There was nothing after the darkness.

Malina stumbled onto the dirt floor with shivers going down her limbs. Her hair was standing on end, and the world seemed to speed around her as if she had been sparring with Kassia.

There was even more sweat on her, cooling rapidly and gluing her fringe to her forehead. Her hair was slick with it, and when she moved to try and set the strands back in place, they stayed put in their new place as if licked by a cow.

The tingling, however, was the worst part. It made her arms tremble and her legs as soft as pudding. Malina had to lean on a wall to keep herself standing while the sensations ran their course, her heart slowing down with every measured breath she took.

In. Hold. Out.

When the world stopped spinning around its axis and her sight was no longer hampered by black at the edges, she realized Yarrien was nowhere to be seen. There was no time to worry, however. As if her thought had summoned him, she turned to the sound of the young man falling out of the darkness they had gone through like a sack of potatoes, face scrunched against the dirt but broken leg mercifully intact.

He moaned as he looked up, eyes unfocused and shirt stained with sweat just like her clothes. The shaking in his hands made him unable to get up, and his elbows buckled when he tried to sit.

“A little help here?”

Yarrien asked, looking at her, but Malina’s eyes were distant. She was staring at the place he had come from, that veil of cold darkness that made her eyes sting and her blood run like frozen sludge. It had expelled Yarrien out of it like a parasite from a wound, his shape wriggling as the darkness stretched , trying to keep a hold of him but failing. The physical void recoiled back like taut rope, reforming the undisturbed shroud, and Malina was left with more questions than answers.

She couldn’t tell what was inside. The Witch looked down, her eyes wide and unblinking but unable to stand the cold, and tried to remember. Nothing. There was only the slow fall into the darkness and then her stumbling out of it as if she had just taken a step forward.

But something had happened. Malina could smell it on her, the coppery scent faint as if it had been washed out, but clinging to her clothes like a miasma. The sudden sweat and adrenaline burst were a dead giveaway as well.

Time had passed inside the veil and she couldn’t remember it. The Witch shivered hard, suddenly nauseous. Her head jerked around, looking for something, and the Arbiter’s eyes stared from behind her with unblinking curiosity.

More unnerving than that, the tears they cried were fewer, some of the orbs having dried completely – and she had no idea what that meant. Malina was forced to turn around after the blood beneath her face threatened to drizzle down her pores, and began to feel a sudden lightness on her stomach. As if she were floating, a dozen times lighter.

Yarrien had to roll out of the way to dodge the stream of sickness that poured out of the Witch. His broken leg made him shout in pain, but better that than being doused by Malina’s fluids.

The young woman cleaned her mouth with the back of her hand and felt the world reassert its pressure on her. She could see Yarrien’s concerned look from the corner of her eyes, but she could barely focus on what was ahead of her. With slow breaths, like Kassia had taught her, she straightened her back and spat on the floor twice, trying to spare her tongue from the sour aftermath.

“Should I be worried?”

Yarrien’s question was quiet, probing, and Malina gave him a weary sigh in response. Covertly, the young woman looked at her own body in search for any clues to what happened.

Her legs were in the proper place and her knees were still facing forward. Her stomach, flat as it was, showed no sign of anything new to it and her fingers remained a sane ten. Touching her back made her clear there were no new lumps there, just hard bones and tense muscles.

So, no wings. A laugh bubbled out of her before she could rein it in. Was she going crazy? Malina sighed again, trying to think.

To be broken is to be remade. She had assumed that meant they would be changed by the forces governing this place and there was no doubt something had happened – but then again, her Sisters had all been initiated themselves, and none of them showed any change that couldn’t be explained by either Sorcery or other arcane means.

Then… was it supposed to only affect those that were broken? Malina considered the possibility, but shook her head soon after. Even if she had been intact and whatever had happened inside the veil saw no fault in her body, Yarrien clearly had a multitude of ailments affecting him. Would that be enough to be considered broken? Was that not enough to be remade?

