I hold my breath as Kivuli walks toward the soldiers, lantern raised in her left hand. With her hood draped over her face, and the way her cloak trails behind her, she looks frightening and not of this world. Then again, I’m the one who’s not of this world and I look harmless.

What could these soldiers want? And what did their name mean? Gilded. Doesn't that have to do with gold? Their uniforms are blue coats and pants and heavy-duty boots. They look dark in the rain, and the man approaching us wears a large, three-cornered hat. I get the sense they're patrolling the road.

Rain dazzles all around Kivuli, catching the light from the Ember Slimes. I notice that Rory sits motionless on Beauty, his back stiff like he’s petrified. Is he that scared of these soldiers? Aren’t they supposed to protect people? They didn’t bother me back in town, but is Rory gonna get in trouble for bringing Kivuli here?

But why? Isn't that the whole point of the bell? To call for the Shaman to take care of spirit problems?

Oh, right. Everyone thinks Kivuli is a witch, and it hits me why the bell is set up so far away from the cottage. Nobody wants to go up to her house.

"Good evening," says Kivuli. She stands beside Rory and Beauty, with the soldiers immediately in front of her, blocking the way. There's the one in the hat, holding his own lantern with an Ember Slime. He has a very thick mustache and an angular jaw that gives him a sinister appearance in the dark, but he's also rather large. Built like one of those barrels I saw back in the Blossom Water Market.

His rifle is strapped to his back. Behind him are four more soldiers, and all their rifles are out, aimed at Kivuli, Rory, and me.

The mustached soldier glares. "What brings out here tonight?"

"The boy's father," says Kivuli. She sounds calm and in control, which I respect because if I were the one being questioned, I wouldn't be anywhere near as composed. "Stricken with an illness, and we are on our way to investigate."

"Illness?" He cocks an eyebrow and strokes the rain from his mustache. The hat juts out like an ugly crown. "So, let's fetch one of the Church's healers then. We don't need your kind snooping through civilian homes."

"The illness is of the spirit," says Kivuli. A storm wind blows, ruffling her hood so that it pulls back. Her curly silver hair bounces free in the breeze, and she seems even more intimidating now. This is the Kivuli I met last night, in the snowy forests, hunting for an Evil Spirit. Her voice cuts through the night like steel. "If we deem it a medical necessity, I have healing herbs and tools on my person."

The soldier doesn't seem convinced, but his bravado wavers slightly. He doesn't look Kivuli in the eyes anymore. "You know how we feel about witches traveling in the dark. Especially with reports of elves sighted in the woods. Wouldn’t want to be caught cavorting with them, now do we?" The way he says ‘witches’ and ‘elves’, like he'd rather throw up than say those words, I can't tell which one he hates more. But also, elves!? Beautiful pointy-eared people?

First unicorns and now elves. It’s hard not to be excited, but also, what’s with the hate? Did the elves do something for humans to hate them? Does that have to do with the wars Kivuli mentioned?

"Rest assured, Captain. We'll keep a lookout for any witches or elves and report straight back to you." Kivuli doesn't miss a beat, and I can't help but smile at her unwavering confidence.

Then I realize she could probably slash these people into thin slices of meat before they knew what was happening.

The man's face twitches. I swear the corners of his mustache curl with rage, but he glances back at his friends. They adjust their rifles, and I prepare to duck. I’d grown up with school shooting drills. Hide under the desk. Pray as quietly as you can. I could flatten myself inside the wagon. Or jump off and roll into the trees, turn into a squirrel or Dewdrop Slime and hide.

Or maybe I should turn into Bluebell and smack every single one of these bastards’ heads off.

But Kivuli doesn't move. She doesn't even lower her lantern. There’s no sign at all that she’s alarmed or concerned about the rifles, and I trust her. I don't move a muscle.

Squinting at the ground, I can see her shadow growing, tendrils reaching out, taking over the road. My heart leaps into my throat. Nobody says a word. The soldiers haven’t noticed. The tension is thicker than the storm, and it's like lightning flashed and we're all waiting for the barrage of thunder.

Beauty snorts loudly. Her breath clouds, and the mustached soldier's attention snaps toward Rory then me. "Who's this then? New girl from town? Got yourself a pet?"

"My apprentice," says Kivuli coolly, like she's introducing me to some business associates. "She will be assisting me tonight."

The soldier shakes his head. He looks like he wants to say many things, and I don't like the way he's staring at me. I bet he's thinking Oh great, another witch.

"Fine. Get your business sorted out and leave. If we catch you past midnight, you will be arrested. Do I make myself clear?"

At his words, the others lower their rifles. Several things latch, and I figure they're putting the safety’s back on. I don't know how guns work, but I think I should learn.

Kivili nods. The mustached soldier doesn't look at her. He straightens his large hat and walks past her, past Beauty and Rory, and then he glances at me. His face, illuminated by the orange glow of his lantern, is a mask of pure rage and venom, like all he wants to do is shove that rifle down my throat and pull the trigger. To my credit, I don't flinch. I'm too frightened to flinch. And then he's gone. He and the other soldiers march back the way we'd come, and I figure they're headed for town. Moments later, the lights of their lanterns vanish in the storm, and we're back on our way through the dark road, surrounded by trees and rain.

