Valenda hadn’t changed since Asher had seen it last. Even in the grey of early evening, with shadows stretched far along the ground from the border of tress. Like in Dalvany, the spirits – the fog, the lights – the flashes – wouldn’t cross the ash ring around the field. The tents around the edge were noticeably empty. Each of the professionals moved to the nearest one, with Clyde and the other volunteers moving supply bags to the table still sitting beneath it. Asher left one of the crutches by the cart and limped over to the ring, testing the strength of his leg as he went. It was stiff, and the pain was still constant, but it was manageable, and that gave him a small boost of confidence.

He was careful not to get close to the ring, but a poke with his crutch – now cane – gave way to the emptiness underneath. The grass had grown a little longer, and the tiny trees had grown with it, the leaves now reaching his calf. Stepping over the line, Asher knocked at one of the tiny trees with his cane. It was solid. He could easily see the details of a fully grown tree, shrunken down to barely a foot tall. He’d forgotten about this detail. He hadn’t seen anything as bizarre in Dalvany, or on the farm. He considered the spirits, the gentle fog rolling out of the woods stopping at the line.

Slowly, Asher made his way away from the tents and further into the field. He tried to imagine a city, or any buildings, but it was hard to picture anything existing. There was only the wild grass, the cloudy sky, and a strange heavy silence.

Something flashed across the edge of his vision, and he turned to see the same thing he had seen the first day. Penn, back in his tattered cloak, standing in the distance. This time, when Asher approached, he didn’t disappear.

‘Are you following me?’ he asked.

Penn jumped, but didn’t turn around. ‘I was looking.’

‘You said you were looking for witches,’ Asher said. ‘Did… did you find any?’

‘No,’ Penn said. ‘All of them are hiding.’

‘I did point that out,’ Asher said. ‘But I’m still willing—’

‘I need a witch,’ Penn snapped. ‘I close the gate in my world. Witch keep it closed in this world. You can’t help.’

A cold chill ran down Asher’s spine. ‘There’s no other way to fix this?’

Penn went still for a moment. ‘I don’t know anymore.’

Asher stepped up next to him, noting the man’s clenched jaw. Penn’s eyes were burning again. ‘So… if you’re not a witch, then what are you?’

‘I am a Nakati,’ Penn said.

‘Where do Nakati usually live?’

‘Nakati.’

‘Is that a place or a nationality, or—’

‘It’s both.’

Before Asher could respond, Penn darted forward, coming to a stop at the line and teasing it with his foot. Asher struggled to catch up, but Penn didn’t move away. If Asher knew anything about this man, he would almost believe he was waiting for Asher to catch up.

‘You want to help.’ Penn didn’t phrase it like a question. Before Asher could reply, he thrust his hand out. ‘Give me your hand.’

Asher ignored the growing knot in his stomach, then reached over and placed his own hand in Penn’s. Penn traced a clawed finger across Asher’s palm, collecting up the dust that had somehow – again – covered his skin. Asher watched as he lifted it to his face and blew against it gently. There was a flash of white flame, then a sparking mound of dust dropped into the ash line. It disappeared beneath, and a shot of white flame burst from between the flakes. Penn frowned.

‘They can’t fix it,’ Penn said.

‘Do you mean put the town back?’ Asher asked. ‘Is that possible?’

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

‘If there was a witch,’ Penn mumbled. ‘A witch would have told the spirits what went back here. No witches.’

‘So witches can talk to spirits too?’ Asher asked.

‘You ask stupid questions,’ Penn growled. ‘I am the one who talks to spirits.’

Asher didn’t say anything. He glanced over at the tent a little way away, at the silhouettes lighting up torches under the tents. Clyde didn’t think anyone was coming back. Asher had to wonder how common that thought was.

‘You are not a witch?’ Penn asked.

‘We’ve been over this,’ Asher said. ‘Even if I was, I don’t know how to do the things you need done.’

Penn gave a low growl, then stamped his foot hard into the ash circle. Asher cried out in alarm, but Penn’s foot came down on solid ground. The ash had solidified, leaving only more grass underneath. Asher poked at a spot nearby with his cane, and the ground fell through again.

‘It needs to heal,’ Penn said. ‘But I don’t know how to put it back.’

‘This ring came from somewhere else?’ Asher asked. He knocked at one of the tiny trees with his cane, noting that this one was also solid.

Penn didn’t say anything. Instead he turned and pointed towards the mountains that curved around the coast in the distance, the ones that rolled over to form the valley Dalvany sat in.

‘Is there another ring out there?’ Asher asked.

Penn nodded.

‘Is that… where you’re from?’ Asher asked.

Penn nodded again.

So, there were others. If Penn had come down here to look into Valenda, he was probably pulled by the same questions Asher had, though Asher could make no assumptions. If that was the case, it meant Valenda wasn’t the first. ‘How long ago was this?’

‘Last Red Leaf Season,’ Penn said.

They were coming into the colder seasons now. If Penn meant Autumn, then it was a year ago. This had been an issue far longer than any of them had realised. Though another realisation clamped down hard over the information.

‘Penn?’ Asher eased forward to meet the other man in the eye. ‘If your home disappeared like this town did, did anyone else get out?’

Penn’s eyes narrowed, angry. It was all Asher needed for an answer.

‘Have you been alone all this time?’

Penn flinched and his jaw clenched. His hands balled into fists tight enough to turn his knuckles white, and Asher couldn’t tell if he was about to scream or burst into tears. Asher only hoped he hadn’t struck a nerve, but now at least they had a common ground. He couldn’t imagine his home vanishing, everything he knew, his friends, his work, the streets he had been so proud to come home, but he had lost something in all of this. Everyone had.

‘It’s not my fault,’ Penn mumbled. ‘It’s not. I did what I was told. It’s not my fault.’

‘There’s a way to get them back, right?’ Asher asked. When Penn turned to stare at him, Asher tried not to flinch. ‘Someone I care about is still in that place. A lot of people are. That’s all I want, is a way to get them back.’

‘You really want to help?’ Penn asked.

‘I do.’

‘What if I’m one of the Fienta?’ Penn asked. ‘I could kill you.’

Asher hadn’t considered it. If he did, he was screwed. He glanced over at the tent a little way off, where the lights were flickering as shadows passed them. ‘If you’re Fienta then I’d be under attack right now, wouldn’t I?’

Penn grinned, the lines of his teeth sharp and reminding Asher of a wolf. ‘You are learning.’

‘I’m not stupid,’ Asher returned.

Penn shrugged, then prodded at the solid part of the ring with his foot. He mumbled something under his breath in that strange language – mountain words – and the lights rising up from the dirt bounced over the line, then bounced back, still refusing to cross the imaginary border. A growl bubbled in Penn’s throat.

‘Come,’ Penn said. ‘I need to fix this. You can help.’

Asher glanced back at the tent again, at the figures who would probably start asking where he had gone soon. He wondered if he could explain Penn to them, maybe as a volunteer who had stayed behind. He wondered if Penn would play along. Probably not.

‘Come on.’ Penn grabbed his arm and yanked Asher hard enough to make him stumble. Before Asher could protest, he turned and began marching along the ashen line, away from the tent and towards the wilderness. Asher glanced back, but he already knew he would follow. Penn knew what was going on more than anyone else he’d met, and he finally had a chance to make sense of it all.