Malina bit her lower lip and jerked in pain at the shock that came after. When she touched it there was blood on the tip of her fingers, and she had to focus not to lick it clean. The sting would be bad. The Witch tried to organize her thoughts,, huffing in frustration as she paced, only to be stopped by Yarrien clutching her ankle.

“C’mon, Mal. Talk it out. You’re gonna blow your top with how hard you’re thinking.”

The Witch considered, but shook her head.

“I don’t know how to begin. It makes no sense! What was that all supposed to be? What… What did they do to us? Can’t you feel it?”

The young man nodded.

“I do. I gotta say though, I’m a little disappointed.”

“What?”

“I mean, I kind of expected them to heal me, you know. At least the broken leg. Being carried around gets old quickly.”

He scratched the back of his neck as if embarrassed, and Malina stared at him with her jaw slack.

“Are you not even a little bit concerned? They could have done something to us.”

“Well, I surely hope so. That would be a great honor, wouldn’t it?”

He looked at her with a smile that made Malina ashamed as she remembered who her Gods were. The fundamental truth that made her so proud as one of the faithful. The Nameless Ones cared for their worshippers. They might be callous with their touch, but they wouldn’t ignore her fears and desires like that.

Plus, The Seventh would keep her safe from anything done without her permission. Even if she had agreed by choosing to step forward, Malina doubted anything under the Goddess’s eyes could abuse her consent.

The Daughter of Strife had raged in the name of her followers for less.

At last, the Witch felt her heart start to settle.

“Right. I got a little overwhelmed over there.”

Yarrien smiled at her explanation.

“Understandable. Are you ready to continue, though? Maybe you should take a moment.”

Her nose scrunched in distaste for the idea – and because of the smell of her vomit. She shook her head to the young man and looked at the corridor that was ahead of them. Like the path they had taken before, this one ended with a turn left – but even after Malina took a step forward, she felt no change in pressure.

“Maybe later. Let’s find somewhere cleaner to do that, though.”

The young woman helped Yarrien to his feet, passing his arm across her shoulders, and they took to walking with a lot more ease than the first time. The rhythm of his gait was slow but easy to follow, especially when the two of them tried to meet in the middle.

She stopped after a few steps, however, her eyes locked forward as Yarrien made a questioning sound.

“About what you said before… I don’t mind doing this, you know? It’s my fault, anyway.”

Malina risked a glance at his face from the corner of her eyes. He was frowning.

“It isn’t. No one’s to blame for what happened. Well, except for me I guess. I should have prepared better for it. Maybe bring my own supplies instead of coming in blind.”

She shook her head.

“I’m the Caster here. It’s my job to keep you safe. If I had my magic, I could…”

“I’m not an invalid, Mal. I can bear the consequences of my mistakes. Although… I need to thank you for being so understanding. You could’ve let Stella pull me from the Augury.”

“Don’t be silly. I counted too much on my magic and didn’t prepare for what could happen if I lost it. I should’ve had a healing potion with me.”

He smiled at her without a hint of hope.

“It wouldn’t have worked. But I get it. Still – you can’t prepare for everything.”

“But I can prepare for most things. And it’s not about your wound. Not entirely, at least. What would happen if I broke a bone? I don’t even know how to make a splint.”

Yarrien gave her a small nod, conceding her the point, but still responded.

“That’s what Nin’s for, isn’t he? As your Guardian and all that.”

“Bah. He might not be around someday.”

“And I don’t think you shouldn’t prepare for the possibility. But you aren’t alone. I might not be a Caster, but I can be useful. Sometimes. Maybe my point would be stronger if you weren’t carrying me, but you know what I mean.”

Malina sighed, trying to make herself understood. She wasn’t saying things right.

“I’m not implying you’re useless. I’m just saying that a Witch should be better prepared.”

“I’m sure you were taught that – but even Stella got surprised when she couldn’t heal me, right? Everyone can be caught with their pants down. That’s just life.”

The young man shrugged, and Malina froze. Her laugh was short, but caught Yarrien with enough surprise he had an eyebrow raised when she looked at him.

“I just… thought of something funny.”

“What is it?”

