Each of the city guard watched Worne with keen eyes like cats in alleys as he passed. With the sun set, and the moon high, the humid northeastern air drained the heat from Worne’s body, each step forward pushing him closer to freezing. His horse had been left with the stables along with his possessions. He’d need to retrieve his cloak should he wish to continue through the night.

The stable boy appeared dull, with large freckles and blond hair. At least, he looked like a boy, though his considerable size and calloused hands betrayed him. Worne could not know if the man had been born this way, or if a blow to the head at an early age had diminished his abilities. In either case, he did not care.

Worne approached his roan mare, though found none of his belongings. Despite the late hour, the stable hand still did what he loved, cared for the horses.

“Where’re my supplies?” asked Worne, the stone barn’s torchlight eclipsing as he advanced slowly toward the simple man.

The stable hand hunched, almost cowering. “M-m-m-my lord. E-e-elks Head.” The man pointed toward the town square. Tavern wench, thought Worne.

The fursman’s wife, Hessa, sought to Ayube when he collapsed near their home. He remembered her gentle smile, her intricate braid, and the longing in her eyes for adventure. The pain she must have felt as he killed her—compressing her body into a third its size. If only the Creator God were not so distant—if only he would intervene. Perhaps then Ayube’s journey would have ended before it began, or at least, perhaps Hessa’s death would have come swiftly.

How could it have ended like this; trapped in a cell of stone and iron, thousands of miles from his home, freckles of blood staining his robes? His legs curled sitting up. He buried his face into his knees and clawed at the back of his head as if to peel away his scalp. His muscles tense, he could hear the blood rumbling through his eardrums. Like a yawn, the sounds of the world around him dampened, yet still he heard the incessant ringing of this dreaded city.

Scattered feelings of hate and regret flared madly within him, when suddenly, quiet amidst the tempest, something resembling peace touched him. He raised his head. Nothing in the dungeon had changed. He stood, stretching to peer through the window above him. Yet again, nothing. This gentleness, he could hear it clear as his own thoughts. Ayube listened carefully, eyes closed. The ringing was subduing—subsiding; overtaken by this familiar sensation.

A sort of strength seeped through him; not into his muscles or bones, but into the reservoir of magic he tried so hard to repress. Breathing deeply, he felt himself healing, like the slow pattering of rain dousing a burning village. But there was more. He could see something.

This peace, it lapped like the ocean’s waves—no—like the ripples in a calm lake. A woman of grey-white hair sat on a short pier. Her eyes were fuzzy, undefined. She tried to speak, but was too distant. Ayube focused harder; peered deeper. She parted her thin lips, words dancing on the edge of her tongue.

“Escape. Save the High King.”

On the precipice of indulgence, Madwen swayed slowly in place, rings of brilliant silver glistening around her forearms. Particles of pure magic sparkled in the air around her, twinkling like pale starlight. Radiant in appearance, one could easily have mistaken the omeness for a goddess, yet the ritual was anything but divine. In her frailing state, the simple wandering of the mind corrupted the magic channelling through her. A single thought of Worne, of her failure, or of her exhaustion caused the energy to shift and sear. Nevertheless, Madwen forged forward, suppressing the urge to flinch at each flash of pain.

Someone was watching. When the hushed whispers first reached her ear, it was easy enough to attribute to her waning fortitude, but these we more than slipping thoughts. First, they were words of awe and astonishment; though she could not make out their meaning, their cadence held their implication. Then, they were words of caution and strategy. To pay enough mind to this growing threat would not only harm her more, but would delay her even further.

The inevitable, however, was upon her.

Emerging from the shadows of the hill below like a cloak before a dagger, two dozen steel-clad men and women approached—some with weapons drawn.

“Omeness, Lady Madwen. We ask you cease your witchcraft at once.”

Another log to the fire. Within the High Kingdom, Berkrenndal held the title of the northernmost kingdom, with its ever-changing icy landscapes and boreal tundra. The intense light of the fire nearly scorched Daithi’s face as he sat, lost in his memories of that frozen kingdom: the long nights, the scarce food, the biting cold that sapped the heat from his back. His band of hardened, bitter men spent hours staring into the flames in those so very distant nights, much as he had found himself doing still. There was no truth in fire, nor falsehoods or deceit, simply warmth.

