Taya pushed aside the flaps of a tent as she entered the abode of Braslav, the apprentice druid of her village under Yaroslav. Ruhak and Peng followed her

The boy was a year or two younger than Taya and sat in a circle of herbs and symbolic items while incense burned upon a small wooden table. Naught but a small bedroll and wooden chest furnished the rest of the dimly lit space.

“The crows call for you, Taya,” the boy said, his tone cold as he spoke in Taya’s native language. “I cannot know if they seek to herald your arrival or give you warning.”

“Glad to see you alive, Braslav,” Taya muttered. “I need your help for a minute.”

The druid stood in his circle, his head coming up only to Taya’s nose. His face was covered in white and black paste and wore an overflowing emerald green robe. He surveyed her as well as Ruhak and Peng when they entered. “My...the crows call for you all. Misfortune befouls your steps.”

“The crows squawk at whoever they want. Misfortune is bound to befall everyone on this planet,” Taya said. “I never bothered to ask before I left, but I’m told you have visions.”

Braslav nodded.

“Do you know the prophecy of the Armageddon Event?”

Braslav sighed, “I have joined the Dawn Circle, Taya. I haven’t the time for Dusk Circle games.”

Taya cursed. This was going to be a whole hell of a lot more frustrating. “Don’t tell me you buy into the Dawn Circle’s disregard.”

“Don’t tell me you buy into the Dusk Circle’s fantasies, Taya,” Braslav muttered. “If that’s what you and your friends have come to talk with me about, you can leave.”

“The Nikan, Braslav,” Taya insisted. “The Nikan are the first sign. They’re the ‘Men betrayed, marching under the banner of the slave disguised as the emperor’.They’re here to cull our numbers and prepare the Newcomers so we can’t fight the Event. You can’t not see it.”

Braslav sighed, “There are things more important matters at play than prophecies about Bás Síoraí.”

Taya gave him the look. The look she gave to let people know when she knew they thought she was right. Or just to make them believe she’d seen through something.

“I haven’t seen anything about Bás Síoraí!” Braslav insisted, becoming defensive.

Taya willed her mark to start glowing.

“That’s it, huh? The mark? That’s why you left? You have a Plague, you know,” Braslav said. “Get out of my tent!”

“Not a Plague,” Taya said, a low growl in the base of her voice. “Just a Scar. And I know you know full well that there’s a reason I’m showing you this.”

Taya wasn’t in the mood to play games. She grabbed a small iron pot from Braslav’s things and crushed it between her palms.

“What are you going to do, kill me?”

Taya huffed with annoyance. Coldness rippled through her veins as black and violet smoke poured from the Scar and manifested in a swirl of the substance.

A woman’s visage appeared over Taya, draped in black robes with pale grey skin and burning violet eyes.

“Gods and fucking demons!” Ruhak hissed, backing away from her. Peng simply stood speechless, stunned by what he saw.

“Wh-what, you think you can threaten me with that?” Braslav asked.

“I do. As fond of you as I was in childhood, Braslav, Bás Síoraí is not something I’m willing to ignore like you and your Dawn Circle friends,” Taya snarled. “You tell me what Fate thinks is going to go down and I’ll be out of your hair, understand?”

Braslav took a shaky breath, his eyes flicking between her gaze and her Shedim’s.

“O-ok. Ok. Just...put that thing away. And don’t tell anyone I said anything,” Braslav whimpered. “I’m not even supposed to whisper about these in my sleep!”

Taya’s Shedim vanished in a puff of smoke, causing everyone in the tent to breathe a sigh of relief.

“So...the first trickles I got started last year, I’m guessing. It was the Gongsun dynasty emblem. That...well, that explains itself,” Braslav grimaced. “Since then, I’ve seen a banner with the same symbol wrapped around the necks of eleven different animals. They all have some kind of symbolism to Nikan in particular. Uh...then there were the ruined structures.”

“Ruined structures?” Taya asked.

