Worne breathed heavy, each thunderous step jolting sharply through his bones. His objective was clear in sight: Madwen and her ritual. Daithi jogged after the dark-skinned man just ahead; the spry lord seemed hardly affected at all by Madwen’s oppressive power.

Madwen’s power.

Worne could not help but stare at that ghostly light. It shone like a second moon, fallen to earth. Were Worne a sentimental man, he may have thought it beautiful, but this was not something to inspire awe. He remembered the carnage in Fiamór and the mark the magic user had left on the land. At most, the damage had radiated a hundred and fifty feet from the epicentre. Madwen was nearly a mile out, and still, Worne could hardly move.

This. This was the true power of an omeness. A trebuchet could fell a wall, an army could fell a city, and an omeness could crush them all.

Worne advanced through the now-still city. Doubtlessly, men, women, and children alike crumbled within their homes, fearful that this would spell their end. Three people lay flat on the pale, stony concrete.

“Help us,” one cried, reaching for Worne, fingertips trembling under the immense weight that overwhelmed them.

“Only darkness,” muttered another. “Bring back the light.” Similar moans of suffering plagued the city. Worne had sieged lands before, but this was different: there was no hope, no fighting, no resistance—only pain. As he wove through the maze of narrow streets, the cries grew louder, each one propelling him further.

At last, Worne reached the base of the hill. Every muscle burned, every bone ached, but he’d made it thus far, now, he needed only to climb. With every ounce of strength he could muster, Worne took a step up the hill.

Madwen’s burden was heavy; heavier still as he neared, inching closer with each encumbered stride. He gritted his teeth, grunting and growling with each tremendous step. Memories of his youth pierced the magical drone surrounding him; memories of scorching summer days, memories of hauling stone and lumber, memories of ceaseless mining and construction. It was as if he were a pack mule once again, though his only load to bear was Madwen’s.

Rays of light blinded Worne as he crested the hill. Fat droplets of sweat fell from his eyebrows to his moustache; the pristine magical light gleaming off his freckled skin.

Squinting, he could see her—frozen in place, eyes closed. Two dozen guards lay motionless in the dirt, entirely surrounding the omeness. Some of the men and women groaned; some made no noise at all.

“Madwen!” he shouted, his gruff voice bombarding her serenity.

Madwen grimaced at the disturbance and opened her eyes. “Worne? Why have you come here? Have you spoken to Daithi?” She seemed unperturbed, relaxed even.

“Said I’d make sure nothing would happen,” said Worne, breathing coarsely as he lurched closer.

“Oh this?” she said. “These people are fine. I told them I needed to complete my experiment, but, well they chose not to listen, so I’ve put them on a little time out until I’m finished.”

Worne passed a female soldier, her sword just out of reach.

“Please,” said the woman, “I feel… I feel nothing.”

Worne locked eyes with Madwen. “Not like you to hurt innocents.”

“Hardly innocent, aren’t they?” she said, dismissively. Worne took another step, leaving another footprint embedded half an inch into the dirt.

He was nearly there, mere feet from the beacon of despair. He reached out a hand.

“Uh-uh-uh,” Madwen sang.

The weight bearing down on Worne doubled. He collapsed to one knee, straining, groaning, face reddening.

“I’ll not have you disturbing me either, darling,” said Madwen, with the sternness only a mother possessed.

To think she hid more power.

Something called to Worne; a delicate whisper in his breast pocket.

I don’t need it!

Slamming his fist in the dirt, Worne closed his eyes, gathering his strength. Each wave of energy flowing from the sorceress shook Worne to his very soul—if he had one.

This was the pain inflicted on each victim in Fiamór. This was the power that kept the low cities low and the high cities high.

Twisting his face into a mask of pure fury, Worne tensed every muscle in his body, and bellowed a deafening roar. He stumbled forward, reaching for the omeness. She flinched, pressing down harder on the mad bull, but nothing.

How? she thought.

“AH!” Worne’s fingers curled around Madwen’s thin forearm. His grip stung like ice—Worne could feel it too. In an instant, the glorious light from the heavens shook and flickered. Madwen gasped, releasing the stream of magic from which she drank. The light of the ritual oscillated wildly, then vanished. Madwen’s bracelets dimmed; the living light snuffed from them like hot metal to water.

