My curse did not, unfortunately, include immunity to sickness.

The morning after my graveyard rendezvous, I fell sick with fever and lay incapacitated for several days. This, of course, sent my family into a panic. What if I died? I could not die, not before them!

Strangely, my father was pleased by this occurrence. Maybe he felt triumph in that his weird, cursed son decided to get drunk and spend a mysterious night away from home like any normal young man would have done.

My brother, meanwhile, acknowledged me only once - and that was to chuck bread at me. “Eat, you little beast.” He said.

And now Asta sat on the edge of my straw bed, pecking away at that very same bread without offering any to me. “Who were you with, Gustav?” she asked. “Not drinking alone, surely? Though I wouldn’t put it past you.”

I frowned, but she just shrugged and continued to chitter away, “I don’t know, do you even have friends? Other than the Woltarian princeling, I mean.”

“He’s not a princeling.” I said.

She scoffed. “He might as well be one. He sticks out.” She popped another piece of bread into her mouth and hummed thoughtfully. “So you were with him, then.”

It was my turn to shrug. “What if I was?”

“Yet he hasn’t even come to check on you.”

She was right. He hadn’t come. I veiled the needling in my chest with common sense: he was punished for coming home late, he was wary of my family, he was sick too. That must’ve been it. We slept in the same grave - he suffered the same fever.

As though reading my thoughts, Asta said, “He’s not ill, by the way. Saw him prancing around the caravan market two days ago. He bought copper earrings.”

When I remained quiet, she peered at me with triumphant eyes. “Have you come up with a defence for him yet, brother dearest?”

“Shut up, Asta.”

“You know, it’d be better if you didn’t get involved with him like that–”

“Like what?” I snapped, my tone too harsh, too revealing. I sank back in my bed.

She gave a little shake of her head. “He doesn’t even pray at the chapel.”

“Because the Chaplain doesn’t like him.”

“And the Chaplain doesn’t like him because…”

“Because he asks questions. He’s unfamiliar with our worship. But it’s not malicious.” I said with a confidence I didn’t really feel.

But worship was a matter of time; he was not raised like us, reared as he was in fickle Woltair. In a few more months, or a year, or two, he would come to look upon Asmara with the reverence due. Maybe he would even carve us a new sculpture of her, to replace that strange one we had now.

Asta hummed in thought. “I guess the old man can be a bit petty.”

“A bit?”

She smiled. “Alright. Very petty. But tell your princeling that he should at least try to get along. By the way,” she said, “the other day another foreigner arrived.”

“Really?”

“Weird, right? Our random little village getting the attention of two whole foreigners within a few months of each other?”

“From Woltair too?” I asked.

“No, Feryon. The girl’s a Lohen!”

My eyes went wide. “Really? What’s she doing here?”

“Beata said she’s here to do research of some sort. She offered her a place to stay.”

“Research what?”

“Don’t know. Only Asmara knows what a Feryonner expects to find here, of all places.”

Feryon - the proud and mighty Kingdom bordering Woltair. A Kingdom that devoted itself to brain and brawn, but never to the Gods. The Kingdom where, in its south, lay a volcano said to have been accidentally created by the Sun Father Lohendrunn himself, and where the first Lohens were born.

I’d never seen a Lohen, for these horned humanoids hailed from the heathen depths of Feryon, and most of them had little reason to venture into Aquir. But maybe that was for the best.

After all, even I knew of the controversial event that happened two years ago, when the Holy Palace of Avaren was tarnished by a group of dissatisfied worshipers. Armed with knives and torches, they targeted the few Lohen novice priests residing within, for no other reason than that they were what they were. Almost a quarter of the Palace burned down, and two of the seven resident Lohen were killed. The only reason the other five survived is that the Lohens are, in fact, naturally resistant to flame.

That very same evening, High Priest Caine sentenced the overzealous worshippers to death.

But the High Priest is an unusual man in his blindness to the birth land and species of his priests. There are many more Aquirians who would have been happy to see the remaining five Lohens bleed.

And so, though this visiting scholar had found shelter in the kindly arms of Beata, I knew that, at best, most of the village would meet her with stares and even suspicion. I just couldn’t understand why she would choose this for herself.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Two more days passed before I recovered sufficiently enough to venture outside and see this mysterious Feryoenner for myself.

It was a gloomy afternoon. The skies were a dull grey, the rain spitting down non-stop since morning, and my boots squelched as I quickly walked the muddied paths.

The fields were empty, the villagers taking this chance to do indoor work, fix equipment, tend the animals, and spend precious time with their families. Or, as was the case for certain men, to trail down to the only tavern there was, where the candlelight cast an inviting warmth and promised protection from the forlorn cold and thankless earth.