"I'm sorry for the trouble, Madam," says Rory, turning back to look at us as Beauty rides over the mud. The road splits off down different paths, but she seems to know the way by heart.

"It's not your fault, Rory." Kivuli sighs. Her curls bounce as the wagon jostles. "They'll always be no good."

"They really hate witches, don't they?" I ask, anxiety bouncing from one rib to the next. Under the cloak, I’m sweating profusely, and I feel gross and clammy. Did we just get held up by the cops of this world for no reason? I remember what Kivuli said about people who couldn't express their souls. How they didn't have powers and were jealous and afraid, which makes me something to fear. Which means they hate me just because I'm me.

"The Gilded Church doesn't believe. Refuses to, actually. That's their whole dogma."

"Doesn't believe?" I ask, baffled. "But isn't it... isn't it obvious? Our powers? The spirits?" I can't help but gawk. I can literally turn into other creatures. And people like Kivuli and Isabelle had powers too. Hell, there were even ghosts and wraiths running around.

"Oh no, they know of abilities and spirits and things." Kivuli pulls her hood back on. "But they label us evil, unnatural, and unholy. They want to hunt us down and exterminate us, so steer clear of them as best you can. Answer quickly and straightforwardly if you must. But do not reveal your abilities unless the matter is life or death."

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

"Yeah..." I whisper. The way she says life or death, I get the feeling she means leave no witnesses. "So, they just go to town and patrol everywhere?"

My town. They just walk into my town. What are they even doing there?

"Business,” she says, sounding annoyed. “And they make use of the harbor. They commission Bluebell as well, but I haven’t tracked them as closely as I should."

So, they're one of the things keeping the town afloat. But then why was it in such a rundown state? Shouldn't everything be built nicely? Are they just bullies too?

"They have their mission," she continues. "Bring everyone into the light of the Gilded One. You'll have to learn about Him, but let's not get distracted right now."

"They're just like churches back home," I say bitterly. I know she says to drop the topic, but I have to ask her another question. "If they're hunting witches, can't a bunch of powered people just... group up and attack them?"

"Attack them?" asks Kivuli. She smirks. "Once you attack them, they summon higher-ranking soldiers. They'll label you hysterical and place a bounty on your head, and so many people can use the money... you won’t be able to trust anyone. Besides, Samiya, our abilities might be powerful, but they have bullets. Bullets and thousands of soldiers and lots and lots of fear."

Bullets. I guess it wouldn't matter what I turned into. If someone shot me, I'd get injured or killed. I'd... I picture the rabbits I saw in Kivuli's mom's market, skinned and hung from hooks. What if I turn into a creature and someone hunts me down and eats me?

The wagon jostles as I wonder about the Gilded Church and its members. Why do they have soldiers? What do they want? But a series of notifications flutter into my head and distract me from my horrible thoughts.

[Entering the Farmlands]

[Mayoral Quest: Integrating the Farmlands]

[Progress: 0%]

Whoa. I blink several times, wanting to blurt out a billion more questions to Kivuli, but I think this is straightforward enough. As mayor of Blossom Water... can I integrate the surrounding lands? Make them a part of the town?

Wait, she told me about this, didn’t she? Whoever is in charge of Blossom Water controls access to the dungeons and the rest of the continent. So that means... part of my duties as Mayor is to unite the entire... Whoa!

The map! The map shows everything from the forests to the mountains to the desert. It's all Blossom Water. Not just the town.

"Holy shit," I whisper under my breath. Excitement trembles through me, or that might be the wagon jostling, but before I can confirm my theory with Kivuli, we rush out of the trees and enter flat land.

It's so flat, like a giant fist came down from the sky and flattened this entire area long ago. It stretches toward the horizon, dotted by squat little houses. There are barns and great big fences and plants. So many rows and rows of towering plants that stick out like patches of thick fur. I think some of them might be corn or wheat, but it’s too hard to tell in the dark. Beauty slows down to a calm trot. Like the town, the Farmlands has a central main road. On either side are fences and crops, but there are also gates and paths leading up to the houses. These look more like homesteads, like scenes out of the wild west. Lanterns hang outside each house, and they have porches with rocking chairs. People are outside, smoking from pipes and eyeing us, but they’re too far away to see clearly.

Beauty trots on a bit further, and we leave behind the nicer homes. This part of the Farmlands has shoddy fences, rundown lawns, and finally a smaller house that looks like it'll collapse at any moment. A tin roof hangs slanted. The wooden frame looks sickly, and I'm pretty sure one side was burnt at some point. It’s charred and ruined.

Tied to the porch, a large creature rolls around in the mud. It has a rope around its neck. Or its head. It doesn't really have a neck, but it looks like a pig with tusks. I'd have to acquire it to be sure, but it's snorting and squealing and covered in mud.