“An Ascomanni longship wrecked in ice, an overgrown Sklaveni village, a Koini palace on fire, a barren Sarfan field, the bones of horses in the Khongirat Steppe, a weathered and broken pyramid in the deserts down south, a stone temple destroyed by lightning and a flooded island village. There are others, but those are the most common ones.”

“General notions of destruction, I’m guessing?” Taya assumed. Fate was being childishly vague with these.

Braslav shrugged, “I never really studied it. My masters ordered I never look into it again.”

“What else was there?”

“One more thing. There was a scene of a crow being torn apart by the bare hands of four...four beings. I don’t really know what they are. They had limbs, but not quite arms. Other parts of their bodies were all messed up. Maybe I just wasn’t seeing things correctly, or...I don’t know.”

Four beings. What could evoke a description as vague as that? She’d heard of the Newcomers being unearthly creatures, but they were supposed to resemble common fairy folk and the undead. Whatever the case, the crow represented her without a doubt. Perhaps it was a boastful threat.

“Is that everything?” Taya asked.

“Y-yes,” Braslav nodded. “I swear.”

Taya studied his face. She thought it was ironic how cryptic Braslav had acted as they entered, but how plain his intentions were on his face right now. They were all human, after all. But nevertheless, Braslav seemed to be telling the truth.

“Alright. Thank you, Braslav. If ever the Dawn circle decides to take its head out of its own ass, perhaps you can help us fight. We would welcome you.” She turned to Ruhak and Peng. “Come on you two, we’re going to go make a warband.”

Braslav nodded, but he seemed more concerned about getting her away from his tent.

Taya left the tent calmly, followed by Ruhak and Peng, who couldn’t seem to decide if they should be confused as they started their way to the city’s central plaza.

“I’m guessing you heard nothing of what I said in there, despite talking to him in Koini.” Taya said.

“Yeah. I would really like to know what the hell just happened and also everything you talked about in layman’s terms.” Ruhak said, “What the hell is a Dawn Circle?”

“The Dawn and Dusk Circles are druidic circles who split into two sects a few years back. There’s this prophecy that both held on to called the Tellings of Bás Síoraí, or Eternal Death. The Plague and Nikan aggression line up with what was foretold. The Dusk Circle wants to stop the prophecies from coming to fruition by nurturing Shedim Masters. The Dawn Circle wants the prophecies to happen, so they want the least amount of people to care as possible so nothing stands in its way,” Taya explained.

“What exactly do these prophecies foretell happening, ultimately?” Ruhak asked.

“The destruction and subjugation of mankind,” Taya put casually.

“Oh,” Ruhak muttered.

“I wanted to see if Braslav’s prophetic visions had told him anything.”

“What’d you find out?” Peng asked.

“Jack shit,” Taya sighed. “All of the signs were just general signs of desolation and any details were pointless without the proper context. Fate has a habit of being petty like that.”

Silence inserted itself between them for a long while until Taya couldn’t take it anymore.

“Ruhak…” Taya said. “Who are you?”

“What?” the Hikupti man asked.

“Aside from your name and your nationality, I know nothing about you. Hell, I know more about Peng!” Taya shrugged, “I think I ought to know who my fellow guildmates are.”

“Hold up,” Ruhak muttered. “I’m joining?”

“Unless you don’t want to,” Taya frowned. “But that’d be kind of a shame.”

“Well...I might,” Ruhak said, “I still have to think about where I wanna go after all this.”

“Then my question still stands.”

Ruhak sighed, his eyes looking occupied with organizing his thoughts.

“My story isn’t very long or interesting. Basically, I got sick of woodworking with my parents, so I joined the Koini legion. Was a soldier for a couple years. Rose up to become a commanding officer, even. But I, uh...I quit a few months or so after,” Ruhak explained.

“Why’d you quit? Not great at war games?” Taya chuckled.