I wondered if the Lohen would be there too, eating or just sheltering from the rain. Either there or at Beata’s. But, as I had no excuse to intrude on the latter - and nor did I wish to seem so very curious - I chose to visit the tavern.

I barely resisted wrinkling my nose when I stepped through the door, and was instantly assaulted by the pungent reek of alcohol that had seeped down into the very core of the tavern’s wooden floors.

The place was small, so it only took one quick scan of the sticky, wooden tables crowded with farmers for me to determine that the Feryonner was not there. If she were, her horns would stick out.

But there, his back against the wall, was Valdemar. He sat alone, idly picking at his nails. The single candle on the table in front of him flickered restlessly - he looked up as I approached, and it was as though he wore an ever-changing mask of shadows over his face. But his smile was bright as always.

“Gustav, there you are. Feeling better?” He asked, his voice tender.

“I’m alright.”

“That’s good. I had a fever as well, and only got out of bed yesterday. Don’t just stand there - come, sit.”

I sat down on a wobbly wooden chair opposite him. “Really? You too?”

“Is that so surprising? Anyone would fall ill after spending the night as we did.” Said Valdemar.

He flicked his hair back, and I expected to glimpse earrings dangling from his ears, the metal catching in candlelight. But he was not wearing any. I almost sighed with relief - had Asta only been lying to tease me?

“It was your horrible idea.” I said.

Valdemar just smirked, and lifted an eyebrow. “Horrible? I rather enjoyed it.” A pause, as he pulled out a small, half-formed piece of wood from one pocket, his carving knife from another, and started working away at it, the shape still too blocky for me to tell what it would become.

I watched him quietly for a few seconds until, without looking at me, he added, “I’d do it again.”

I blinked, not quite sure how to even begin deciphering that statement. I was elated that he’d want to spend more nights with me, but… I hoped that didn’t mean he hoped to pull me into another session of heresy. Deciding to ignore his words for the time being, I said instead, “My sister told me that a Lohen is staying with Beata.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Have you seen her?”

His eyes flicked to me for a second, before going back to the wood. “I have.”

“Do you know what she’s here for?” I pushed, somewhat confused and irritated by such curt replies from him. There was something off with him as he continued carving the wood, a surface-level focus that transcended into a spaciness at odds with all I knew of him thus far.

“The woods, apparently.” He said after a beat.

“Valdemar. Are you alright? You seem…”

His head snapped up. He put down the carving and his knife, instead propping his chin in his hands, his gaze sharpening in that familiar, piercing way. “Seem like what?”

This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

“No - nevermind.”

Valdemar shrugged. “Hm, well. I haven’t talked to this girl, if that’s what you are after. She spends her days in the woods.”

“I see…it’s raining today, though. Surely she can’t be out there even now?”

“And why not? I’d be disappointed if a little rain was enough to quench a scholar’s thirst for knowledge.” He said.

The rain still beat against the window panes, violently enough to be heard even over the rowdy cheers of drunken tavern dwellers. I watched it and thought of the girl; imagined her out there in the woods, alone. Day in, day out, in the sun and in the rain. An outsider who lived by her own rhythm, heedless of those who thought her strange. Something I couldn’t identify welled in my chest.

The chair scraped as Valdemar stood up. “Can I get you a drink?”

“No.” I muttered, still gazing out the window. He stood still, and I could sense his eyes on me. I drew a breath. “No, I mean, sure. Something warm would be nice.”

When the last drop of rain rippled down the glass, I would go to the chapel and pray.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

It lasted until evening.

I left Valdemar in the tavern. I’d expected him to try and keep me longer, or even to trail after me, so I was disappointed when he only smiled and wished me a good night. His carving had, again, taken the shape of a cat. I wondered whether it was his cat from Woltair, but he still looked so oddly abstracted that I didn’t ask.

Mud squelched and pulled at my boots as I made my slow way to the chapel. Even from a distance it was clear that the candles were out - the stained glass windows were cast in gloom, offering no sense of divine shelter. The Chaplain always took care to keep the candles lit regardless of the weather, even going as far as to reprimand me when I once left the chapel without replacing one that had burned itself out.

After all, a house of Asmara must always be a bringer of comfort to those who seek it.

I had managed to stop myself from remarking that, candles or no, few would find comfort in a place that was so cold. The only warmth to be found should come from within; from our devoted hearts.

But when I got closer, I saw that in the gloomy doorway stood two figures. The Chaplain and, to my surprise, the very woman I’d been looking for.

