The black outline of the trees gives way only to an all-grey sky. The stars do not twinkle above you. The moon does not illuminate the road ahead. Hundreds of years ago, Wilskenn refused to interact with foreigners. They locked their doors and stared through the windows of their homes. Although the people have changed, the lands of Edrye remain inhospitable to outsiders. You can feel it now in the stillness of the forest. You get the impression that stopping before you are clear of these woods would be a dangerous mistake.

Your drive into the highland forests is taxing. Physically. Emotionally. It is hours of being alone with your thoughts. Your embarrassment. Your anger. Your hands are numb from gripping the steering wheel. Your jaw is sore from being clenched. Your eyes are long dry by now.

Softly, with no more than a few glimmering specks landing silently on your windshield, the rain begins. It is not long before the road appears wet. It is not long after that before the precipitation is intense enough to warrant an audible clash with the surface of your car. Soon the thundering of falling water drowns out the radio. Your windshield wipers are doing their best. Water collects on the glass, distorting the shapes and colours before you in a wet blur, before being pushed briefly away. In between the swiping you see sheets of rain, as pushed by incoming wind, dance across the dark asphalt in front of you. The wipers pass and, before too long, the image is engulfed once again into bleeding shapes as illuminated by your headlights, presumably still out there somewhere, fighting their own battle in the downpour. You can no longer tell what side of the road you are on.

Then, lights ahead. You startle, fearing a collision with the only other driver stupid enough to still be out at this time; in this weather. After a moment and a few sweeps of your wipers, however, you realize that the lights are coming from off the road. That they are attached to no vehicle, but a house. The only house you have seen since you entered this forest. You decide to try your luck.

The building is nothing more than a small log cabin. Besides the electric lantern illuminating the porch, two lawn chairs are taking shelter from the rain next to the front door. You’re already drenched just from stepping out of your car. A wet spot forms below you. You knock. Silence. It’s late. No light is visible through the curtains on the other side of the window. If there’s anyone home, they’re surely asleep by now. You knock again. A little harder. This time you’re answered by footsteps from within. The door opens and on the other side stands a human man. You can’t help but be visibly surprised. Neither can he. “Can I help you?” he asks. His eyes scan the porch behind you and the yard beyond.

“Sorry to catch you at this hour,” you say, “but I–”

“Tosteson? Deborah Tosteson?” In a moment the man goes from looking skeptical to bemused.

“I… yes?” You search his face for any scrap of familiarity.

“Alik Rowe. From finances. We worked together on the Potander budget.”

You can only assume he’s telling the truth, considering he knows your name and past work history, but you still don’t recognize him. Maybe it’s the beard. He looks like he hasn’t shaved for years. “Oh, of course,” you say, feigning recognition.

“Please,” he says, moving out of the doorway. “Come in.”

You enter into a small living room. To the right is an outdated kitchen with little more than the bare necessities. To the left, a dark hallway leading to other rooms. The furniture is in conflict between Edryean and Panguan decor. A floral-patterned recliner sits beside a green leather couch. A crocheted doily blankets a plain wooden coffee table. Despite its size and questionable taste, the entire place emanates a strong sense of love and warmth. This is in contrast to the empty picture hooks on the walls. You take a seat on the couch. “What are you doing in upper Edrye?”

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Alik sits on the recliner next to you. “Kissinger told me to.” He means Sayid Kissinger, the grand treasurer of Pangua.

The gears in your head are turning, but you can’t guess as to what conclusion they’re working towards. “What do you mean? Are you exiled?”

He laughs. “No. She said I should let my heart guide me down strange roads.”

From somewhere down the dark hallway, the floorboards creak under new weight. You become uneasy. “Is there someone else here?”

He hesitates. “Yes. My wife.” He looks into the hallway. “It’s alright.” The assurance isn’t for you.

A Wilskenn woman steps into the light. Although you struggled to recognize Alik, she is immediately familiar to you. Your mind jumps tracks. Quickly the name comes to you. “You’re Inkin Af.”

She nods with a nervous smile.

“When Inkin became pregnant,” Alik says, “we knew she would be disgraced. Even if I was Wilskenn, I’m definitely no highborn. No one in Athar, maybe all of Edrye, would ever accept our marriage.” He sits back in his chair. “So we made a deal with her father: she would go missing and no one would ever come looking for us. No one would ever find out why. I built this cabin for us.” He smiles at her.

You look down to the floor in silence, processing what you’ve just been told. Then you say, “and… the baby? I didn’t think it was even possible between… I mean biologically.”

“Miss Deborah.” Inkin’s voice is soft like a feather. “Do you know much about Edrye… before Pangua took it?”

“Very little,” you admit. Edrye has been a colony of Pangua since you were six years old.

Inkin approaches the back of the fabric recliner. She rests a hand on Alik’s shoulder and he raises his own hand to hold it. “Edrye used to be claimed by Moderond. We worked their fields and built their houses. When civil war tore the country apart, we fought their battles too.”

Moderond. You know the name from history books. It hasn’t existed as any more than a radical reformationist’s pipe dream for over sixty years. “Nowhere is it recorded that Edrye was ever owned by Moderond. I would have known that by now.”

“It is,” Inkin says. “History doesn’t forget. It only fails to reveal what it remembers.”

Alik chimes in: “Moderond was such a disaster that the very memory of it is still volatile. The facts of what actually happened there no longer matter to anyone on the world stage. It’s just a tool to use against political opponents. Any similarities, real or made-up, are disastrous.”

“What is true,” Inkin continues, “is that the people of Moderond live on in Wilskenn genetics, whether we like it or not. There was no Cagaskenn before Moderond.”

The mention of the cursed offspring brings the room to a silence. Alik is the one to finally break it. “Her name is Orla.” The name hangs in the air a moment before he continues. “She can’t talk, but she’s funny. And curious. And kind.” He points to a crude finger painting approximating the log cabin. “She did that. She made that.” He leans over and wipes his eyes. Sniffs.

“You don’t have to justify her,” Inkin says softly. Then she looks at you. “It is not easy to stand against your culture. Not even when you’re convinced that it’s the right thing to do. I don’t believe that love requires sacrifices. From where I stand, it is Edrye that has demanded sacrifices for my love.” She shakes her head. “Please, let us change the topic now. What are you doing out here, Miss Deborah? In this weather? At this time?”

“I don’t know,” you say. “I’m not really sure anymore.”