“Oh, I’m very good at games. But it just wasn’t for me. Besides, I caught the Plague a few days after I arrived back home. I would’ve been sent to the island anyway.”

Taya nodded, “I suppose that’s true.”

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

“I don’t know, Ruhak,” Peng said. “You and I have played a game of chess. You stomped me even though I’ve held my own against some of the masters in my country. You’re more than very good.”

Ruhak frowned, “Hm, I was fishing for a stronger compliment.”

“Is ‘Divine Master of the Board Game’ more your style? Ultimately pointless grandeur does seem up your alley,” Peng scoffed.

“Oh, so the foot soldier has a wit now?”

“You’ve got to have just found yours if you’re noticing now.”

“Ladies, ladies, you’re both lovely,” Taya interjected. “Now shut your traps. We’re here.”

The capital’s meeting house was much like a typical Sklaveni hut, except several times bigger. Same stone foundation, wood planking and a straw roof. The reminder of home sent a pang of agony through Taya.

They entered the building, which was divided into two seperate areas. One was a reception desk in a small, semi-isolated room at the entrance. The rest of the building was for holding community summits, though the city was a tad big for local Sklaveni government structure.

A miserable looking young man worked the desk, bored out of his mind. If he was a little more suited to fighting or had Plague Scars with no symptoms, he’d probably jump at the idea of joining a warband.

“We would like to start a warband!” Taya declared to the man.

He looked up at her, before looking back down at his desk, “You mean...a guild?”

“Whichever,” Taya shrugged.

He pulled out a stack of parchment sheets, “Just fill these out.” The man’s voice might as well have come from a corpse, it was so dead sounding.

“Fill them out with...what?” Taya asked.

“Your information, obviously.”

“With a...pen?”

The man sighed, “Yes.”

“I…” Taya turned to the two men behind her. “I can’t read. Or write.”

“You’re illiterate in your own language?” Ruhak asked.

“Hey, I can speak three fluently!” Taya said defensively.

“Well, none of us can read your language either,” Peng shrugged.

“You can fill it out in Koini, if you want,” the man muttered. He swapped the parchment with another set, writing in a distinctly different language.

“Alright. I can read it, then,” Ruhak said.

“Take the ink bottle and use the furthest bench from the pedestal,” the man slid a bottle of ink with a bone pen in it.

Ruhak took the materials and stepped into the unoccupied meeting hall.

Taya thought the hall was rather impressive. It was shaped like a village longhouse, but more refined and complex in its structure.

“Alright, first things first,” Ruhak said, sitting on the wooden bench at the back of the room, “What’s your full name?”

“Taya Sergeyev,” she said.

Ruhak dipped the stylus in ink and scribbled down her name in Koini, “And your age?”

“Twenty.”

“Clan?”

Ruhak ran down three sheets’ worth of questions. Taya had opted to form a stateless mercenary guild, since ‘warband’ wasn’t an option because being a warlord was a little bit illegal. Also, they didn’t have to pay tolls to enter ports or use guild-controlled roads like merchant vessels did.

“Alright, last question.”

“Gods above, finally!” Taya groaned. The questions weren’t difficult to answer, but they were tedious as hell. In fact, that was worse than challenging questions.

“What do you want the guild name to be?” Ruhak asked.

Taya stared at nothing in particular for several moments, “How about...Nikan’s Ball Busters.”

“Very on the nose…” Ruhak muttered while scribbling down the name.

Taya chuckled, “I was kidding. I wanna call it the Searing Breath.”

“No, no, no. It fits your blunt personality,” Ruhak said, receiving a chuckle from Peng as he scribbled out the fake name and wrote in the real one. “And like that, we’re done.”

The three of them stood up and returned to the husk of a man working the desk. Taya proudly slammed her application down.

The man took the papers and looked them over, the boredom in his eyes fueling Taya’s enthusiasm with spite.

“Hm...everything seems acceptable,” the man put five metal badges on the table. “These badges will identify your guild members as part of your company and thus redirect the consequences of any blunders you’ll make off of your home countries until you make a coat of arms.”