The Witch hesitated, cheeks darkening in embarrassment.

“Stella would never be caught with her pants down. You know… because she doesn’t wear anything. Just a veil.”

The young man huffed and poked at her side with a finger.

“It’s a lot funnier when you don’t explain the joke.”

Malina smiled back, showing all her teeth.

“I’ll remember that.”

***

The corridor extended onwards like a deja vu. Malina was getting used to the constant loops in space the Arbiter made, its powers proving to be far more vast than she had first assumed, but there was a new aspect to the Augury this time.

Instead of walking through equal corridors, the duo soon realized something was wrong with their very steps. The distance they were covering seemed to be reducing, as if she had a backwards version of her Longstrider Boots.

After a minute, Malina looked back at the darkness under the arch and ran some quick calculations. They must have covered only half the distance they should have, even slow as they were. She felt no different though, and when she asked Yarrien if he had noticed anything strange with their gait, the young man had shaken his head.

That… was impressive. Even Rivia, with her incredible proficiency of the Meanings behind space, couldn’t cast a spell without making someone realize there was something wrong with the reality they occupied. Malina herself had been subject to some of her more harmless spells, and the vertigo of noticing space not conforming to your expectations was an unmistakable feeling.

That’s why she couldn’t claim mastery of her Longstride Boots. Sometimes, even with the time she had spent using the pair of shoes in either combat training or daily walks, she still felt nauseous when the effect ended and reality snapped back on her like a piece of pulled taffy. The Arbiter’s magic, however, was seamless.

Malina only realized something was afoot with them because the distance towards the end of the corridor was impossibly far – as and that spoke of a mastery over reality that made the Witch want to unveil such grace in spellcraft until she understood it.

There was just no time for that. The Arbiter’s eyes were as uncaring as when they had first arrived, though drier, and Malina wondered if she should try to talk to it.

Then she remembered she had tried to stab it and decided not to engage further.

Stubborn or stupid. No need to pester the eldritch creature for advice.

After a few more minutes of useless walking – the distance they covered getting shorter with every step in what seemed almost like a petty move – the Arbiter released its hold on reality. There was no jerkiness to the transition, just a sudden certainty that their bodies had resumed respecting the laws of the Material Plane, and that only made Malina even more impressed.

The duo followed the path without talking further, and soon reached the room they had just left. The craters they had made with their falling remained in place, and Malina even saw more trails that proved this was the same place. Footsteps left behind by her when she destroyed the statues. An indent with the shape of Yarrien’s lower body near the wall he had sat against.

None of that made them pause. They had, funnily enough, grown to expect the constant looping of space. It was the new additions that made even Yarrien shiver.

“Oh no.”

In the center of the room, where the five marble statues had been, new ones stood, surrounding a piece of stone with its top cut diagonally so that they could see what lay above it.

A bronze plaque faced them, lodged into the central plinth with thick nails, and the words on it were perfectly carved.

To be remade is to be chosen.

Malina read them and couldn’t believe what they meant. Above the plaque, two metal keys were laid beside each other, so well polished the Witch could see her own disbelieving face reflected on it as she took in the cages that surrounded every statue and felt realization dawning on her.

All five of them were trapped. The statues were locked behind thick iron bars that rose from the ground and formed a dome over their heads like a bird’s cage, a heavy padlock blocking the only door of each from opening. And this time, neither of them had ignorance to protect their choices.

The statues – the souls – were perfect renditions of who they had been. Malina took in their shapes with wide eyes. A male Corvin, a Human man and a woman, a Drow lady and a Cheshire teenager.

Five locked souls. Only two keys.

Her blood was loud in her ears. Without thinking, Malina dragged Yarrien to the circle of caged statues, and noticed each of them had a small bronze plaque in front of them. The Witch read the first one aloud as she stopped in front of the Corvin, her voice monotonous.

“Avanze of Dark Nights. Your lightless flight allowed hundreds of those fleeing the might of the sun to reach safe haven. Killed in combat. May your next journey be long.”