Though time had long since passed, forever would these thoughts stain his mind. What a shame, he thought, that the psyche allowed only the most intense of memories to carve their stay. After decades of prosperity and peace, after countless days of bliss, still Daithi could not remember the pleasure of living a fulfilling life. No. Instead, in his bouts of solitude, he recalled hallowed shrieks, burning forests, and black blood.

Daithi stood, face flushed from the fire, and looked upon his private kingdom. It was beautiful under the moon’s softness. The cool light blanketed the steep rooftops and the warm glow of firelight illuminated the building’s undersides, creating flowing lines of shadows like intricate grains of cut wood. In the distance, atop a hill, a white light shimmered. It was barely perceivable from where he stood. Though Daithi could not know its purpose, he knew its cause: The Omeness.

Daithi’s knuckles cracked and his teeth ground.

Enough meddling.

Marching through the empty town square, Worne caught glimpses of the hilltop’s inky silhouette against the night sky. Squinting ever so slightly, he could see a white glint atop the hill, twinkling like a morning dewdrop.

Ahead, sounds of boisterous laughter bellowed from the Elk’s Head Tavern. Humanoid shapes jostled about through the warped translucent windows. When Worne entered, however—ducking through the thick wooden door—the raucous banter simmered and cooled.

Worne prepared himself for the imminent barrage.

“Miss me that much, eh big man?” said Carlina, plates of finished meals stacked high in her hands.

Worne huffed. “What you done with my supplies?”

“Had them brought here. Figured you’d be back,” said Carlina, proudly. “Looks like I was right to think so.”

“Wouldn’t have come here if you didn’t take my things. Maybe I stay with your fief lord instead.”

“You teasing me big man? While I’m workin’ no less. Where’s yer decency? ‘Sides, we both know you’re not a castle man. Reckon you’d hate a soft bed. Reckon you’d prefer to sleep in the hay—or maybe a roll in it.” The taverness giggled, turned, and walked to clear a table, appearing to accentuate the swaying of her wide hips under her billowing, white work dress.

Worne could feel it, a dozen pairs of eyes shifting; a dozen mouths whispering. Most the patrons enjoyed each other’s company, but in the far corners of the tavern, two tables of strong men and women failed to hide their timid spying.

“Don’t mind them,” said Carlina. “They’re just jealous.”

“Just get me my things, wench,” Worne growled.

Carlina stopped in place. “Now, that’s the second time you’ve called me that. First time was an honest mistake, but I’ll not have you disrespecting me again. You understand?” The taverness’ tone still rang playful, but her stern gaze told Worne otherwise. He widened his eyes and straightened his back, stepping closer to the bold woman. In his periphery, several figures tensed.

“Lady Carlina, I wish to procure my cloak before my audience with your lord.” Worne towered over the woman who dared challenge him, his fierce downward glare meeting hers.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

Carlina frowned. “Oh my,” she joked, “Don’t get too formal on me, big man.”

Worne growled.

“Fine, fine, calm yourself. I’ll be right back.” Carlina disappeared up a flight of stairs, leaving Worne in the tense room. Upon her return, he snatched the cloak from her hands and made his way. He could hear several chairs squeak against the floor as he left, keeping a watchful eye to his back.

Daithi’s blade had lost its shine; he didn’t think it could. But a blade was a blade. He could make due.

Two knocks at the door.

“Come,” said Daithi. Cian entered, catching a glimpse of the tarnished metal as Daithi sheathed it under his fur-lined cloak.

“Headed somewhere?” asked the captain.

Daithi looked the man up and down; he still wore his armour. “I could ask you the same question,” said Daithi.

“I won’t lie,” said Cian, “been a tad restless since my talk with the prisoner.”

“Think nothing of it,” said Daithi, tightening his belt. “He’ll be dealt with soon enough.”

“It’s just, that young man didn’t mean to do no harm—”

“No,” Daithi interrupted. “I’ll hear none of it. Did you really come here to speak to me on this matter?”

Cian recoiled slightly. “N-no, my lord.”

“Then?”

“…It’s the large fella, Worne. Said he needs to speak to the prisoner.”

“That blasted man,” Daithi snarled. “I’ve had it with the omeness and her bull sniffing around my city—our city. Did ye tell him off then?”

Cian hesitated, almost worried at how Daithi would react. “Well, no. I wanted to pass it by ye first, my lord. It is the request of an omeness, after all.”

“Damn it, Cian. The High King himself could request it and I’d tell him to feck off.”

Cian froze, unsure how to respond.

