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, crust breaking at the seams. The room’s thickly sewn drapes had been drawn, though a thin line of light had found its way to Madwen’s face as the sun moved across the sky.

“Worne? Wh—ah!” Pain boomed through Madwen’s head. It felt 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 grumbled.

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. A light gleamed from his lap. Madwen rubbed her eyes more thoroughly, using her fingernails to scratch away the crust and wipe away the gunk. It was his sword. Worne had laid it across his lap. Why would Worne—

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

The large man sat calmly, then leaned back to peak through the curtains toward the castle outside.

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

Madwen’s gaze scattered about aimlessly as vivid memories flashed through her mind. It pained her heart to see herself acting in such a way. A deep hole sank in her gut at the thoughts.

When omen magic was first developed, the acting High King had strictly forbidden its use on humans unless absolutely necessary to save oneself. Even the current High King vowed not to use them as weapons or deterrents despite being faced with small skirmishes from surrounding kingdoms and countries. Madwen had just demonstrated why. Were the world to turn to magic for war…

Worne watched the remorse ever growing on the omeness’ pale face. “You lost control,” he accused. “Nearly killed everyone.”

Madwen slowly lifted 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’re… I… was anyone hurt?”

Worne took a hard look at the omeness. “What do you think?”

He continued to sit, uncareful with his words. Madwen remained in the bed, reliving the events of the previous night, horrified by the suffering she had caused.

She opened her mouth for a moment. “Did… did I—”

“No.” Worne continued his harsh glare. “Told you I wouldn’t let anything happen.”

Tears began to well in Madwen’s eyes. She frowned deeply and her lips and chin wobbled.

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

“Been wondering that myself. Assume you lost control. Sure didn’t look like it, though.”

Madwen lifted her now-red face from the blanket. “It’s this fucking city and this fucking omen!” she yelled.

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

Madwen narrowed her puffing eyes. Sometimes she hated Worne. True, he had been a good partner—after all, he had stopped her when no one else could—but his complete and utter lack of empathy drove her to spite him at times.

“You wouldn’t understand,” she said.

“Nearly killed me. Not going nowhere ‘til I know why.”

Madwen dabbed tears from her eyes using the blanket. “It’s complicated.”

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

“Hells above, Worne! Just—give me a moment.” The sliver of light from the curtain, Madwen looked into it—past it. Being on the third floor in the tavern and still lying in her bed prevented her from seeing the streets outside, however, she could still hear them. Merchants still called to their potential patrons. Women still gossiped. Men still cheered. Children still played. Somehow, Gildaun and its people continued to thrive, hustling and bustling like any day previous.

How? Many of the people were likely still hurting; most of them likely still terrified, yet they continued to go about their day, steadfast and undeterred. 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 swear was present.

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Madwen looked back to Worne who sat staring with his same, grim face. She owed him an explanation. She owed everyone an explanation.

“What do you know about magic?” she finally asked.

Worne thought for a moment. “Dangerous, uncontrollable.” Perhaps he could have said more, but it was a broad question and Worne had said he wasn’t so good with talking.

“I suppose that’s the gist of it,” said Madwen, giving a shallow nod. “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 back into the mid-backed chair, mindful not to break it with his weight.

“For years, my predecessors toiled about endlessly trying to control the energy that omens use as their source of power. They tried gemstones, books, magic words, even omen body parts, but each attempt to control the unknown led only to death and ruin. It’s why most of the world still refuses to engage with magic at all; the research alone can kill hundreds, perhaps even thousands if done with true reckless abandon. It was only until Jeska, the first Omeness, realised the one thing nearly every creature shares in common: emotions.”

Madwen watched Worne, though he gave no reaction. During her time studying and training with The Coven, Madwen had never had a pupil. Often times she’d come to wonder what it might be like to share her experience and knowledge with one truly interested in the arcane, but instead, she was given Worne, a sometimes thoughtless brute.

Still, she continued. “I’ll spare you the details of the story, but just know that by touching an emotion and then fusing it with magic, we can control how the magic works.”

Worne grunted. “That it then? Throw a tantrum and the whole city falls? Surprised more of you omen-women don’t go killing the entire kingdom.”