Madwen teetered, then fell onto Worne. He could hardly hold the tiny woman. His muscles ached, more than they had in decades. Madwen’s eyelids wavered as she lay limp in Worne’s arms. When he called her name, she heard nothing. She was so tired—so very tired.

There was something else, however, something gentle. Madwen smiled, then slipped away into a deep slumber.

Finally.

“Find the dissonance in Treoirbaile.”

“Aodhán?” Worne’s eyes snapped from the floor to Madwen as she lay in the tavern’s plush bed. Often, she spoke in her sleep, though her mumbles were rarely if ever coherent. Her eyes peeled open. Sunlight shone through the thickly sewn curtains—drapery typically reserved for only the wealthy, though a mainstay in Gildaun—and gleamed across Madwen’s crusty eyes.

“Worne? Wh—ah!” Pain boomed through Madwen’s head as if she had been bludgeoned from the inside. She covered her face with her palms and slowly dragged them downward.

“Why Treoirbaile?” she asked.

“What?”

“Treoirbaile, you mentioned Treoirbaile. Why?”

“Don’t know what you’re on about. Been quiet here.” Worne sat arms crossed in a small wooden chair in the corner of the room, keeping an eye on both the entrance and the omeness.

“Gods!” Madwen shot up from the blankets, white blouse stained in sweat. “Worne! What happened!”

“Plenty o’ of people looking to ask you the same thing.”

Madwen’s gaze searched about aimlessly as vivid memories flashed through her mind. Worne watched the remorse ever growing on the omeness’ pale face.

“You lost control,” accused Worne. “Nearly killed everyone.”

Madwen thrust her arms in front of her, silver bracelets clinking as she examined them.

“Tried to take those away. Burned when I touched them,” said Worne.

“Burned? No, they… I… was anyone hurt?”

“What do you think?” Worne continued to sit, uncareful with his words. Madwen remained in the bed, reliving the events of the previous night, horrified by the suffering she knew she caused.

“What have I done?” she said, slumping forward, burying her eyes into the woollen blanket.

“Been wondering that myself. Looked like you were in control. Don’t know why you’d act that way.”

“It’s this fucking city and this fucking omen!” yelled Madwen, voice muffled in the blanket.

“Didn’t see no omens out there. Just you.”

Madwen raised her face, her narrow eyes welling with tears. Sometimes she hated Worne. True he had been her best partner—after all, it was hard to find any sane man willing to work with an omeness—but his complete and utter lack of empathy drove her to spite him at times.

“You wouldn’t understand,” she said.

“Nearly killed me. That the only answer I’ll get?”

“It’s complicated.”

“And I’m just a big fuckin idiot, that right?”

“Hells above, Worne! Just—give me a moment.” Madwen looked outside past the slit in the curtains. She could hardly see the street below, but she could hear the bustle of the people, alive and well. How? Many of them were likely hurt, most of them probably terrified, yet they continued to go about their day. To Madwen, Gildaun was nothing less than a nightmare, but to everyone else, it was a paradise. Even Worne seemed unaffected by the darkness that she could have sworn was there.

Finally, she spoke. “What do you know about magic?”

Worne thought for a moment. “Dangerous, uncontrollable.”

“Ha,” Madwen laughed half-heartedly. “That’s what most people say. It’s certainly dangerous—yes—but not uncontrollable. In fact, magic needs no controlling at all. It’s as stable and unreactive as gold. It’s what the magic is tied to, however, that’s difficult to control.”

Worne sat silent, leaning into the mid-backed chair, mindful not to break it with his weight.

“Magic carries the power, but emotions control its ability. My bracelets, you’ve no doubt noticed that I’ve stored my magic in them, but you may not have known that the magic I’ve stored has already been tied to an emotion—in this case: empathy, or love, or peace, or however you wish to call it. I won’t bore you with the details, but when I call upon that magic, I need to be careful not to indulge in the emotion attached to it and only guide the magic into whatever purpose I have for it. Without sounding crass, an omeness drinking upon her own emotions is akin to an incestuous relationship: it’s corrupted, tainted by its own likeness.”

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“Got comfy with your cousin then?”

Madwen sighed. “I suppose. That’s my fault for explaining it that way. But yes. It’s an ugly thing, and it changes the context of the emotion; empathy becomes apathy.”

“That why you didn’t think twice about pressing down a whole city? Didn’t care about them anymore? All because you decided to drink your own piss?”

