“All of this trouble for some fancy rock? Sounds boring,” Pavlos said with a yawn. He meticulously oiled his bow with a rag. “You know these lands well enough. You don’t need my help.”

“Perhaps not. But it would be appreciated either way. I wouldn’t turn down company. You know what it’s like out there better than anyone.”

“We did our jobs too well out there. We’ve robbed the wild of its spirit. It’s tame now. Painfully dull,” Pavlos sighed. He plucked a thick femur from some unknown beast and cracked it in two with his mighty jaws. Kosta tried not to grimace as the hunter slurped the marrow with an expression of utmost satisfaction. “But I expect to find greener pastures soon enough.”

Kosta frowned. It wasn’t the first time Pavlos had mentioned his intentions to leave, but with the Dipoli’s forces encroaching upon Yoreme his departure wouldn’t be long now. He hadn’t known Pavlos long, but he owed the red hunter a debt. Pavlos had saved his life from the kynokephalon. He had taken Kosta under his wing and introduced him to Yoreme. He’d invited Kosta along on his hunts and taught him the beginnings of his own magic. They’d shed blood together.

“Where will you go?” Kosta asked. “The west won’t be kind to you. The north and south have been thoroughly broken.”

“Notelos is little better,” Pavlos said sharply. He knew exactly what Kosta was implying. “Too many people. Too much civilization.”

Kosta smiled at that. “But their Merakian has left them. I expect the wild will return soon enough.”

Pavlos frowned. At least he didn’t dismiss the sentiment out of hand.

“I have affairs to put in order,” Pavlos declared. He idly stroked the kynokephalon pelt as its pink tongue lolled out of its mouth. The slaughtered beast whined happily. “This is your hunt. Your test. I can’t accompany you this time, but show me the painter’s map. I’ll tell you what I can.”

Kosta was disappointed to hear that Pavlos wouldn’t be joining him, but he hoped that the seed had been planted for the future. At least Pavlos was willing to offer his advice. He’d mastered these lands long ago. It would set Kosta’s mind at ease to hear his thoughts.

“Here, see?” Kosta channeled a flicker of magic to unveil the map. The tiny square canvas immediately unfolded and rose out of Kosta’s hands, suddenly ten times the size it was before. Polemus’ quick work was still amazingly intricate. He’d placed a collection of tiny buildings in the center, surrounded by endless forests and rolling hills.

The image grew more alive the longer Kosta stared at it. He swore that the painting began to stretch and reach out, as if he had been placed amidst the tree trunks and humble neighborhoods of Yoreme.

Then he blinked and it was just a map again.

Recognition and a flash of something dark flickered in Pavlos’ eyes. The hunter’s scruffy jaw tightened as he saw the little dot that shone like a star to the north. He looked as if he’d seen a ghost.

Kosta estimated it would take him around a week of travel to reach the Opal, although that time might shift a day or two in either direction depending on the weather. They’d strayed that way on their hunts several times, but Pavlos never pushed past the northern foothills.

They never pursued prey that fled into the mountains. Pavlos would only ever shake his head when Kosta questioned him.

It all left Kosta wary, but he’d have to delve into their valleys if he wanted the Opal.

And Kosta very much did. While Polemus’ deal was less than fair, he’d still promised Kosta the answers to any secret he desired. Polemus knew more than Kosta could imagine. Not just in reference to the art, but about the very nature of magic itself. Every lesson he’d taken with the painter illustrated that simple fact.

Everyone in the world claimed some sort of power. They delved into their Dream, met the Demiurge who had given rise to them all, and found their own spark kindled into the tiniest of flames. It was natural to grow into strength as one gained experience, practiced their magic, and discovered new and deeper applications of the divine. Giants like Evanthe, Headsman Linus, and even Polemus might feel as distant as the horizon now, but Kosta could at least imagine reaching their level one day. Yet the gap between them and the Merakians seemed vaster still. Kosta couldn’t imagine reaching that level even after a lifetime of labor.

Kosta was raised on stories of Merakians who steered the fate of provinces. Some were heroic. Some were villainous. All possessed the power to shape the world as they saw fit. It was said that even the Merakians paled in comparison to the mighty Kleosians, those continent-striding forces whose every action led to new legend.

And looming above them all just as Oroneiros stretched above the world were the fabled Aretans.

Polemus’ skills might not reach to such a level, but he seemed worldly. He understood concepts entirely unknown to Kosta. He breathed magic. If anyone were to know the secrets of the highest, it would be him. The deal he offered might not be the best, but if Kosta could just learn…

“Death stalks those mountains. Polemus is a fool to send you there, and you’re an even greater fool if you test them,” Pavlos said firmly. Kosta was immediately torn from his fantasies. “Do you know what lives up there?”