Beauty comes to a stop at what looks like a makeshift stable. It's got a roof made of straw, and the rain leaks right through it on the muddy floor, and I can't help but think the beautiful unicorn deserves better. Rory slides off and leads her to a bushel of hay, patting her head and murmuring, "Good girl. Thank you."

Okay, he's sweet to her, and they're clearly trying their best with what they have. Kivuli steps off the wagon with ease. I follow her off, clutching the lantern. The slime inside is fast asleep. Rory takes it from me, and then he leads us to the house.

As we get closer, a chill spreads through me like frost on a window. Cold condenses in my chest. It's a chill I can't quite explain, even though the rain and wind should be more than enough explanation. But this isn't just cold. It's icy. It's the goosebumps you get when something's wrong. When a subway station is empty late at night and your footsteps are way too loud.

"Feel that?" asks Kivuli. She stops and stares at the dilapidated farmhouse.

"I don't think it's just the drinking," I whisper. The front door is open, creaking in the wind. One of its hinges looks loose. A faint, pained shout comes from within the house.

"Pa's in there," says Rory, holding the lantern with both hands. He takes a deep breath, then climbs up the steps, pushes the creaking door open, and looks back at us, eyes wide with fear. And I can tell how desperately he doesn't want to inside, but I can see the resignation on his face.

Even without the evil spirit, he’d been coming home to this. The bruises on his face are healing, but their shadows linger. I feel sick to my stomach. I know the sorrow in his eyes. The relentless fear that seems inescapable. With a parent like that, nobody should have to call a place like this home. It’s hell, isn’t it? It’s like you’re born into a personalized hell – you didn’t ask for it. You haven’t even committed any sin yet, but you’re sentenced to it. And all you’d done was inhale your first breath.

I follow Kivuli inside, staring at her back, wishing I had something to hold. The lantern. A staff. The letter opener. Why hadn't I brought that with me?

We walk through a corridor, the floorboards groaning beneath our feet. There are broken framed photographs hanging on the walls. Cracked glass shimmers the lantern light, but I can’t bring myself to look at them. All around the walls are holes, like someone had punched the walls repeatedly, leaving creators and remnants of an ugly rage. Rory leads us past a kitchen that reeks of unkempt. There are dishes piled in the sink. Flies buzzing up a storm. I hold my breath.

When we leave the kitchen, a wave of cold slams into me. Like a wall of shivers. And there, on the floor of the living room, is Rory's father.

The couches were shoved against the wall and upended so that their legs jut out like spikes. Blankets hang on every corner, giving the rectangular room an octagonal feeling, and there's even a fireplace. But it's cold and empty, and charred wood spills from its insides like guts from a wound. I notice there are no flies in here despite the wretched stink of alcohol and human waste. The Ember Slime’s glow seems to dim.

Rory's Pa has his feet folded beneath him; his eyes shut tight. His hands rest on his knees like he's meditating, but an eerie glow emanates from his head, like he'd swallowed a slime, and it was stuck in his throat. But it's a strange light that doesn't cast any shadows or warmth. It's sickly. Like a dim lightbulb covered in dust, forgotten in a basement that's never been cleaned.

Is that the evil spirit? Is he possessed?

He's wearing overalls like his son, but one of the straps hangs loose, and I'm pretty sure he's got nothing underneath. Thick curls of hair cover his muscular arms, and his chest is almost as big as that mustached soldier had been. Tufts of white hair stick out from the sides of his balding head, and he's got a short white beard.

"Pa?" calls Rory softly. “Pa, I brought someone to help.”

The man's eyes open. They're bugling like they're too big for his head. His lips move, making sounds that remind me more of the creatures in the wintery forest than any human language. Saliva runs down his chin. He stinks of sweat and grime, like he hasn't washed in ages, and the heavy, bitter rank of drink swirls around him like a toxic cloud.

The rancid fumes of alcohol that bite your senses and make your head spin with anxiety. I take another step into the room and nearly throw up. It smells like rot and vomit. Bottles clang and roll away from my feet; there are so many covering the floor.

"Rory," says Kivuli. "Could you please wait outside. And take your slime with you."

He hesitates, looking from Kivuli to me, and I nod at him, trying to reassure him it'll be alright. His eyes are wide and teary, and even though he’s almost my height, he looks even younger. He’s just a scared little kid worried about his abusive father. But he nods back and hurries out of the corridor, and I can tell how grateful he is to be walking out of here.

With the orange light gone, the only glow comes from the man’s head. It’s unsettlingly pasty, and I shiver from the cold. Like he’d sucked all the warmth and happiness from the air.

"Samiya, keep your seashell at the ready, please." Kivuli sounds strong and commanding, and I focus on that strength, hoping to channel it for myself.

I reach inside and pull out the seashell, wondering how we’ll use it, but as soon as it leaves the shadow pocket, the man's head snaps toward me. Can he sense it? It's still under my cloak! His eyes bulge even more, swelling like they're going to burst, and I can't help but cry out. With a low, rumbling growl, he leaps forward and rushes right at me, smashing bottles beneath his hands, teeth bared like he’s going to try and eat me.