Madwen gave Worne a side-eye. “I was desperate Worne.”

“Then all’s forgiven.”

“I’m not looking for forgiveness. You asked me what happened and I’m explaining it,” snapped Madwen. Worne watched the miserable omeness slumped over in the bed. To think only hours previous, she glowed with the power of a god. He wanted to press Madwen further—watch her squirm with regret, but clearly she was already experiencing it in its entirety. Worne stayed quiet.

“I told you,” Madwen continued, “I hadn’t slept in five days. I’ve been trying so hard to prove that something evil resides here, but no one’s taken me seriously and my best evidence is simply the lack of evidence. When those bloody soldiers came lurking from the shadows waiting for my big strong man to leave my side so they could start telling me off—I just thought maybe I could control it. Maybe just a sip of peace would calm my mind and give me enough concentration to maintain the ritual and talk the guards down. I was a fool to think so. I thought killing demons was the toughest opponent I’ve faced. To think my downfall would be lack of bloody sleep. Heavens below.”

Madwen stared off downward. Worne watched.

“Got some rest now. Doubt the smug lord will let you keep working though.”

“Oh gods,” said Madwen, stuffing her face back into the blanket. “Daithi.”

“Had to hold back half the city guard after I dropped you here. Little lord’s furious,” said Worne.

“Still, I do owe him some kind of explanation.” Madwen dragged her legs to the side of the bed, stoking as much willpower as she could in order to stand. The thing that alluded her most had finally come to her: sleep. Did it even make a difference?

Her clothes were filthy. She smelled under her arms and recoiled.

The small but sturdy chair holding the massive man bent and warped as Worne stood. “I’ll be outside. Don’t keep me waiting,” said Worne. He squeezed through the doorway and closed the door behind him, allowing Madwen a moment to freshen up. Worne descended the stairs and Madwen could hear the teasing tone of Carlina—even two floors up. She smirked imagining the taverness’ ceaseless fawning over the grey, grumpy man, but her smile quickly faded as she recalled the moans of the soldiers that surrounded her the night before. To resort to something so dark—perhaps she was slipping more than she’d first thought.

“Do you deny the murder of every man, woman, and child read to you today?”

“I do not, but if you would—”

“Do you deny your attempted escape in which you assaulted three members of my guard as well as me'self?”

“Their deaths will be in vain if I—”

“Silence!” yelled Daithi, standing from his chair, eyes large and full of hate. Cian shifted uncomfortably. “You’re lucky that today we celebrate the harvest, otherwise I’d hang yee by your neck me'self.”

Commotion sounded at the main entrance to the great hall. Daithi’s gaze snapped to the door just as it crashed open; Worne ducking in with a small woman behind.

The omeness.

“No! Both of yee, out!” shouted Daithi.

“Ah, you must be Lord Daithi,” said Madwen as Worne silently stepped to the side.

“And you must be the mad Madwen. You’re lucky I don’t string you up like this murderer here.”

Madwen turned her attention to Ayube who stood in the centre of the room. Ayube stood completely frozen. The woman from my vision! he thought. This was the woman who had spoken those mysterious words to him. This was the woman who calmed his nerve—something which he hadn’t felt since he was a child. This was the woman who helped free him and held back the entire city. But she was just a woman—an old, frail-looking one at that. In his vision, though she appeared fuzzy and warped, she still at least looked cleaner and well-put together. He’d always imagined the omenesses or lore to be younger and more beautiful. Now that he’d finally laid eyes on one, he didn’t know what to think.

“You,” she said. “I’m here to take you to the High Kingdom.”

Ayube stood, still stunned; he didn’t know how to react.

“You’ll do no such thing!" Daithi hissed. “Take him to the dungeon. We’ll deal with him tomorrow. I’ll be glad to rid him of this world after a beautiful night of song and dance. I might even see to it before bed should the ale fail to sleep me.”

“My lord,” said Cian. “The boy hasn’t been allowed to speak.”

“The matter’s been decided. I am your lord. You will do as I say and I say seize that man.” Daithi dropped back into his chair, taking a swig from a decorated wine glass. Cian frowned but stepped forward along with two other guards. Worne stepped forward as well, eyes sharp like a predator before its prey.

“Don’t you dare!” bellowed Daithi. “You may have helped last night but that doesn’t make us allies. You can consider our little deal broken. If not for you, none of this would have happened.”