“Obviously not.”

Pavlos’ red lion snarled. “Even I don’t venture there on my lonesome. More than prey stalks the Pugnics.”

That set Kosta on edge. He sucked in a quick breath. “I have to do this,” Kosta said quietly. His staff offered an advantage, but would it be enough? Part of Kosta balked at the thought of risking his life for Polemus of all people…but that wasn’t really the case, was it? “It’s my only way forward.”

Kosta had nothing in this world, but that meant he had everything to gain. The part of him that knew fear had atrophied these past few weeks. It had been seared away in the crucible of the invasion and withered even further as he faced death again and again at Pavlos’ side.

“There are easier ways of killing yourself.” Pavlos scowled. The hunter’s clawed fingers tightened around his horned bow. “Are you so eager to meet the end?”

“And here I thought you’d be proud of me for seeking out a bit of danger. Which is it? Should I embrace my inner beast, or should I run through life with my tail between my legs?” Kosta said. A heat filled his blood. He imagined the spirits of his prey rearing up within him like a spitting serpent. “This is my path. My chance.”

This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

Pavlos snarled at him with eyes that burned like cinders in their sockets. “It will be a short path, then! Marauders roam the hills and war with the beasts. Greatwyrms rear their young in the range’s heart. It’s a cradle for monsters—both man and animals. A brief, bloody land that offers nothing beyond a painful death. You won’t make it.”

“You know it well, eh?” Kosta said. His grip tightened around his staff. Its magic sang to him, comforting him and soothing his thoughts with a rush of fiery heat. “More than I’d expect given how you avoid the Pugnics like a plague.”

The red hunter’s face went flat. Pavlos glanced away from Kosta, then met his eyes again with a flinty gaze. “I was born and raised there,” Pavlos said gruffly. Kosta started—Pavlos seemed as much part of Yoreme as Headsman Phillip. It was difficult to imagine him living anywhere else, although perhaps that explained why he was so skilled. “I disappointed my clan, and so here I am. Those mountains will be my death.”

Kosta felt a surge of sympathy for his friend. He knew the pain of exile all too well, and so Kosta grasped Pavlos’ shoulder and squeezed (despite the protestations of the lion mantle). “I’m sorry.”

“Were you the one who cast me out?” Pavlos snorted. “No, you have nothing to apologize for. But I appreciate the sentiment.”

Kosta did his best to stifle his curiosity, but it must have shown on his face. Being friends with a perceptive hunter had its disadvantages.

“I chose to drink the blood of monsters instead of men,” Pavlos smiled humorlessly. “My chieftain took exception to that. And so here I am.”

So there was an entire clan of blood-drinking cannibals out in the mountains? Lovely. Perhaps Pavlos had the right idea after all. Knowing there were armies of mighty monsters was one thing, but somehow the idea of humans willing to dip into such savage natures was far more intimidating to Kosta.

But he wouldn’t be dissuaded. “I have to at least try,” Kosta said. “I would never ask you to return, but could you guide me? Tell me where the danger is. Tell me what I must avoid. I can figure out the rest.”

Pavlos still bore that uncharacteristic air of fear, but nodded nonetheless. He stepped forward and motioned toward the floating map, leveling his own bloody power to stain certain sections red. “The south is…mostly safe. I wouldn’t venture beyond the outermost mountains,” Pavlos said. A vast portion of Polemus’ map was drenched red by Pavlos’ magic. “You venture into the main valleys, you die. Simple as that. Do you understand?”

A certain section towards the center was dyed a deeper crimson than the rest. “What’s that?” Kosta jabbed a finger at it. “Nothing good, I imagine.”

“You’d be right,” Pavlos said grimly. “That’s where my clan resides. They will hunt you if you venture past the southern reaches. Terrible dangers besiege them from every side. If you aren’t strong, vicious, and cunning you’ll be devoured before you reach ten summers. Do not test them. They make sport of adventurers.”

“I won’t cross the mountains,” Kosta promised. He was desperately greedy for the Opal, but Pavlos had done a good job convincing him of the dangers. Kosta was willing to take risks; he wasn’t willing to have a clan of savages crack his bones and slurp out the marrow like Pavlos did with the beasts he slew. “Should its trail lead me past them, I’ll turn back. Simple as that.”

