive shout of surprise when I saw what could only be the fabled anasilan before me.

Formed within the dirt wall, was a mouthless, noseless, frail creature with milky pink eyes. Folded iridescent mayfly wings framed the skinny, gray-white body and its many arms. The skinny limbs, as long as I was tall, bent in awkward angles, holding the lanky beast’s perch within the muddy brown wall behind it. The ghastly, worm-like creature was unlike any fae I could have ever imagined.

“Hello Mira.”