Between the two of us, we manage to bring down the trees and make them “manageable” in a matter of hours. By the end, the axe is the worst off of us, the blade dull and dented. Kierra is completely disgusted, having expected more from the quality of its craftsmanship. Her ire isn’t directed at the smith who forged it but the poor materials he was forced to work with.

I ask her what elves normally construct their weapons from. The answer is both something I should have expected and would have never guessed. While there is plenty of metal and smiths that can work it, traditional weapons are made of bone. There are creatures on their continent whose skeletons are harder than most ores and elves worship the strength of the body above all else.

The problem is that said creatures are dangerous and elusive. There aren’t enough bones to arm all the warriors of the provinces. Hence, the need for metal weapons. But the goal of those weapons is to help take down said monsters.

Kierra assures me that the elves would be offended by the weapons of the Harvest kingdom, equating them to the work of apprentices who can’t handle more durable materials. A part of me thinks I should mention as much to the Guiness sisters, or Max at the very least.

If they, or more likely their father, ever intend on trading with the elves, they’ll need something to entice them. Given their culture, it’s natural to think weapons would be something they desire but if they are of poor quality, they’ll just embarrass themselves. Or start a blood feud, I don’t know.

With the rough work done, my wife sends me and my brutish hands away before I can damage the more delicate plants she’s spent a year nurturing. The house is a lot emptier by time I time I return. The ladies, and single gentleman, from the Temple are gone.

A brusque departure. I wonder if they caught word of my…mood and left quietly to avoid intruding. Or it could be that they aren’t big on showy goodbyes. Another culture that’s hard to make assumptions about.

There isn’t time to dwell on the oddities of monster wranglers. With the house handled, we need to leave. I imagine the Hall wants to save itself a lot of grief and will avoid confronting us directly, but if we linger too long, Dunwayne will have no choice in the matter. Not even the Harvest Hero can avoid matters of reputation.

I’m not afraid of him, that’d be ridiculous after everything I’ve been through this past year, but I still respect him and, more importantly, what he represents. The others can stay if they need or want to but by the time the sun rises, I need to be off this rock. There’s just one more thing that needs to be handled before I leave for the city.

The sight of Talia seated on one of the couches in the living room, furniture that was here long before us, with a chest at her feet, catches my attention. Curious, I set aside my objective and walk over. She looks up at my approach, though her eyes are closed. A rare sight now that she’s learned to see. “Are you alright?” I ask, the sight enough to summon my concern.

“I am well.” Her eyes open, revealing milky irises on a black background. “You look tired, Lou. Would you like to sit with me for a moment?”

“I’m not tired,” I grumble but I take the offer anyway. “Why were your eyes closed?”

“I like the darkness.”

My expression twists as I stare at her with confusion. She likes it? “I would have thought you hated it.”

“It is hard to truly hate something that has been with me for almost all of my life.”

“But you see mana, don’t you?”

Her thin lips turn down a fraction. “I ‘see’ it but it’s not the same as colors. It…it’s hard to describe. See is not the proper word. It is something I feel but through my vision.”

“Okay…”

“I don’t understand it myself. It is something that simply is.” She artfully turns her head, showing off a portrait-worthy side profile. “My world has been dark from the moment I was born. I was told that I was broken. And when I struggled to accomplish tasks others found easy, I believed them. I hated my impairment and envied those who were whole.”

I swallow as sympathy twists my gut into painful knots, choking down the instinctive “sorry” that wants to escape my lips. Talia is a proud woman and she is trying to make a point. She doesn’t want or, more importantly, need, my pity. “You don’t still feel that way, do you?”

Her miniscule smile is replaced by a faint smirk. “No. While I couldn’t do what others could, neither could they do what I could. There is no such thing as a broken individual. One simply has to find their strength.

“Once, soon after I was taken in by the orphanage that raised me before I was taken in by Lord Remmings, I overheard an argument between the caretakers. One argued that they should abandon me, as I was a pointless drain on their resources. Their goal is to raise children until they could care for themselves. He thought I would never be able to care for myself. I would only be able to survive as a beggar or whore and, if so, they may as well leave me to my fate.”

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

I stare at her with rising horror as her expression and tone remain placid. Saints, she’s serious. I can’t imagine hearing something like that as a child. Mediocre as I was, my father never doubted I would achieve something great. He insisted I would or die trying.

Junior and the rest of the world did their best to grind me down but Father’s indignation and stubborn belief that I would succeed where he failed gave me the perspective that one could rail against their unfortunate fate. I didn’t share his drive, preferring to live a leisurely life than go against the world, but I knew it was an option.

If he had told me I was worthless too, I…

“That man is likely still working in that orphanage,” Talia continues, drawing me out of my thoughts. “Making do with little while the children he is meant to care for live off less. While I, the girl he thought was broken, have walked the same halls as kings and heroes. I live a life of luxury and fulfillment as he struggles in squalor, one small step above the most pitiful citizens of the kingdom.