Yarrien stumbled at her side, but all she felt was , her heart accelerating. Malina read another.

“Adam Fields. Your walking gardens fed the hungry and the lost as their exodus continued. Betrayed by his crops. May your next journey be long.”

She didn’t… this had to be a joke. Malina clutched a fist against her chest, a sudden ache sprouting. Yarrien’s voice sounded distant in her ears as she read the next one, the world around her a fleeting memory.

“Kerine. Last of the Seiðr, your graceful dances could not release you from the constraints of law. Stoned. May your next journey be long.”

The Witch took another step, burning the words in her mind – and Yarrien’s pinch made her jump with a yelp. When she looked at him, she could barely see him past the wetness in her eyes.

“Breathe, Mal!”

The young woman inhaled desperately and began to cough. Air… She had forgotten how to breathe. The world stopped spinning, walls resuming their stationary status, as Yarrien patted her on the back.

Malina hated it. She leaned closer to his hand and took a moment to wheeze the sudden emotion out of her system. When she looked up again, the statues remained, but they were no longer overwhelming to her.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

She wanted to deny it. Her first instinct was to close her eyes, to avoid what was in front of her, but a Witch didn’t have the luxury of not facing reality. Malina’s education allowed her to see past it, however.

“There has to be a way.”

Her whisper was clear. She ignored Yarrien’s concern as she dragged them to the next statue, that of the Drow woman, and read her epitaph.

“Treiza Saburi. Your doubt made you crumble under the possibility of being loved in truth. Suicide. May your next journey be long.”

Malina took in a deep breath and released it slowly. With certainty, she raised her eyes to take in the woman’s appearance – and the first thing she thought was that they didn’t look like each other.

Malina couldn’t tell the color of her skin to see if they differed even in that, but the features she could look at already set them apart well enough. While her own hair was straight and thin, Treiza’s was a mess of fluffy curls that reached the middle of her back like a woven cloud. Where both of their ears grew horizontally, the Witch’s had their tips pointing upwards while the statue’s pointed downwards, almost reaching her shoulders with how long they were. Still, what made Malina feel a sudden surge of envy, even now, was another detail.

Treiza was tall. Malina had to do a double take at the woman’s feet to see if she had any heels on, but her legs were hidden by a long ballroom dress that hugged her body in all the right places. And regardless, it would have to be some heels to make her height so impressive. Gods Below, she was as tall as Kassia! Malina couldn’t help but pout as she took in more details.

The large eyes that were characteristic of their kind, with that almost jewel-like appearance that some Drows gained with age. Soft arms that spoke of a life lived far away from combat, her fingers long and her nails manicured to perfection. A long, hooked nose. A square jaw that made her seem as if she were scowling all the time.

Malina had to admit: Treiza was not pretty, but she stood with an intensity behind her posture that was impressive even in death – and yet she looked so different from the few Drows she had met. The Witch didn’t even know they could have curly hair!

She didn’t even know they could look that imposing. The other Drows she had met had all been from Kalingar, the continent to the south of them, and they looked much like herself – small in stature, slim but long-limbed, with pointy faces that were as sharp as their ears.

Many had even doubled down on such characteristics, wearing short clothes that displayed their too long legs and dark coloured skin with pride. The first time she had seen a male Drow wearing shorts that ended high above their knees Malina had been scandalized. Even if Pleariss was warmer than they were used to that was a whole lot of flesh on display, especially for a man.

And yet, Treiza was different. The Witch read her epitaph once again and considered that single word jumping for her attention. Suicide? Malina shook her head. Treiza looked imperious, strong – it was hard to believe she would have done such a thing.

But she didn’t think the Augury would lie. With a disturbed heart, Malina dragged Yarrien to see the last of the souls, and froze as she took in the scene carved in marble.

A Cheshire woman stood with a ragged robe over her body, the cloth looking rough even when made of stone. She had a long mouth, like many of the other Cheshires the Witch had met, but it was turned into a worried grimace instead of sporting their usual toothy grin. Wounds littered her exposed legs and arms as if someone – or multiple someones – had tried to grab her and failed, leaving bruises and cuts behind. One of her cat-like ears was even missing, the wound bleeding all over her face and making her keep one eye closed.

