Beyond the rim of sunlit shores the north beckoned freedom. The multi-nation archipelago wrapped up in the name Kittamur represented asylum insomuch as they weren't at war with Raef and Mrageden's banishers, the deceptively named Lagoon. That didn't mean they weren't at war, however.

It seemed the whole of their azure world was at war. It seemed so back since memory first; since before even. All that changed, all that ever changed, was who fought who. Alliances shattered and reformed anew as the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Who could say what began it all? Mrageden knew blood sullied the waters, even as he wondered such things.

Yet, if legend was to be believed, and Mrageden wasn't so sure it could, these wars hadn’t birthed through animal warfare, such as it was now. Everywhere it seemed, back in that day men and women weren’t the ever-present telepaths. Even Mrageden possessed the gift, though in lesser form. Apparently yesteryear was fought with sticks and stones held by human hands . . . unbelievable.

This was not so utterly strange, though. Not everyone could bend the mind and lesser armies were formed for those who could not or could not as well; a fitting place for such as he. In the ancient past, however, none had the gift and for it the animals that made up this blue marble were actually free.

This day and all that memory lent were bathed in the blood of the subjugated armies of all animal life. They were constantly recruited, as they were of weaker minds seethed in little other than instinct. Even the most vicious animals fell prey to the mind. Wasn't that changing? Hadn't this all been happening far too long not to? Surely, whatever animals managed to evade extinction would've learned something by now; a hint of the mind. Right? It was a hope though a feeble one.

War or no war, animal and telepath notwithstanding, all seemed so very calm. Mrageden's tear-hut bobbed gently upon the waves, which violent or not never ended. Had the ocean ever known true stillness and peace? He couldn't know, but somehow doubted it. If ever it had, it must've been long before man had come along to defile it. That, at the moment, was of little importance.

In the proper direction, being southeast, Lagoon could be seen in the distance, but then so too could the drop of land aptly named Gabriel's Tear. The distance between the two was minor, with the smaller being the further and only visible via the monstrous, seemingly unscalable cliffs that surrounded the tiny island like a hellish halo. It was a forbidding place. All knew of it and its terror . . . the witch and her unrelenting pride of abominations. The island was a fitting prison. It stood as one of the few decisions the council had made of which he could whole heartedly agree with.

None went near the place for fear of death. The witch was well known as a telepath, but more. If it was to be believed, history had never seen her equal. She existed as the apex of telepathic brilliance and could command whole armies on her own. For it though she was depraved with power and subjected animals to unheard of experiments. This comingling resulted in the unholy birth of the wraith, a wretched thing never before known upon the whole of Shard. Even so, it was not put down, but rather propagated, and they were thusly, in the end, exiled with her, that she may suffer their rage alone. That was not to be. She'd mastered their simple minds and they were made to be her ghastly children, the only she'd ever bear for the implant. This too, he'd agreed with, as the only proper use of such a horrible thing.

Fear surrounded Gabriel's Tear like a curse. If any had ever lived upon the rock prior they most certainly didn’t now. The witch had probably devoured them. Was that not what witches did? The tales said so and there were a few of such in those olden stories, but none so powerful as the evil they knew. She'd put them all to shame with her wickedness.

Fortunately, that terror was avoided as they ever so slowly sailed toward the drooping suns upon the northern horizon and with it, hopefully, sanctuary.

# # #

Penciled in among the trees the wraiths bellowed in rage. They were painted against the backdrop, a silhouette, and sung a tribute to the dying of the day. The sullen night favored their cry, a mosaic of unearthly shrieks, with the last waves of heat from the second solar Sun. The beasts sung an ovation to the first, still a sliver upon the horizon. Upon the second death they slunk off into the unknown with a caution only ghosts can know.

The eerie melodies, though only memories of echoes, cut like a knife. Shirell blushed crimson, concealing an ashen shade of fear as she flitted off through the narrow ivy and dying breeze. Blindly, she wandered among her world, where the mind ruled. The world where she learned to talk without speech, feel without touch and see without eyes. Though not blind, her nights shone as vivid as day.

It was how she survived the island's dangers. It was how she survived the rogues, though she was one of them. Her implant screamed and she ran faster and farther. It was her curse, though no child rolled around within her. She was kept in check by the all-seeing eye. She ran, but for what reason she couldn’t guess. They knew where she was and there was nowhere to run to, even if they hadn't. Her island, Gabriel's Tear, was justly named as the water level rose with all of hers.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

The island seemed smaller than the back of her hand and the sheer cliffs surrounded all; a barrier against the water's rage. She knew she could fly. Not just in her mind or her fanciful dreams, but in reality. She already had, many times. It required all of her concentration. The slightest doubt or disturbance would wane her concentration and send her spiraling into the waves below. The implant was more than enough to prevent this form of escape. Yet even if this was a gift she’d mastered, and could do away with the dreaded implant where . . . where would she go? The eternal sea would ultimately be her grave, her final resting place. She would cultivate the sea life, perhaps granting sharks the ability to breach the waters with wings of the mind.