Madwen sighed. In a way, he was correct, but his tone and phrasing made it sound simple, even childish, when it was anything but.

Madwen held up an arm. “It’s my rings. You’ve no doubt noticed that I’ve stored my magic in them to draw from later, but in order to do so, I need to tie an emotion to the magic first. Most people rely on only the magic inside them, but by storing my mine in a vessel, it gives me a much larger well to draw from.”

The distant sound of heavy boot steps sounded from the window. Worne flicked his neck and peered through a small gap in the curtain, snapping his hand to his weapon as he did so. The sudden movement took the omeness aback. She hadn’t had time to consider why Worne had been watching over her as she slept, or even how she’d made it back to her bed. Clearly, Worne was guarding her. Clearly, he expected an attack.

“What is it?” asked Madwen as she crawled out of bed, still in the clothes she’d worn since her arrival into the city. Peering out the window, she saw nothing, only two tradesmen in heavy garb that appeared designed to withstand heat. Blacksmiths perhaps? Glassblowers?

Worne leaned back, pulling away from the curtain. “Nothing.”

“We should get ready then. I’m sure Daithi’s been itching to get his hands on me. I need to tell him—”

“No.” Worne stood from his chair, longsword in hand. “Told you, not goin’ nowhere ‘til I know how you almost killed me.”

“I drew from my magic when I shouldn’t have. There!”

“Not good enough. Don’t like magic, omeness, you know that. Quite enjoy killing the little vermin you find. Starting to look like you’re just as bad as the omens we hunt, though. Pressed down a whole city, need to know why so I can make up my mind.”

Madwen’s face turned serious. “Make up your mind about what, exactly?”

Worne kept his stare. “You know what.”

It was tempting to remind Worne of his place, but he was right to be angry. Hells, Madwen thought, he’d have been right to kill me in my sleep.

“Fine.” Madwen dropped her tense shoulders. “If you must know, an omeness cannot drink from their own emotions. It’s corrupted, tainted by it’s own likeness. Normally when I draw from my rings, I separate the magic from the emotional energy, but last night, I tried to use that energy instead.”

“And?” Worne asked.

Madwen paced around the room, past Worne. “And it didn’t work! Clearly! As soon as I drank from the empathy and peace that I’d imbued into my rings, it soured into apathy and spite. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ve never done this before. I’ve never even thought to do so before. But I swear to you, Worne, you may not see anything, but this thing is toying with my mind. It’s making me do things.”

“It make you attack everyone?”

Madwen stopped in place and dropped her head. “No,” she said. “That was the twisted apathy. Once I’d felt it even for a moment, I was gone. Everything I’d once cared about, good or bad, suddenly meant so little to me. I couldn’t control myself.”

“Then all’s forgiven,’ Worne said sarcastically.

“I’m not looking for forgiveness! You asked me what happened and I’m explaining it,” Madwen snapped.

Worne watched the miserable omeness standing slumped. To think only hours previous, she glowed with the power of a god. He wanted to press Madwen further—watch her squirm with regret for nearly killing him. In battle, you needed to be able to rely on every man in your unit. He fought to protect the omeness, but she fought to kill him. Were Madwen a member of his unit, he’d have exiled or killed her, but it was clear that she was already experiencing her regret in its entirety. Why waste energy disciplining someone who disciplined themselves? 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 that 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. Had to hold back half the city guard after I dropped you here. Little lord’s furious,” said Worne, a hint of pleasure on his face when thinking of an angry Daithi.

“Still,” said Madwen. “I do owe him some kind of explanation.” Madwen drew in a deep breath. The thing that eluded her most had finally come: sleep. Did it even make a difference? She tested her mind’s barrier. It seemed solid. Perhaps she was safe from the mystery that lurked in the shadows, if only for a while.

Madwen’s clothes were filthy. She smelled under her arms and recoiled.

Worne started toward the door. “I’ll be outside. Don’t keep me waiting.” He squeezed through the doorway, closing it behind him and allowing Madwen a moment to freshen up. She could hear his weight shifting the floorboards and stairs as he descended, then heard the bothering tone of Carlina—even two floors up. She smirked imagining the taverness’ ceaseless fawning over the grey, grumpy man, but her smile quickly faded.

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.