She was tall, taller than the Chaplain or myself. Perhaps she could have been described as willowy, for she certainly had a slender grace to her, if not for her rather wide hips. Her clothes were uninteresting - they made sense for one who spent a lot of her time in nature: simple pants, and calf-high boots, though the dark, high-collared blouse was buttoned to the top in a way that appeared excessively restrained to me. Nobody wore such things here. Our tunics were loose, embroidered, shaped only by a sash around the waist.

Her tell-tale horns were unexpectedly small, just two small stubs jutting out of her forehead. But, equally surprising, was her tail - long, with a tufted end, which flicked casually to and fro. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail.

There was something dreamy about her countenance, something that made her seem folded in on herself, as though with her calm, polite voice she spoke of one thing, yet her mind pondered something else completely. When she saw me approach, she smiled at me. It was professional, it was empty. It was a smile that did not care. She wasn’t here, in the doorway of the chapel, not fully.

The Chaplain motioned me forward. “Ah, speak of him and he appears! Gustav, this is Marla.”

I glanced between them. Yet another unexpected variable was that the Chaplain seemed at peace with her presence. He was not turning red, nor was his expression bitter the way it was whenever Valdemar ventured in his direction. No, the Chaplain did not seem to care that the woman who stood beside him, in the chapel entryway, was a foreigner and, worse yet, a Lohen.

“It is nice to meet you, Marla.” I said.

“Likewise.” She responded.

The Chaplain clasped his hands together and beamed at me in the way that made it clear I had no choice in the matter as he said, “She has some questions about our worship, Gustav, could you take some time out of your evening to discuss with her?”

“Sure.” I said too quickly, half out of surprise, and half out of pure curiosity.

He gave us a satisfied nod, then turned and shuffled back into the unusually dark chapel.

I looked at Marla. “We can go to the tavern, if you want?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t. They wouldn’t like it.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, imagining that she meant feeling unwelcome amongst the villagers there.

“Candles always extinguish themselves around me. They won’t like drinking ale in the dark.” She said matter-of-factly.

Right. That explained the chapel.

“We can go for a walk and talk.” She suggested.

I wasn’t particularly keen on trudging through the muddy paths for any longer than necessary, but it was not as though there was much of an alternative, if she couldn’t go to the tavern. “Alright.”

As we walked, she started peppering me with questions all about Asmara, and Aquir’s worship of her. She asked about our beliefs, our rites, and how our village’s traditions differed from those of the capital. As for the latter, I knew little other than what the Chaplain told me of High Priest Caine’s unorthodox approach, but I couldn’t admit my lack of knowledge to her.

And so, I told her as much as I could. I told her of Asmara’s Feast, Jaunines at midsummer, the cleansing rites, and the lunar celebration in which women were the only participants, along with other smaller festivities that happened throughout the year.

Speaking of these things invigorated me, and brought up a memory that had long been buried - a memory of when I was small and listening, wide-eyed, to the Chaplain preaching the stories of a world where the Gods still walked among us. Asmara, he said, used to come down and speak to us directly, just as now the priests spoke to us in her stead.

Marla listened to me without interruption, and just watched me with dark, liquid eyes. In her presence, I felt as though I was the Chaplain, speaking his words, doing his work. And unlike during the blood sacrifice, I welcomed this feeling.

Finally, I said, “I didn’t expect a Feryonner to be so interested in this.”

“Why?”

“Well, I thought Feryon…is against the Gods.”

She shook her head. “We see it as a weakness. Those of my kind know that our ancestors’ birth by the hands of Lohendrunn was a mere accident. It would be shameful of us to rely on a God who never intended to create us. However, that does not mean I am unable to show respect to your faith, or acknowledge the fact that every element of your existence is purposeful.”

Purposeful. I didn’t like the idea of my curse being purposeful. Though, I had a sense that she wasn’t even aware of that element. I quickly decided not to tell her.

“Unlike Woltairians,” she continued, “We do not visit other nations merely to insult them.”

Something in her tone invited questioning, so I obliged, “Why do you say that?”

“Before I journeyed to Aquir, I heard that the tensions at the border with the West Region were on the rise. Do you know why? Because Woltair’s King came all the way to Orin, yet refused to speak to our King. He claimed that King Bjorn is too old, and thus he would only engage in politics with an heir - not a man halfway to his death.” She scoffed. “Yes, we expect King Bjorn’s death to be soon, and the preparations have already begun. But the crown still rests on his head, and the position of heir shall not be put up for contest before he is on the verge of passing.”

“You seem to know a lot about this.” I said. I didn’t want to admit that I didn’t even know the name of her King before she said it.

“And you don’t? The squabbles of two or three men can ruin the peace of many.” Her eyes narrowed, and she looked at me coolly. “Do you know anything at all about Baltimore?”