And all of that paled in front of the baby she was carrying. They were asleep, bound in half a dozen layers of cloth tied to the woman’s torso, and the resemblance the two of them shared left no room for doubt.

Still, her soul had much to tell. She looked as if she were running, the statue immortalizing her midstep, her arms frozen as she pumped them back and forth for… impulse? Malina didn’t know, she was no runner. But the woman looked like she had experience – or enough desperation to make her seem good at it.

It was, however, a small detail on the back of the statue’s hand that explained all Malina needed to know about her, even before she read the bronze plaque in front of the statue. A wound, usually carved with the tip of a broken blade.

A symbol that Malina recognized. A piece of their history she had learned from Stella back when she had been a young girl learning how to call for her Gods, unsure of what her Core would be. The Witch gasped, took a step back, and almost sent both herself and Yarrien to the floor as their limbs tangled.

“The Seventh.”

Seven scored lines, one deeper than the other until bone was visible, made with the sharpened edge of a weapon forged for slaughter and nothing more. A mark of protection for the innocent caught in a war, praying for a Goddess that had always looked for those forgotten by the powers above.

The Victim’s Stigma.

“What made that?”

Yarrien asked, ignorant of the implications. Malina swallowed.

“She did.”

“To herself?”

The Witch nodded.

“It’s… awful. Stella taught me about it.”

“Why? She’s already wounded enough.”

His dead eyes roamed over the Cheshire’s wounds, taking in the cuts and bruises. Malina tried to explain.

“See the necklace?”

The Cheshire had a pendant hanging from a thin leather cord. An enneagram.

“The mark is a prayer. Clerics and Priests of The Seventh would carve it on any civilian that had suffered through war and didn’t have the strength to fight back. Once upon a time, no army would go after someone carrying the stigma – not without risking The Seventh’s wrath, at least.”

Yarrien tilted his head.

“But she’s being chased.”

The Witch had no answer to that. Her eyes roamed downwards and read the dead woman’s epitaph.

“Felizia Pruu and _____. The frailty of a tortured body, brought to rest under the shield of faith. Hemorragie. May your next journey be long.”

Gods Below. Malina averted her gaze from it, closing her fists tight. Seeing such a perfect representation of The Seventh’s domain made her insides curl. Not because of what had been carved into marble – or what Felizia’s soul wanted to show them – but because of what wasn’t on display.

A woman and a baby, being chased away with the Victim’s Stigma on their bodies? Malina’s imagination ran rampant with the most awful of possibilities, all of them dragging her thoughts as the Witch’s mind – honed to expand and extract every Meaning possible – drank too much from the scene.

Malina had to take a step back and breathe. Her body slid down the central plinth, ignoring the choice right above her head, and Yarrien went down with her. The young man was quick enough on his foot that he plopped down with only a moan of pain.

The Witch was taken out of her own thoughts from the sound and looked at him with a grimace.

“Sorry, I didn’t–”

“It’s fine. A little pain won’t kill me.”

She doubted there was anything little about his broken leg but nodded. Resting her head on the cool stone, the Witch let the fatigue on her muscles seep in. The silence lasted for a comfortable moment before the reality of their situation came to the forefront again.

“I don’t know what to do.”

Malina admitted. It wasn’t easy, the words tasted like ash on her tongue – but this was too serious of a situation to let her pride sabotage her.

Stubborn or stupid, never both.

Yarrien poked her arm and the young woman cracked an eye open to look at him. He was smiling, a softness to his expression Malina couldn’t understand.

“Then there’s only the choice.”

The Witch shook her head, brows furrowed.

“No. Never. There has to be a way.”

He sighed. Actually sighed. Malina had to grind her teeth to stop the most acerbic of comments from escaping.

“We need to continue, Mal. Who knows how large this place is, we could be here for days still.”