Pavlos’ dark mood lightened a tad at Kosta’s words. “Good.” He exhaled. “You’re powerful enough, but my homeland demands more than most. I don’t wish to see you dead, sculptor. You have more to offer the world than blood.”

Kosta smiled back, touched by Pavlos’ words. “I’ll return. I promise you that,” he said as Pavlos continued to outline dangers on the map—Kosta would find nesting griffins here, a human tribe’s hunting camp there, and countless other monsters, reavers, and wyrms.

By the end Polemus’ map was blanketed with scarlet red, though the darkest sections were all reserved for Pavlos’ people. Every tale he told was bloodcurdling—the cannibal tribes warred amongst each other in search of power. Captives were bled and sacrificed to brutal spirits. Hearts were torn from chests. The darkest clans flayed their captives alive, offering up their pain to their patrons in search of greater and greater strength.

Even the monsters fled those bloody warriors.

“I had much to learn when I came here,” Pavlos mused. A smile cracked his lips. “Imagine such a tame world! My people would scoff at me now. They’d call me gentle. Soft. They can’t imagine a world beyond the valley. They’ve chained themselves to that awful place.”

“They never leave?” Kosta asked skeptically. “You speak of them as you would a manticore. Surely they could push out. Can you imagine Yoreme standing up to them?”

The little village would hardly be an obstacle to them. Dytifrourá might still their hands, but any minor village would be swallowed whole by the marauders.

Pavlos’ smile was dangerous. “Oh, they’ve tried. But for all their strength, they fear the world outside their cradle. They know pain. They know loss. Their warriors are fiercer than most. But the Dipoli are greater than they can imagine. Our chieftain is a blood-soaked Merakian. He is mighty and has tested his edge against a thousand foes.”

“But a Kleosian…”

“Would drench the entire valley in death,” Pavlos said. He seemed to relish the thought. “I expect the Dipoli’s champion will test her warriors against my people when she arrives. The Dipoli occasionally cull our numbers. Can’t have us wild barbarians growing too powerful, you know.”

Yes, Kosta could imagine that. Yoreme was the perfect place to launch a campaign against Hesperian-controlled Dytifrourá, but its position would also allow for a vicious push into the Pugnic valley. Kosta doubted that the Dipoli held any interest in ruling the feral lands, but it would be a fine place to bloody their warriors.

Eliora would want some way to keep her warriors busy while she rallied her forces against the Hesperians. Why not give them a bit of experience while they were waiting? It would kill two birds with one stone.

“I’ll be gone before you return,” Pavlos said with a frown. “As I’ve said, I have no intention of sticking around once the Merakian arrives. My days in Yoreme are numbered.”

“Where will you go?” Kosta felt a pang of loss as he imagined his friend vanishing into the wilderness. One of his few attachments already threatened to slip away.

“I don’t know,” Pavlos said. “But I’ll leave word with Headsman Phillip. You’ll have a trail, if nothing else. I hope you’ll find me when you return…with your prize, of course.”

“Of course,” Kosta said with a laugh. “I don’t intend on failing.”

“No one does,” Pavlos said sagely. “But I have faith in you. Avoid the dangers. Don’t enter the valley. You’ll be fine.”

Pavlos sounded as if he were trying to reassure himself. Kosta just nodded, reached forward, and clasped Pavlos’ forearm. “You’ve steered me well. I have no intention of becoming cannibal chow anytime soon.”

“They never do,” Pavlos grunted. He turned back to the map leading Kosta to the Opal. “Don’t stray. Turn back if the map leads you past the mountains. This area is…relatively safe,” he said, pointing to the southernmost tip. It appeared that there was a small valley that gated Yoreme’s territories from the central heart of the Pugnic Mountains. “Your best chance is here. Bring food. Bring cloth. Fortune may smile upon you so long as your offering is sufficient.”

“What lives there?”

“It’s not my place to say,” Pavlos said as he shook his head. “But perhaps you'll be blessed as well. It won't kill you without cause.”

“A monster that isn’t residing in your stomach?” Kosta grinned. “Color me impressed.”

Pavlos snorted, then shook his head. “I’d best be off. Prepare your offering,” he warned. “Steel yourself if you intend to explore the mountains. And don’t—”

“Explore the valley. Trust me, I have no intention of that. I don’t want to end up on a spit.”

“That should be the least of your concerns,” Pavlos said darkly. He sighed. “Good luck, sculptor. I wish you well.”

“And the same goes for you.”

With that they clasped hands one last time, bid each other farewell, and readied themselves.

Kosta prayed that they would meet again.