“I think I’m going to have quite a few more than five members. Could I get twenty to start?” Taya asked.

The man shook his head, “If you want to expand your guild’s capacity, you’ll need to mint a Coat of Arms and submit an expansion application to the Guildmaster’s Association in Koinelia.”

Taya’s jaw dropped, “I have to go where?”

“Koinelia, capital city of the empire of the same name?”

Taya slammed her fist on the desk, startling the receptionist. Her anger came out in heavy breaths, “Gods. Damnit.”

She turned her back to the desk and stormed out of the building.

“KOINELIA? What the fuck kind of half-wit designed this gods-awful system that a boar in a coif could make better?” Taya screeched to the surprise of a few pedestrians. She composed herself with a sigh, “Let’s find Bjorn.”

She didn’t care anymore. If Taya had to walk all the way to gods damned Koinelia to assemble a decent-sized team of Shedim Masters, she would fucking do it.

______________________________________________________________________

Bjorn’s eyes darted all over the place as he walked down the street allotted to his homeland’s refugees, accompanied by Cecile. Watching for those who watched him and avoiding those who met his gaze.

He crossed his arms, holding them close to his body.

They were mostly elderly, mothers and children. The rest likely stayed back to fight. Why then, was he so afraid? How pathetic did he have to be to fear the scorn of a bunch of refugees?

But despite his thoughts, he continued his wish to cower from them.

Why had he even come here?

He recognized a few people from larger raids he had been on, meaning the Sarfans were already finished with their business when raiders started returning home.

By the grace of the gods, most were too occupied with their survival to notice or remember him.

Authority figures among what was left of his people seemed to be few and far between. But among the tents made from striped sails, one was far bigger than the rest. Bjorn thought it was a safe bet that whatever impromptu leader they’d chosen was living there.

“God’s thumbs…” Cecile muttered, “They’re all sick. They don’t have the plague, but I see boils and blisters. Watch yourself.”

“They haven’t been treated at all.” Bjorn said.

“Sklava probably lacks the resources. I mean, considering the Nikan occupancy and the Plague they’re more worried about among their own people.”

“Has it gotten this bad everywhere?” Bjorn asked.

“It wouldn’t be unreasonable to think so.”

Bjorn's head snapped up as a man’s screams echoed from somewhere among the refugees, accompanied by a dim flash of light. Mothers sheltered their children from the agonizing noise until it vanished.

He gulped before entering the large tent.

“E-Excuse me?” Bjorn said in his native language.

An elderly woman sat eating a stew at a table that had been set up in the middle of the tent’s floorspace.

The woman looked up. Both her and Bjorn’s eyes widened with recognition.

“B-Bjorn?” the woman asked.

“Instructor Torhild!” Bjorn exclaimed.

“You speak like you know her,” Cecile said in Koini.

“She’s one of my old training instructors. Taught me everything I know about the spear...” Bjorn said before running over to his old teacher.

“We thought you had died…” Torhild said. “Your shipmates said-”

“My shipmates don’t matter. I don’t know what happened to them, but they dropped me at Pomedua. The quarantine isle.” He rolled up his sleeve to reveal his plague scars.

His teacher let out a small gasp and started to step away.

“It’s alright. I won’t die from it and you won’t catch it,” Bjorn assured her. “I have no symptoms. And I can do this…”

Bjorn willed his scars to crackle with blue energy.

“I can turn it off and on at will. There’s nothing to worry about,” he said.

The old woman seemed to relax slightly, though it seemed she was trying to process the fact that he was alive and had some kind of supernatural ability, “Who’s your friend?”

She had chosen to ignore it. Bjorn didn’t blame her. This all was still overwhelming for him as well.

“This is one of my travel companions. The quarantine island was attacked by Nikan soldiers, but some of us Unafflicted escaped. Her name is Cecile.” Bjorn said.