“It doesn’t matter, Yarrien! We can’t let them stay here. I’ll think about something, alright? I’ve still got my Hexbags with me. Maybe if I use [Softwood] on…”

On what? [Softwood] was a spell that did exactly what its name implied. Malina had used it to make doors as soft as putty or to play pranks as people sat in chairs – not to make a fake key out of wood she didn’t have.

She shook her head, discarding the idea.

“Then I’ll make a new spell. That’s what Witches do.”

Yarrien patted her hand, and Malina bit down on her bruised lip to not curse him out for that. But his face – there was only sympathy in his eyes, and she couldn’t escape them.

“Let’s see, you’ve got components in your Bag of Holding?”

The Witch nodded.

“And how long would it take you to make a ritual like that? An hour? Two?”

“Maybe more, maybe less.”

Malina was honest. It would have to be something new – she had nothing on her Grimoire that allowed her to alter metal – but maybe a few changes to her [Softwood] spell would let her shift the padlocks enough to unlock the cages.

“And with what magic will you cast it?”

Ah. The consequences. The Witch bit her lip until it bled, teeth nearly meeting, and slammed her hands on the ground. On the plinth behind her. On her own chest. The pain stopped her after a second blow, energy disappearing from her limbs.

“I don’t want to, Yarrien. Please.”

When she looked at him, his smile was pained even through the warbling of her own tears.

“I know. I don’t want to either. I… I wish I were like you. Then maybe I could be of help. But we have to choose.”

“We can’t! We aren’t The Third! We can’t choose who lives and who dies. They should all be out there. This is… too cruel.”

Ah. That’s what had been chaffing on her so much, wasn’t it? The burden of having the future of these souls in her hands, these people that were so different and yet so similar to herself in their faith. It wasn’t something she wanted.

It wasn’t something she should have. These people deserved a second chance – all of the faithful did. Having to choose among them, watching them being used as a lesson… Malina’s jaw locked as she started to understand what her discomfort was.

She didn’t want to admit it. Not so soon. But Stella had warned her, hadn’t she?

Their Gods could fail – and a Priestess had to know when to fight against bad orders.

Malina looked at Yarrien, her mind clear even if the final realization made her heartbeat loud in her ears, but she had to say it. Stubborn or stupid, never both.

Gods Below, she hoped this wasn’t a mistake.

“This is wrong. They are wrong.”

Malina got to her feet then, ignoring the surprise in Yarrien’s face, and pointed at the only other creature with them.

“Hear me, Arbiter. It’s one thing to let us set them free, to break their memories so that they can have a second chance – I can even forgive you for what I saw. This is a trial, I understand that. But I refuse to let you use us as a lesson. That is wrong. We are here because we are ready to give you everything, every single one of us that walked these halls were.”

She stomped her feet, arm trembling as the creature watched her from behind the cracks in reality.

“How long has it been since anyone came here? Half a millennium? More? These souls have been waiting for freedom for so long – you’ve locked them in dreams without end and now that they can be freed you would deny them the chance? Why are you punishing those that have given you all they had?”

Malina shouted the words at the end, throwing them like a chair in a bar fight. She lowered her arm, breathing heavily, but the Arbiter showed no comprehension. No sign of empathy. For a moment, against her better judgement, Malina waited for a change.

None happened.

“Useless.”

The Witch spat the word and turned her back to it, her eyes aflame as she spoke to those left behind, forgotten by rules made in kinder times.

“I’m sorry. I am… there’s nothing I can do. Not today.”

It hurt her to admit it. Witches were supposed to work with the impossible, but Malina had no magic to her name. No speck of prepared arcana that would help her now.

Her eyes were dry when she looked at Yarrien.

“At least two, right?”

The young man echoed her pain with a smile.

***

The key was heavy in her hands. It was a well-made thing, similar to one of those large ones her richer neighbors made for their mansion’s gates. Entirely impractical – but pleasing to the eye, she had to admit. It was made of some gray metal Malina didn’t recognize, but that sparkled like the night sky when the light hit it.