“The interrogator who discovered my mental affinity also thought I would be a burden on the organization. How could a girl that cannot read texts or study written spells learn to cast them? Years later, he is a simple lackey of the crown while the current head of the interrogators is my patron and desperately wants me to succeed him. Do you know how I achieved this?”

I mutely shake my head, a little awed.

“I accepted who, and what, I am. I accepted my weaknesses, focused on my strengths, and moved forward. It’s too easy to get stuck in our failings, real or perceived. Happiness is fleeting but hurt lingers. Interrogators learn more from a person’s pain than any other memory.

“But, despite the mind’s tendency to hold onto the things that hurt us, they aren’t helpful. Not even anger, though it can fuel us in desperate times. I accepted the darkness. Then I embraced it. I love being able to see. Color is the greatest gift I have ever received and I will never be able to repay my gratitude to you, Lou, for giving it to me, even if it wasn’t your intention when summoning Rolly. Yet, my new vision doesn’t erase the darkness that has become a part of me. Our pasts are a part of us, forever. For good or ill.”

Her eyes bore into me and I’m suddenly sure that it wasn’t a whim that prompted her to ask me for a chat. She knows, doesn’t she? Why hasn’t she asked? Or said anything about it?

“…my father died.”

“I know. I’m sorry for the pain his loss has caused you. Mourn that he is not with you but not that he has gone. He’s in a better place.”

Frustration wells inside my chest, making it feel stuffy. “He’s not in a better place. He isn’t anywhere!” Only saintly individuals get to go to Paradise. The rest of us are destroyed, our spirits, the last thing that remains of us after our bodies perish, crushed by unfathomable darkness. Smothered by the weight of creation before we are reforged into a new spirit.

“How do you know?”

“What?”

“How do you know that is your father’s fate?”

“I…” Well, what else could there be? “How do you know that it isn’t?”

“I was delivered from darkness. He may be as well.”

A terrible part of me thinks she’s mocking me. Another part quickly steps forward to calm the instinctive anger summoned by the thought, insisting this is an awkward attempt to comfort me. For all her efforts, Talia isn’t adept at understanding or communicating emotions, I think.

And yet, her words contain belief. Conviction, even. Maybe it’s not a matter of comfort and this is what she truly thinks.

“Which belief makes you feel better, Lou? That there is nothing left of your father or that he watches over you from a beautiful, safe place where the troubles of the world can no longer touch him? Where he is happy and loved, pursuing his dreams.”

“…the second option, obviously.”

Who wouldn’t want to believe something like that? Unfortunately, the truth doesn’t care about what we want. It also doesn’t bother to be comforting or easy to accept.

Except…is it the truth? No one has proven it. I speak of the saints because I’ve heard of it them all my life, but no one has ever seen Paradise. They say the Abyss is the darkness between stars, but no one has reached the heavens either.

That’s what makes it faith. You choose to believe. So, if I can believe that story, I can choose to believe something else. That maybe you don’t have to be a shining example of purity and goodwill to go to Paradise. That, maybe, decent men who made the best they could of a hard life can get a pass as well and Father is frolicking with the saints, wearing the carefree smile he couldn’t in this world.

And…maybe Mother’s there with him.

“I think I get it,” I mutter while shaking away the fanciful thoughts. Believe whatever I need to move forward. Harder said than done but my chest feels a little lighter. “Thanks.”

“We are all cursed, forced to bear burdens that can and will crush us if we let them. Yet, we are also blessed. What separates a curse from a blessing is how you choose to look at it.”

“…did you practice this whole speech?”

“Yes.”

A laugh bursts free before I know it’s coming, forcing a smile to my face. How very her. Of course she practiced. Some might find the admission off-putting but, somehow, her earnest attempt to rise above her nature to make me feel better is endearing.

I stand and walk in front of her. Her eyes watch me with serene calm, even as my fingers cup her chin and tilt her head back. They’re still staring at me as my own eyes slip shut just before our lips touch.

She is soft and pliant, responding to what I do but never making a move, either to escalate or pull away. My tongue pushes past her lips and her only response is a slightly heavier breath.

I pull away after a few minutes, smiling down at her. “I would like you to accompany me for a while.” It’s the last thing I need to handle before I leave for the city.

“It would be my pleasure.”

She takes the hand I offer her and naturally links our arms. I take her through the kitchen and open a small door inside. It’s supposed to be a place to store foodstuffs but due to the lack of space from our influx of guests recently, it was repurposed for a day.

Inside, a drowsy Aurelius squints at the sudden intrusion of light. It doesn’t take him long to recognize me. If looks could kill, I’d be joining Father. But the truth doesn’t care for what we want and the truth is that I’m untouchable for the master caster. Would be even if Kierra hadn’t given him something to make him a little sleepy.

“Now what are going to do with you?” I ask and he struggles against his bonds.