Daithi sighed. “Apologies, friend. I’ve no business speaking with you in such a manner. It’s the stress of it all.” Cian nodded meekly and stepped aside.

“Come,” said Daithi, “I’ll deal with that man me’self.”

Though sheltered from the wind, the castle courtyard did little to slow the sapping of heat from the humid air. Worne stood merely three feet from the pair of guards blocking the castle’s arched double doors. Both stood more than a head shorter than the massive man. Both failed to hide the fear that gripped them. They had no doubt that, should Worne attack, the concerted efforts of the castle guard would certainly fell him, but they themselves would be the first brutal casualties.

Both doors opened. Emerging from the comfortable warmth of the torchlit hallways, Daithi grinned with open arms.

“Worne, the Bull Knight,” said Daithi. Already Worne felt the familiar anger stoking a small fire within him; he would not give Daithi the satisfaction of seeing him angered again, however.

Worne gave a half bow. “Lord Daithi. Need to see that prisoner.”

“So I’m told, though that, unfortunately, is a private matter and will be dealt with by my own court of justice.”

“Kid’s a magic user.” Worne waited for the lord’s face to twist, but it remained calm.

“You were there then when he slaughtered our beloved families?” Daithi feigned a look of confusion.

“Didn’t have to be. Left his mark all over the bloody place.”

“I see, and I’m s’pose to take your word for it?”

“You know many men that could kill fifty people without magic?”

“I can think of one, yes.” Daithi scanned the large man visibly.

Worne narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms. “You weren’t there yourself, were you? Too busy warming your bed in your high tower.”

A flare of intensity shot through Daithi’s face, cracking his thin mask of charm. Yet, in a moment, he laughed. And when he laughed—straight from his belly—so too did the guards surrounding them. Worne watched the unsettling tableau, searching the faces of the laughing men for sincerity.

“These doors, do you know who built them? Who framed them, trimmed them, and hammered each iron nail into them?” Daithi asked. Worne eyed the castled doors, five inches thick.

“Build a few things, never need to work again then, is that it? Sure all your men get the same treatment,” said Worne. Daithi smiled pleasantly, though his eyes did not.

“My people are happy, Worne. Truly, I wish you may experience that yourself one day.”

“You can let me speak to that prisoner.”

Daithi chuckled and scratched at the rabbit fur warming his neck. “You’re funnier than you let on, but no, Worne. Neither you nor your omeness are taking anything from me,” he smiled.

The woman had vanished, but still her words rang clear in Ayube’s ears. He had read about the High King: a royal hermit, commanding his kingdom to greatness in the highest city. But how could Ayube, a damaged good from Sadanu save him? And why? He grabbed the unused bucket in his cell and clenched it in his hands. Why was this happening to him? Had he gone mad? Was this some kind of trick? But the woman was easing his mind, so perhaps this was real? None of it made any sense. Clenching his jaw, his muscles shaking as he flexed them, Ayube threw the bucket against the iron bars that imprisoned him.

“AHH!” he screamed. There was a flicker behind the dungeon’s single door, but then nothing. Ayube sat on the cold stone floor, and closed his eyes once more to drink from the peace that flowed around him. This peace was a river, and he, a tiny pebble.

His mind wandered back to the ones he’d killed—how could it not have? He thought not just of Hessa and the people of Fiamór, but the ones in Olešov and even Fatugo, his home town. They could not have died for nothing, could they? he wondered. But then, if they had died for some sort of cause, then that would have only made them a means to an end.

Better a means to an end than nothing at all, he reasoned.

Even if he wished to escape, however, how would he do so? He was no trained sorcerer… but he was a magic user—a powerful one, evidently.

Ayube stared at the iron bars surrounding him, then looked to the sky through the window in the wall above. The guard stationed at the dungeon door did not enter when he screamed and threw the bucket, would they enter if they heard anything else?

Shimmying in front of the cell’s lock, he sat on his legs, knees forward, and concentrated. In Fiamór, when looking up with watering eyes, balls of meat and bone lay in the dirt and grass. The thought stung and seared sharp in his head like a needle scraping against his brain. The power was there; it lurked in the depths of the magic reservoir within him.

Ayube reached into the magic, diving toward the power he required. He recalled the feeling of misery, the feeling of pure agony seeping from his bones, emanating outward like great waves of despair seeking to destroy any who would resist them.

The iron bars began to tremble.