I hesitated, then offered meekly, “I know his first act as King was to legalise brothels.”

Her lips curled up in faint amusement. “Silly, who told you that, of all things? It’s true, technically, though I myself wouldn’t call that his first. His first act was just after his coronation, when he sent gifts to King Bjorn and High Priest Caine.” She paused expectantly.

I shook my head and waited for her to continue.

“Your High Priest was holding court with his flock, when the gift was handed to him by a messenger. He opened the box, and reportedly his face went so pale that you’d think he saw his own death in there. He shut the lid before anyone could see what was inside, made excuses, and left for his private chambers.”

I hummed in acknowledgement, and she went on. “As for King Bjorn, he was in too poor health to handle the box himself. One of the Six Generals, who happened to be nearby, was given to open it. General Muu, he was called. Again, we don’t know what was in there but barely two weeks later, Muu got himself severely mangled on an emergency mission. And, as there is no use in a broken General, he was sent home and nobody’s seen him since. Of course, I doubt Baltimore was acting in bad faith. The man is a fool, but doesn’t seem malicious. Whatever it was - he must’ve thought it a great gift.”

“That…all just sounds like gossip.” I said, but nevertheless her words had made me frightfully aware of just how small my world - and knowledge of it - had been until now. I didn’t even know of any gossip surrounding the Kings, or anything that could be interpreted as politics. I didn’t know about the High Priest and the box, much less about the actions of foreign rulers.

I looked at Marla, but she was staring straight ahead, with a wistful look in her eyes that made it clear to me that she was curled up in her own thoughts.

So, for the next while, we walked in silence. Until I cleared my throat and asked, “So…what are you doing so far from Feryon?”

“Research.” She said simply.

“Yes, I’ve heard that you’re a scholar.”

Marla smiled and shook her head. “Oh, no, I am a healer by profession. And before you ask - no, I am not here for anything to do with healing.”

“Then what research is it?” I asked. We had stopped on a path by the edge of the woods, linden trees rustling behind us. They were sacred trees, particularly to our women, who believed their leaves to hold promise of good fortune and fertility when eaten.

A single leaf fluttered down from a branch and landed on the ground between us. Her eyes followed it as though it were the most interesting thing in the world.

Then, she lifted her gaze to me, and said, “I am here to find the Erlkonig.”

I did not know what I expected from her, but it wasn’t this.

He is a monster of children’s stories, and I hadn’t spared him a single thought for a decade. It is said that he lives in a forest - and of course, every village with small children will claim it is their forest - and steals away those who wander in too deep. He has antlers larger than any deer, and eyes that gleam either gold or green depending on who you ask, and long claws that tear flesh with killing grace.

I couldn’t help but smirk at her. “You’re here for…a fairy tale?”

“A fairy tale?” She shook her head, and her eyes shrouded again in that distant way. “He may be a fae exiled from his lands. Or a spirit. Or maybe a beast, only taking on the guise of a man…I’ve heard that he steals people. Whatever for? How do we come to know of his existence, if he whisks his victims away, never to be seen again?”

“He probably doesn’t exist–” I said, wanting her to know that the one she sought for was a scary story, a false myth, and that whatever she heard of him in Feryon must’ve been distorted, for her to believe she could find him here.

Marla bent to pick up the linden leaf off the ground. She twirled it between her fingers. Her long nails were more akin to claws.

“Well,” she said, “then I’ll leave this Kingdom very educated about all the types of trees and fungi to be found in a forest. No, even his inexistence is important to ascertain. Such things - myths, legends, tales so twisted by time we don’t know where they end or where they begin…but everything does have a beginning and an end. A rational one, one way or another. Regardless, I’ll know a truth to bring home, a truth that will enhance our understanding of the world, even if only by a tiny amount.”

I let out a huff. “You seem so certain.”

Her eyes flicked to me again. “And you’re not? Don’t your instincts tell you what is nature and what is myth?”

“No.”

“I think they do. Maybe you don’t want to put your faith in something so primal and raw, son of Asmara, but as I’ve said before - every piece of your existence was made with purpose. And that includes the roiling instinct in your gut that tells you which scary stories are true.” She smiled, a tip of a fang peeking through her parted lips. “And mine tells me that the answers to the Erlkonig are right. Over. There.”

I looked past her and into the woods. The trees grew thick, the ground a battlefield of moss and leaves and dark, coiling roots. Those things meant nothing to me. But they meant much to her and, apparently, to the monster she sought to find within.

That night I lay in my bed, my single heart thumping a slow beat, and I thought of kings and earrings and carving knives and fallen leaves and the truths that a Lohen claimed I already knew.