Madwen eyed Worne. Deal?

Worne took another step, but Madwen touched his arm. A spark of… something flared between them upon that simple touch. Neither acknowledge it.

The guards grabbed Ayube’s shackles and began pulling him toward the back of the room.

Madwen straightened, locking her gaze to the stranger’s. “You’re an omener, stranger! The High Crown will see you treated as such! I’ll take you to the High Capital, I promise!” Madwen watched as the young man was pulled into the dark corridor behind the fief lord at his table.

“And how do yee plan on doing that?” mused Daithi. “Plan to pin us all the ground as you did before?”

“Daithi,” said Madwen. “Truly, I apologize with all my heart. What I did was horrendous. I lost control. I promise it was the omen that—”

“Ah yes, the omen. Worne told me you hadn’t the foggiest clue what supposedly lurks here. Now, I’ve never met an omeness me'self, though I’ve heard yee work fast. Tell me Lady Madwen, it’s been six days now, what have yee found?”

Madwen took a deep breath. Her emotions were calmer. “My ritual was interrupted I—”

“Lost your mind and crushed my entire city. Yes, I was there.”

“That was a mistake, I told you—”

“Well, it’s all better then,” said Daithi. He and Worne were more similar than they’d probably like to hear.

“No, it’s not all better,” said Madwen. “But I can make it better. If you give me one more day to find this thing, it won’t heal the pain and fear I caused, but perhaps it may not all have been for nothing. It’s the only way I can think to make it up to you, to all of you.” Madwen gestured around the room to the few guards who stood at their stations.

Daithi smirked, shaking his head toward the ground. “I told Worne yee had until tonight, but that’s out the window now. You’re to cease your investigation immediately.”

“But my Lord—”

“I won’t hear any more of it. One night an omeness enters my city and hunkers down into a tavern, ignoring me entirely. ‘Perhaps,’ I think, ‘she’ll only be here another day or two. Maybe she’s passing through, maybe some spine-latcher crawled its way into a nearby lake from the sea up north. But she’ll be gone soon enough.’ Then another stranger shows up a day later and slaughters an entire village because he says he was scared of his thoughts. Not four days after that, my entire city is bowing at the knees of an unknown force from another magic user that lost their mind.”

“I haven’t lost my mind,” Madwen protested.

Daithi feigned a look of confusion. “Have yee not? I’ve heard the reports from my men and woman who stood on that very hilltop with yee as you flattened them with joy and laughter. Even your own Worne had to stop you. I’m only sad he couldn’t put you down where yee stood.”

“I’m telling you, it’s the omen. It’s some kind of demon or One Before,” Madwen insisted.

Daithi rolled his eyes. “Is it? Have my eyes deceived me, Madwen? Yee think me blind? I look around and see nothing but happy, healthy people. Well, all but one. Lady Carlina tells me you went days without sleep. Said you refused a room until just yesterday and even then, slept only an hour or two.” Daithi turned to Worne. “Tell me, Worne. Do you believe the Lady Madwen? Have yee seen anything yourself?”

Worne looked down toward Madwen as she looked up to him. It was true, he hadn’t seen anything. There had been sounds, yes, there had been eerie feelings of being watched in the forest, and there had even been bizarre test results, but the pure darkness she insisted plagued the land seemed to allude him and everyone else around. He’d seen the carnage in the village and the agony later caused by the omeness. It was hard to believe Madwen, but in the short time he’d known her, she’d never lied and was never wrong about omens—not once.

Worne moved to speak, but already Daithi and Madwen had seen his hesitation.

“That’s what I thought,’ said Daithi, smiling pleasantly.

“If she says something’s here, then something’s here.” Worne puffed out his chest, proudly. Madwen looked down. She did not smile, but at least felt some kind of reassurance. Still, she could not deny the facts. Daithi pressed on the very thoughts of doubt that seeded and grew within her mind. Exhaustion was one thing, but the visions and shadows seemed nearly unexplainable.

“Interesting,” said Daithi. “Your loyalty seemed easily bought yesterday. Maybe I misjudged you, Worne.”

“Please, Lord Daithi, excuse Worne. He only does as I ask. Perhaps you’re right. I’ve been trying to deny it since my arrival, but something—something seems to be wrong with me. I can’t say what it is, but, well there’s no denying what everyone’s seen and felt here. Clearly myself and that stranger are the outliers.” Madwen looked up to Daithi, but saw no grin on him. He seemed the type to play with his food, perhaps he didn’t like to see it give up so easily, or perhaps he was simply tired. She could not say.