Cecile gave a slight wave, likely able to tell he was introducing her.

“I’m just glad you’re alright.” Torhild sighed, “Our number of warriors has dwindled so much…”

“What about you? What has happened since I left? Did my family make it?”

“Your parents...they stayed back to fight.” she muttered, “I’m sorry. They didn’t come with us.”

Bjorn blinked, “What? No…No, that’s not…”

His lungs started to quiver, but he refocused. He would have time to grieve later. He needed more answers.

“Is it true the Sarfans took over the whole of our homeland?” he asked. “Is there any possibility that the warriors managed to live?”

His teacher scoffed emptily, “I wish it were just the Sarfans.”

“What do you mean?” Bjorn felt the weight of dread pull heavy on his chest.

“No one would believe the truth if we told them, so we said it was the Sarfans to get ourselves asylum,” Torhild said. “But the people who attacked us...no, they weren’t people. They were Jotunns.”

Bjorn stepped back, “What?”

“Jotunns, Bjorn! Frost giants!” Torhild sounded like she was pleading for someone and anyone to do something. Bjorn wasn’t used to hearing helplessness in his people. It was a chilling sensation.

“That’s...that’s impossible. Jotunns are just...myths. Fairy Tales,” Bjorn said, his brow furrowing as though tensing the muscle would lead to some kind of revelation.

Jotunns were a popular antagonist of Skaldic epics told by the many poets among Bjorn’s people. They were dark reflections of the Ascommani from works of fiction.

Only children believed such creatures truly existed.

“They were twice as tall as our largest warriors.” Torhild said, “With blue skin and the ability to control the ice and snow itself. They came ashore and just started slaughtering our people. Ask the other raiders. They helped protect us as we were fleeing.”

“What did she say?” Cecile asked, “You keep saying ‘Jotunn’. What is that?”

“Frost giants…” Bjorn said, “It wasn’t Sarfans who attacked us. She says it was giants.”

Cecile frowned, “What?”

“I have to confirm this with others who may have witnessed it.” Bjorn said. He turned to his teacher, “If what you say is true...I have to fight them. If not to save my parents, then to save our home. To have a threat of divine origins like this...I can only assume a divine weapon must be used to combat them.”

Torhild nodded, “Gods be with you, Bjorn. And...I’m sorry for what happened when we last met. If you could find it in your heart to forgive us...I would be eternally grateful.”

“What’s happened has happened,” Bjorn muttered. “I’m not so petty as to care about that when our people are on the brink of extinction.”

He left the tent, followed by Cecile.

“What’s all this about giants?” Cecile asked, dumbfounded.

“According to my teacher, giant men with blue skin attacked Ascomarch. We know them as Jotunns in my culture. But...I had thought of them as only fairy tales before.”

“Are you sure she didn’t hallucinate or something?”

“The way she spoke of them...it felt raw,” Bjorn said.

“Bjorn...Bjorn Olafsson?”

The familiar voice made Bjorn’s skin go cold. His heart stopped in his chest. He slowly moved his gaze to the source. Why hadn’t he seen her before?

This? Of all the things that could’ve gone wrong today, the gods decide to throw this on top of it all? His parents were probably dead and his home was overrun with fairytale creatures, but...why? Why this?

The woman was slightly older than him. Two years and four months exactly. She had a head of blonde hair, half of which she grew out, half of which she shaved off, with azure eyes brighter than the sky. She was wrapped in bandages, covered in injuries and walking on a splint.

“Katla.” Bjorn could barely form the words in his mind, much less on his tongue.

“You seem...well,” Katla said. “We thought you’d died…”

Bjorn’s breath started to quicken as his heart pounded in his head. He had to leave...He moved to step back into the tent.

A small hand wrapped around his wrist, stopping him from making it to safety. His gaze snapped to Cecile. Her face was one of confusion and scrutiny. Just like the rest.

No. No, she was concerned.

“Bjorn...what’s wrong?” she asked.