The key’s teeth also had a very odd design to them. They were hooked at the tip, almost claw-like, and made of different connected segments that she could move around with ease – to open different locks with the same key, no doubt. She fiddled with it for a moment, looking for any sign of enchanting, but to her untrained eyes they seemed mundane.

At least as mundane as something made of what surely was magical metal. Malina sighed. That at least told her she’d be unable to replicate the keys with any of her spells – and she was certain that duplication was something reserved for Witches more powerful than her. It still left the option of busting open the padlock, but…

The Witch shook her head. No magic.

The other key was already with Yarrien – they had chosen to split the burden of choice between them, and Malina was glad for listening to his suggestion. He had also asked her to try and walk by himself, using the bars of the cages as support, and after ensuring they were close enough to each other that he could move from one statue to another, she conceded.

Now, freed from each other, all that was left was the decision, and Malina started by looking at those she hadn’t truly seen at the beginning.

The first one was – she had to read his name again – Avanze of Dark Nights. A title? Malina didn’t know enough about Corvins to tell if that was a surname or not, though he looked… much like she expected a Corvin to look like.

His head was that of a crow, enlarged to fit a body as tall as Yarrien. She could see a thicker plumage above his beady eyes, almost like a set of eyebrows, and the taloned fingers at the end of his wings, allowing the species to wield tools and weapons. His legs were, unsurprisingly, bird-like – three claws facing forward and one on the back, all of them sharp enough to be used as a blade in a pinch.

Avanze’s clothing was also distinct. Unlike the other statues, the man wore armor over his feathers, a distinct array of leather pieces tied around his limbs or latched into place with what seemed like metal pieces. It was hard to tell without any color to the statue, but Malina had seen some of Kassia’s armors and this looked not so different from them.

On his right hand the Corvin held a blade – a wicked looking sword, curved at the tip and made for slashing across his enemies at the high speeds their kind could fly at. What was it called? A scimitar? A tulwar? The Witch wasn’t sure – she had ignored much of Kassia’s lessons on other weapons after choosing her preferred ones, much to her sister’s chagrin.

It was also his expression that made him so different – and with a quick look around, Malina saw that each of the souls had a different one. Felizia had been grim, but determined. Treiza’s statue looked resolute.

Avanze’s was focused. Maybe in pain as well? The Corvin’s beak was open in defiance against some invisible enemy, his torso leaning forward as if he were charging after someone. With one wing trailing behind him and the other holding the sword at the front, he looked as fast as an arrow.

Malina rested a hand on his cage and wondered if it was more offensive to put him in a bird’s enclosure considering his species, but quickly shook the thought out of her mind.

“A forgotten hero, then.”

She would remember him. At least that, Malina would do. She carved every detail of his appearance to her memory, trying to find something distinguishable – but only his sword had any detail to it: the image of a cracked bell, etched to the pommel.

That could be useful. A knightly order, perhaps? Malina would have to ask her sisters about it. Maybe she could find a way to honor this warrior’s memory.

Because she wouldn’t use her key on him.

Turning her back on him felt like a betrayal, but Malina tightened her fists and stepped away. The next figure was human, a painfully plain man that could look just like any other worker from the docks. He smiled at her from behind the bars, crow’s feet beside his eyes, hands folded behind his back and wearing a set of clothes that would have him fit in among Pleariss’s richer farmers.

Sturdy leather boots. A large straw hat that hid the top of his head to avoid the sun. A shirt of rough cloth and a thicker pair of trousers. A tool’s belt that held a set of different supplies around his waist, such as a large pair of hedge shears and other gardening supplies she often saw Charlotte using to tend the mansion’s flowers.

Nothing on him indicated what she read on his epitaph. Betrayed by his crops. Malina had no idea what that meant, but Adam didn’t have the look of someone deceived by friends – or produce.

He looked happy. Satisfied. As if he had reached the end of a tale and held little regret. The Witch hung her head low, and stepped away from him.

“Not you either.”

Malina was beginning to refine what she was searching for. The young woman stepped beside Yarrien and watched the third statue along with him, but shared no words. A single look told her everything she needed to know right now, and she couldn’t run the risk of influencing him.