“Madwen,” said Worne.

Madwen stepped forward, giving a full, proper bow. “I ask your forgiveness. I’ll cease my investigation at once, though I’m not sure how I’d even resume should I wish to. All I ask is for the prisoner’s life. You may keep him for the night, but I beg you, Lord Daithi, please allow me to take him to the High Crown. I understand you have no reason to trust me and owe me nothing, but allow me to remove this man and see that he be handed off to the appropriate authorities. Perhaps my taking him will help this land heal. The last thing your peaceful city needs is more bloodshed.”

Daithi studied Madwen with an intensity neither Worne nor Madwen had seen in the man thus far. Clearly he was searching for deceit, but that meant her was considering her proposal. Worne was almost annoyed with how effective Madwen’s words were at silencing the talkative man. More than that, she had proven once again that Worne’s lack of diplomacy and charisma made him weak outside of combat. He knew violence was his strength, but still, he didn’t like to be reminded of his weaknesses.

“The prisoner stays,” Daithi finally said, much calmer now and notably more serious. “There’ll be no more deaths tonight. It’s the autumn harvest. I won’t stain the ancient tradition with blood, or pettiness. I’ll still honour yee both, however, should yee wish to partake. But no funny business. I don’t much care if it kills me, I’ve asked yee to stop and if yee can’t be bothered to honour my arrangement, I’ll see to it neither of yee leave this place alive. Do you understand?”

Worne and Madwen shared a look, then nodded toward the calm lord. Daithi dismissed the two with a single, solemn wave, and the two departed the castle.

Madwen walked slowly down the slope in which Gildaun’s white castle stood, Worne following closely in tow. The city below was truly beautiful, both could hardly look away.

“How are we breaking the dark-skinned man out?” asked Worne.

“We’re not.”

“Giving up then?”

“Not at all,” said Madwen, strangely chipper. “Daithi’s going to give us the stranger himself.”

Worne stopped in place. “Going to fill me in or you enjoy being a sneaky prick?”

Madwen smiled. “At the feast tonight, I’m going to flood the dungeon with magic.”

Worne grunted. “Going to crush the prisoner and have Daithi give us the bones?”

“Remember how I said magic and emotions are mixed? Daithi said the stranger lost control in that village because he was ‘scared of his own thoughts.’ That sounds like anxiety to me.”

“That supposed to mean something?”

“The stranger’s emotions, he can’t control the—at all. And we’re going to use that. Burden, the spell that turns people into stuff. It’s the most oppressive spell in human existence; unleashing all your emotional burden onto the shoulders of anyone around. Light requires pure empathy, burden requires pure apathy, and with it, comes all the negative emotions associated.”

“You’re going to make the boy snap again. Why not just do it yourself and blame the boy.”

“Daithi’s cunning. It’s too risky. I imagine he’ll have a guard or two in the dungeon with the stranger. If neither of them see him losing his mind, Daithi might suspect it was me. He may even question the stranger separately and I doubt the stranger will know to play along.”

“Not sure we want another Fiamór,” said Worne, tilting his head to the side, sceptical.

“I can keep us safe. If burden is cast twice, one cancels out the other. The boy isn’t as strong as me, even without my rings. I’ll make sure to match his power and hold him back if he threatens to kill anyone.”

“And the omen?”

“I meant what I said to Daithi; I’ll cease our investigation. He’s right, no one is suffering here. I can’t tell what’s happening, but I can always return later, and with a royal military if need be. The young man on the other hand, that takes priority. Omenesses are rare, omeners even more so. The High Kingdom will need as much of us as we can manage if we plan on expanding our cities and making everyone safer.”

“Think your kind do that much good?”

Madwen spun and continued down the hill. “You heard of Neurovy?”

“Rings a bell,” said Worne, following.

“Wiped off every map in a fraction of a second. A demi-demon gathered life force over a century then unleashed it all at once just to see humans destroyed.”

“Saying that dark-skinned bloke might kill a demon?”

“Not at all. He may never even serve, but we need all the help we can manage.” Madwen turned to Worne, yellow sunlight shining through her frizzy grey hair. “You never know when one omen may kill us all.”