A thrumming of energy swelled in the place — the stark red dried leaves that blanketed the floor were picked up as if by a soft wind and moved towards Old Mereth. The witch stood in the darkness, her ancient, cruel, mad orange face lit only by the dim light emitted from the staff in her left hand, and I could see her mouth moving quickly over arcane words. Two fingers of her right hand pointed at us.

If Alator had been willing to reason a moment before (I wasn’t certain of this), all traces of thought for the sanctity of human life receded from his mind, to be replaced by animal rage. Bending down, his lips peeled back over glistening, white teeth, his hands touched the floor like a sprinter awaiting the gun, and his feet dug into the punky earth behind him.

Subtly, the air shifted again — there was a near-imperceptible warmth that I barely picked out, and then for a moment like preceding a shockwave the leaves all stopped moving again.

Alator of the Solar Wheel took this as his cue, his eyes flashed yellow and golden smoke drifted off them for a moment, then he LAUNCHED himself forwards, covering most of the space between us and the witch easily, and would have likely covered a distance far, far greater had two bodies not thrown themselves in front of Old Mereth as she finished her incantation.

The first orchard-folk zealot was SLAMMED out of the way with the initial momentum, bouncing off a wall of muscle and folding backwards into the trunk of a tree with a sickening series of clicks. The second, unaware or uncaring, bear-hugged him and through mortal effort, pinned him to the spot. But only for a moment — and the effect was tragic. My companion reached his arm backwards and, with nothing more than a blur of movement and another flash of yellow-gold, thrust forwards and dug his thumb and index-finger deep into his opponent’s neck, and tore it out.

Spluttering, covering Alator with gluts of arterial spray, the man fell noisily, fingers fumbling helplessly against the unthinkable wound. Another flash and Alator threw the mess in his palm hard at Old Mereth.

The bloody pulp hit the woman in the face before she finished her incantation, and I was given my first glimpse at the importance of perfection in casting. As she choked for a moment on the words, her neighbour’s gore stuck in her throat, the staff creaked and after a moment of utter magical silence, the colour in perhaps a five yard area disappeared from the world, then the head of the staff imploded into a single dot with a rush of air like a vacuous inhale.

Then it EXPLODED outwards, throwing Old Mereth and Alator away from each other. The golden-haired beast landed on his feet, skidding backwards, and snarled, throwing his head side to side like a wolf looking for prey. Old Mereth did not stand back up.

“Alator, that’s enough! Let’s go!”

My voice came as a croak, and it was possible he did not hear me at all. He leapt forwards and landed hard to reach Old Mereth, body broken and trembling, and scoffed. While he inspected the dying witch, leaning down, there was a sudden movement far to the west of us, back towards the village, and the violent twang of a bowstring.

An arrow imbedded itself into Alator’s thigh. He howled and without even looking, threw himself towards the source of it, disappearing into the darkness.

Feeling my damaged arm could still be moved, I winced in pain and reached a branch above me, heavy with fruit, to pull myself to my feet. Unbalanced, ears ringing, I stumbled after him through the dark groves, towards flash after flash of yellow-gold light. . . .

Not a half-minute later, I came upon the predictable scene. He stood over half a dozen bodies, all beaten to be near-unrecognisable, bones glinting white in the torchlight and a pool of spilled blood at his feet. With his bare hands, as I had always seen him fight, and probably with his teeth as well, he had torn them apart.

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Shoulders heaving, breath coming ragged, but not through exertion, he bristled as I approached and in savage, terrifying instinct, turned and threw an arm at me — luckily, with an open palm. His hand hit my chest, and I was moved back six inches, heels digging into the messy dirt.

Wincing, I shot him a glance. His eyes dimmed a little to their normal blue.

“It’s time to go, Alator.”

His red hair settled about his shoulders, and he spat, “The Ember Spirit remains.”

I knew appealing to his humanity would do no good. That the orchard-folk seemed to rely on this Spirit for their livelihood would make no difference to him. Instead, I threw my good arm out and looked around me.

“We have no idea where it is, mate. Or what it is.”

Alator blew out his cheeks and straightened his back, mumbled, “Fine,” and followed me away from the village. As we departed, a few figures ran out of their houses to inspect the bodies, and I was surprised to see over my shoulder that all of them were moving, and a few of them were even able to sit up.

“Thank you,” I said.

Alator nodded, and we continued silently.

Once again covered in viscera and pocked with wounds, we wandered away from the village to climb to find the lay of the land.

Before we made it to the height of the Emberfruit Groves, first light shone out, and for the first time since arriving at Barbican, the clouds parted: the startling morning light of two suns, one white and one red, bathed our bodies. After so long in the dark of stormclouds, I instantly stopped, pressed my eyelids closed, and felt myself drift into a lovely daydream of respite on a warm beach.

Feeling a nudge on my shoulder, I opened my eyes to stark reality: blood-soaked Alator, and the pain in my arm. I sighed and carried on.

We found a tall hill. Beyond us, past the undulating red-leaved groves, I thought for a moment that the sky had fallen. Out to the horizon was a glassy plane.

From where we were, focusing for a moment on any specific area, I saw multiple ledges and layers which broke up the land, and many shards were broken and reached upwards to become natural barriers and small mountains, but taken as a whole in the distance it seemed a perfect mirror-like expanse, stretching in every direction for miles.

Alator and I stood dumbstruck for a moment, and as we did, we saw a portion of the land shift in a slow-moving, shallow wave, like a ripple on an otherwise still lake’s surface, then settle again to flat, hard ground.

“Wild. . . . Absolutely incredible,” I muttered.

After a beat, Alator spoke:

“We’ll have to watch out for eye-strain, going to be blindingly bright down there.”

I blinked at him and shook my head, “That was your first thought when looking at miles of moving mirror fields?”

“No,” he shot back, glaring at me, “but it was the first useful thought I had.”

Useful, eh?

For the strange darkness that came upon Alator’s eyes at times, I had avoided asking him about his past, or too much about the world he came from. Truth be told, I was also a little afraid to ask. . . .

What harsh experience has he gone through, possibly at the hands of the World-Eater, that has made him this way?

We set off down the side of the hill. Where the leaf-covered dirt met the mirror-ground, there was a stretch of maybe fifty yards where the two intertwined; dry leaves scattered over broad, shattered panes of a glassy, obsidian-like material, and shards of broken mirror were strewn over the red-stained dirt. Our first few steps onto the glass crunched, but as we went on the mirror became thicker underfoot, and solid. It was almost as if an enormous inland lake had been turned to glass.

// SYS : The Glass Flats! Before you lies a cursed expanse of blinding brilliance and treacherous illusion. Behold, the endless mirror-like surface that stretches far beyond the horizon, reflecting not just the two burning suns above, but the very essence of your soul! Each step you take is gambling your life — there! You see how the ground ripples beneath your feet as if alive? Gaze upon the brilliant reflections, but tarry not! The scorching day heat sears skin, while the freezing night pierces bones with bitter chill! Beware, traveller, for the greatest danger lies not in the creatures that prowl beneath its surface, but within your own mind! The glass plays tricks, you see — shows false reflections, turns your every move into a disorienting labyrinth of shimmering illusions. How long can you last before the Flats claim you, leaving nothing but your reflection in their cold, shifting embrace? //

Just as soon as I feel like I miss these introductions, another one pops up and reminds me how awful they are. Does everyone get these?

// SYS : Yes, but I add a few layers as pleases me. //

In future, could you condense them and just tell me the important parts, without all the drama?

// SYS : No. //

Thanks — really helpful, as always.