Bjorn took a deep breath, “It’s nothing.”

With all the willpower in his body, he forced himself to turn back to Katla. He refused to move his gaze from the ground.

“I’m glad you’re alive, but...you have some gall coming here like nothing happened. You know, Askel left me after what you did,” Katla scowled.

“I already said I was wrong…” Bjorn’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I just wanted to know what happ-”

“You’ve yet to apologize to h-” Katla said, before breaking into a sudden coughing fit.

“What’s wrong with her?” Bjorn asked, turning to Cecile.

“She has plague. The Plague,” Cecile said.

“What?” Bjorn’s eyes widened.

Cecile moved in and pressed her hand to Katla’s chest as she coughed. When the fit died down, she put pressure on other parts of Katla’s body, “Her lungs are strong, but they’re weakening. She’s gone untreated for a long time.”

“Can you even stop this?” Bjorn asked.

“I can’t cure it, but there are some remedies that might work to stave off the symptoms,” Cecile said. “Is there a medical tent somewhere?”

Katla weakly pointed to a medium sized tent right next to Torhild’s tent. Cecile and Bjorn helped Katla in. His head was swirling with questions and scary hypotheticals. His chest felt ready to implode on itself.

Inside the tent, were more sickbeds than Bjorn imagined could have been fit in the limited floorspace.

Most were occupied by plague victims, who were being treated by shamanic rituals, courtesy of the surviving shamans.

Cecile groaned upon seeing the Ascomanni’s less than sophisticated practice of medicine.

Katla was laid down in an empty bedroll.

“Where are your plague scars?” Cecile asked.

Katla tried to pull up her shirt. Cecile did it for her, to reveal black scars around the left side of her throat, shoulder and ribs.

“I assume you have at least some basic herbs here,” Cecile said. “Shaman! Get me radish, bishopwort, garlic, wormwood, helenium, cropleek and hollowleek boiling in butter with red nettle and celandine!”

Bjorn wanted to do something to help. With all his newfound power, with his command over thunder and lightning, surely there was something he could do.

As one of the shamans did as she asked, Cecile started checking Katla’s vitals again. Bjorn felt the widening maw of powerlessness start to consume his thoughts. But there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t fight a disease.

Why should he even care? She had reminded him that she hated him. Maybe it was better for him this way. But no fiber in his being would allow that statement to ring true. How much of a coward did he have to be to wish for someone’s death to get them to stop berating him?

A shaman came back with the ointment and Cecile started to spread it by hand over Katla’s scars. She groaned as the ointment started to hiss on the markings.

“What’s happening?” Bjorn asked.

“The herbs are repelling the pain, but it’s showing resistance. To the Plague, certain medicine acts like an offensive weapon against it,” Cecile said. “We just need to scare it enough to calm down.”

Cecile slathered more ointment on the scars as the shamans and conscious patients turned their attention to her.

After the second coat, the hissing started to subside. The Scars had lost their color quite a bit and Katla was starting to calm down.

Then she screamed.

Bright lights flared up from the scars, as well as her eyes and mouth.

“No!” Bjorn shouted.

Bjorn didn’t know what it was, but he felt a tug on his own Scars towards her. He rushed to her side and grabbed her glowing shoulder. Bjorn joined her in cries of pain as his own Scars glowed. But her Scars seemed to dim, if only slightly.

Energy crackled along his skin, causing Cecile to back away. His muscles tensed as though the density within them was growing the longer he touched her. There was so much of it. The chill of power scraped against his bones like the blade of a knife. He couldn’t contain it.

Bjorn reached his hand into the air as thunder clapped with a sonic power unbeknownst to anyone in that tent. A bolt of lightning streaked from his fingertips, shooting into the sky and darkening the clear sky with its blinding light.

Katla’s glowing subsided and stopped, as Bjorn’s hand smoked. The shamans and patients looked at him in awe, as did Cecile.

And only seconds later, Katla’s scar completely vanished from her skin.