The northern island of Lagoon bade her curse a mere seven miles beyond her shores. Lagoon, the home of rogue. There would be no sanctuary there, only curse triple-fold for they were the cause of her exile. To them she existed as different, thus an outcast, and to soothe their egos her very name evolved into a word to frighten children. Lies, all of them. Yet, even without them and her implant, the untimely typhoons which racked the island were unwelcome monsters. Truly so and ones to which her power could not compare.

Her thoughts wandered to purpose and found none. Why she was here, alone, or here at all was a mystery to her advanced mind. It should have been a simple enough equation. Her powers were a threat, one with reason enough to destroy, be it not for the desire to cultivate them. This much was a good guess, but there had to be more. She tortured herself, day and night, to find it.

What she had to fear was confined to the contents of her mind. The wildlife were her friends if only she made them be. Being a telepath wasn’t such a curse. Here, on this deserted island, she commanded a small army. Her powers even reached to the sea, and sharks bid her welcome to the day.

Yet all was not well with this system. If these creatures were her army then they must also be her children and they must be tended to. To steal a creature's purpose was to tame it and a tame creature couldn’t tend to its own survival. The daily sacrifice of a lesser child to feed a larger was a pain greater than an implant could ever bestow.

The guppies were a food to many, plentiful and overflowing. Their small minds registered little pain to them, but great to her as she coaxed them into range of their feeders. Yet on land the task was worse. The locals were privy to the delight of the crab. The shells, being a hindrance, were cracked open by her mind, but not before they were essentially lobotomized to a more painless end.

Though the birth of such was a constant delight as she knew they had no implant to contend with. She envied them. A real child would bring her the comfort she could only imagine. Soon sleep took her as she dreamed of such comforting oblivions.

Though it was mother they loved, some creatures still bellowed in delight at their release.

# # #

"Why?" asked Ciroc, newly past being berated for his wandering, though it was well within his nature to do so, and hardly a surprise.

He was greeted with silence, a stillness that seemed to make nervous the very leaves.

So again he asked, "Why, mother? Why did Uncle Jerrett wander?"

It was the tale told him. It was handpicked to relate a fear. It was the idea that death could claim those who went too far. This, however, was no tale and Acissey's terror shone through, granting life to the silence that remained. Never before had it been so real. For a life such as hers nothing could be further from the truth and yet this was the worst he'd seen of his mother. A solitary tear fell. How could she talk of her brother's fate? Not now, but would there ever exist another time, much less a better one? Still the silence held sway because whether she wanted to or not, the words . . . they just wouldn't come.

His mother's sorrow was noticed, but not much else. Ciroc wasn't so very selfish for a boy his age, but this was something never spoken of. He doubted it was taboo and he was curious. He’d not yet learned all the ways his tribe vowed sacrosanct, but in this time of sadness perhaps the ways were learning him. The quiet could not but listen to the only voice brave enough to utter a word.

"What had he done for the witch to claim him?"

For that was the end and the all of it. The ceremony was as true and solid as the sands. This was the truth and all knew it. Even if Mother Sea should claim a soul, it was always the witch that caused the storm. The fault for such things was always hers.

"Why did Sh . . ."

"STOP!!!" Acissey screamed with urgency. "NEVER A NAME SPOKEN!!!" Her stare bore through her stricken child twice this night. "HARDLY WITCH! MUCH, MUCH LESS THE OTHER!"

The fear Ciroc should’ve felt at the wake now enveloped him. Acissey couldn’t but notice and for it spoke her next words a bit softer.

"If not but this, if not but our ways, this . . . this much should you know and know well."

After a pause to let the fear burrow deeper still. She loathed frightening her child, but how else was he to know better? As well she knew; every layer of fear feels the worst until its rendered void by something more profound. Always was this the case for the young. They had to learn. "It is a curse laid low upon us. Have we not enough sorrow, little one? Do not speak it. It . . . it will devour us."

Silence remained the order of the night, but now in reverse. Ciroc remained stricken.

"She . . . She took him . . . Uncle. Her way is such. She just does. Wickedness runs through her veins as water within a stream. All reason is beyond her. She just does. Do not let her in. Never a name spoken. Please, little one. Never again."

The unspoken question was answered with a sudden halting nod. Fear did now run through Ciroc's veins, but that of past events and that of the truth. This hadn’t been the first time; far from it. For him it was a game. For him none of it was ever so real as now. Shirell was the evil witch and it was fun to pretend to defeat her. The very fact that he shouldn't, which he well knew, made it all the more fun to say her name, Shirell. Not that he would ever again.

Yet this fear that now crippled him was a growing guilt. Forgiveness could never be gained. Absolution be damned for he would never, ever tell. Now he was sure, so utterly sure, that he and his loosened tongue had doomed his uncle. He'd barely known him, but then was this not how curses began, smallish?

It would advance. This would not be, could not be, the end of it. The end . . . the end would be with himself . . . the witch would come to claim him for herself. That was what she did. She just did. Beyond this he feared less for himself. His mother be damned, as she likely would be for his sins, the source of his worry lay with his only friend, Diote.

Ciroc was not the only one who dared speak the witch's name.