The well of magic within him bubbled. He plunged deeper and deeper, nearly drowning in the unfamiliar power. Flashes of death and anguish scorched his psyche, burning the images into his eyes. It was like staring into the sun.

The iron bars began to groan and bend.

Only a little further, he thought, grimacing at the pain, grinding his teeth, growling deep in his throat.

Almost there! He clenched his fists, burying his nails through his robes and into his skin.

The ones he’d cared for, the ones he’d loved, their faces stared at him, begging and pleading for him to cease this torture—but he persisted.

You. Will. Not. Have. Died. In. VAIN!

Ayube gasped—eyes open. The cell door folded and bent downward faster than he could even perceive. Ayube collapsed forward, desperately gasping for air as if he’d nearly drowned. He quickly snapped his head to the dungeon door.

The latch creaked.

“Leave me be.” Madwen’s voice was low and raspy, her eyes half open. She continued to sway slowly; continued to guide the lunar light into the vase of water.

A muscular woman—likely some kind of second-in-command—stepped forward amongst the guards anxiously, watching the moon’s light be somehow captured straight from the air. Madwen focused on the ritual, but she could make out the shape of the woman on the opposite side of the vase.

“Please, Lady Madwen. There’s to be no rituals within the city, none even for an Omeness.”

“Magic cannot be made illegal within the High Kingdom,” said Madwen, her tone growing more sour with every word.

“I’m sorry, my lady. We were given strict orders upon your arriving here.”

“If Daithi expects me to—AH!” A blaze of brilliant energy singed her nerves when her thoughts strayed too far from the ritual. If her body was a canal that channelled the flow of magic, then the diversions acted like eroded embankments causing the magic to slosh and spill.

Several guards, including the leader, flinched and stepped back at the omeness’ cry of pain. Each looked to the other, eyes wide.

“Lady Madwen—”

“Leave me alone!” Madwen’s glowing bracelets flashed brighter at her shout. She cringed at the pain. A pulse of pressure pressed down hard against the soldiers; some even stumbled in place.

Madwen’s breathing fluttered and faltered. Her eyelids were heavy—so heavy. And the ruckus around her was shrill to her ears. But she was surrounded by peace. She could not indulge upon it, but perhaps just a sip may stay her mind—if only long enough to seize control of the situation.

“Lady Madwen! This is your final warning!” shouted the guards’ leader, drawing her sword.

So tired… just a sip.

“Lady Madwen!” The guard stepped closer, watching carefully for any quick movement, when then she saw it. The omeness’ demeanour changed. Her eyes closed, her eyebrows raised, and her lips parted, steeped in pure bliss.

“Oh, darling,” she said. “Why, I’ve told you all before. I’m not a lady,” she grinned.

Worne flexed his hulking muscles, his leather gloves and vest creaking under the pressure. “You say you’re like me. Then you know what I can do.”

Daithi narrowed his eyes. The mask he had worn was gone. Now only the true Daithi was on display.

“I know what you were capable of, aye, Ser Worne,” the cunning lord smirked. “But, by the looks of it, those days are far behind you.”

“I’ll ask one more time—real nice like—let me speak to the prisoner.” Worne leaned forward, inches away from the smiling Daithi. “Before I crush your fucking sk—”

“Stop him!” a voice called from within the castle. Daithi turned only for a short man, black of skin, to push him to the side and crash into Worne. Worne hardly budged. He looked down to the man who looked up to him, visibly shaking. Without thought, Worne grabbed the man’s shoulder and squeezed, causing him to collapse before him.

Daithi stumbled to the side, then looked toward the two. Somehow, the prisoner had escaped.

Behind Worne, a bright light shone.

“The omenes—” A pulse of dark energy boomed downward. A sound rumbled so low it could only be felt. Before his very eyes, every castle guard, every labourer, every servant in his castle collapsed to their knees, as if commanded to submit. An immense force pushed down on them all. Even Worne slumped down, grunting as he forced himself to his feet. The prisoner seemed unaffected and used the opportunity to make his escape.

Daithi steadied himself. While the force was great, it did not burden him the same as all the rest. He strode slowly toward the castle gate.

“Daithi!” Worne shouted. With immense effort, Worne stood and looked Daithi in the eyes. It was a familiar stare, one neither of which had seen in decades, but both understood its meaning.

“I’ll stop omeness!” said Worne.

“Do you need—”

“Don’t need it! Got this on my own!”

Daithi nodded, and the two charged out the castle courtyard, together.