So, in silence, they stood. Each one making their decision.

Kerine. Last of the Seiðr. Malina had no idea what the word meant, even if she could read it. A regional title, perhaps? The woman did look different from the humans she was used to seeing, definitely from somewhere far away.

Where most folk wore cloth, Kerine sported fur. It covered her body in a revealing manner, leaving her stomach exposed as she wore only an open vest and pants that had to itch. She also had different… jewelry on her.

On the ridge of her nose. At the corners of her lips. On both eyebrows. Even her navel was decorated with fragments of what seemed like bone, pierced for intents Malina could only guess at. Her hair was long and wavy, though parts of it had been tangled or braided until they looked like tentacles among the locks. Her hands were tied behind her back as well, the rough rope biting at the skin of her wrists and making droplets of carved blood flow to the tip of her fingers.

The Witch stopped as she looked at Kerine’s hands and frowned. Was she…? She took in the woman’s bored expression once more, and had to stop herself from laughing as she looked closer.

She was casting! Drawing symbols on the palm of her hands without looking, using her own blood as ink. Malina could read further into her expression with that, and the slight uptilt of Kerine’s mouth seemed a lot more mocking now.

This was a warrior, much like Avanze. A doomed woman, yes. A dead woman – but one that had gone out fighting until her last breath. Malina’s smile was pained as she whispered.

“Just a little longer. I’m sorry.”

The statue offered no response, of course, but the Witch felt like she had left something behind when she stepped away again. She had learned the woman’s name, maybe even a title – but her key was meant for another still.

The fourth statue was one she had already looked at. Treiza stood with her back straight, a resolute expression to her face, and though Malina was curious about the woman, it wasn’t enough to sway her. In fact, of all the souls here, this was the one Malina was most averse to help.

She read her epitaph once again, and spoke softly to the memory of a kindred soul.

“You, of all, have failed. I’m sorry – but the wronged must come first.”

Such was her judgement. Right or wrong, Malina couldn’t tell – but it was a choice.

Then came the last one, the most obvious of answers, and the one that made the key feel a dozen times heavier on her hands. Felizia Pruu was a wounded woman, a fighter through and through, a victim of something greater than herself.

A mother.

One of the Faithful.

So different to all the others and yet… so similar. The least impressive of them, perhaps. She had no weapon or trickery to her, no tool or presence like the others. Just desperation – and a reason for being here that Malina didn’t quite understand.

Her epitaph had two names. One for herself, but the other was a blank – an empty space for a baby so young it had not even a name yet. But both of them were here, and Malina knew what that meant.

Both were going through the Initiation.

She didn’t know how a child could become a Priest of the Nameless Ones – it certainly wasn’t something she had considered possible – but Malina could imagine the appeal it would have for those down in their luck. Those looking for a miracle from the Gods.

Malina’s heart felt as heavy as the key. For this woman, she felt. What, exactly, the Witch couldn’t tell. Sympathy for her position? Pride at how she had tried to keep her child safe? Appalement because anyone could be in such a place?

A mix of all that and more.

The young woman glued her face to the cold bars of the cage, taking in the face of a survivor. From the wounded tail to the decepated ear. From the baby pressed against her chest to that mark on the back of her hand. It was all too much, too raw.

But Malina kept on looking. Her eyes didn’t waver. This was a domain of her Gods as well, one that scared her, yes, but it was them. So like when praying, she spoke.

“I’m sorry. Things aren’t much better out there. There’s still war. There’s still… people like you.”

She licked her lips, ignoring the sting, and tried to find the proper words.

“But you were taken too soon. You and your child. You should have been safe – protected. You weren’t. This time… this time I pray that your fights will be fair. You have suffered enough already, Felizia. Let me carry your memories for you.”

There was a click as the key turned.

The padlock opened.

The door creaked.

The sounds of war came like a flood, threatening to swallow the world. The discordant song of running bodies and crying babies, slashing swords and moaning corpses.

Then, at last, a sigh of relief. And Malina swore she would never forget it.