What consists of my friends, found privacy and shelter under the Ferrum goliath as Mother blesses the lands with life supporting water, or so the Satyrs tell me.

It is the first rain I’ve seen in this world and sweeps a nostalgic longing for home, who would have guessed that I’d ever miss English weather? If climate systems are truly powered by Gods, then my country is ruled by a deity of sardonic precipitation.

Alas, I know it’s only science, would explaining the water cycle be another act of blasphemy? Anything I say and do is a curse against our Goddess according to the Voice, no point fueling his arsenal with lectures on the matter.

“Seth!” Piia snaps at me to gain my attention. “You can not just give up when a fallen tree blocks your path.” Her expression had been one of horror as I retold the story of the expedition, detailing the creatures and our final battle for freedom.

In a moment of weakness, I had lied to them. Withholding the moment I used my Chaotic Will and abandoned the Captain. I don’t care if they stop believing I’m their chosen hero, but I can’t risk losing them, I have no one else in this world.

Now they berate me for stating I have given up on the prophecy and being their Shepherd.

“That rutting Satyr sent us to our death. He doesn’t give a toss about the prophecy. All he wanted was the Ferrum seed or that I don’t come back. He is livid that I did neither, and now another trial! What will it be next? Jump from the top of the Ferrum tree to prove my strength! I’m done trying to prove myself.”

“So you no longer believe? You will walk away from the tribe, from us?” She pleads.

“Of course not, I won’t leave. I’m just not suicidal enough to walk into another burning house. It doesn’t matter if I’m the Shepherd or not. We can stick to our plan and save Yetta?”

Tears spring into her angry eyes. “She is gone Seth. That plan was a moth dream, we both know it. What matters is leading our people away from this part of Silva.”

Alek breaks character for a leaf fall, taking Piia into a hug. “If the Daemons and Hunters are coming then staying put is rutting madness.” Alek says aloud but directly at me.

“Then we propose a mass migration to the tribe. Your people are nomadic, it might work.” I point out.

“Not this time. The Voice’s prophecy states the Shepherd will find us here, he will refuse to move.” Toomas speaks up for the first time, his usually jovial demeanour lost in the sombre conversation.

“It would have to be a unanimous decision, I will not allow my oppressed people to be split.” Piia claims with verbal agreements from the others. “Finish Mother’s trial. But first demand that Voice confirms it is the final one. Only then we can consider the next step.”

“I won’t do it.”

“You must.” Piia demands.

“It is the only way, Shepherd Seth.” Toomas pleads.

“None of you were there, it was only me, Cane and Artur who had to suffer that ordeal.” I whimper. This grim conversation was no place for the lad, who some of the tribesmen knew and had told me his name, while Piia delicately treated his wounds.

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She’d compared his bravery and strength to Satyr warriors when he’d shed few tears as the bark wrap was placed.

Then she spoke to him as an adult, admitting with honesty that without Sana flowers, Artur would never recover his voice. He’d been prescribed a treatment of fluids and rest, now slumbering in my teepee with Honey as a comfort from the shadows, and Cane as a guard from minions of the Voice.

He’s another number in the swarm of orphans that make up the tribe’s youth, adding to his lack of parenting the boy is now physically disabled for life. We share a trauma that’s brought us close in such a short period, a naturally blossoming yearning to protect him has grown in me.

My strange motley crew are now his family, I will have to sort my troubles out if I ever expect the lad to mature into a functioning, surviving adult.

Piia huffs in frustration as the satyrs share a trepidatious look, I was supposed to save them from their struggles, lift the race back from extinction and reform them back to the glory days of Uke and his power.

Their race’s once futile dream was coming to fruition, now the catalyst for achieving that goal is giving up and with it their hopes.

“Chopping a tree with a weary arm will only cause injury, we should let Seth rest.” Alek says while making for the village, beckoning the others to follow.

Piia lingers, the internal struggle plays out in her eyes before she finally speaks up.

“Seth, you were brought into this world for a reason, why else would you be in Silva if not to help us?”

“It doesn’t matter now, I don’t care if Mother brought me here for a reason. If you are giving up on Yetta then I can give up the prophecy.” I fume from the persistent barrage of her argument, both our stubbornness colliding on the matter, refusing to give ground.

She scowls and snaps back. “You have no right to use my sister’s loss against me, I am seeing the truth in the world. While you cower in self-pity at the first sign of darkness. Marking my people for doom.” She reels at me, shoving me hard against the Ferrum trunk.

“They’ve always been doomed, you’re too stupid to see it. Order and Omnia bestow powers for their followers, what does Mother do? She gifts a healing flower when she can be arsed and appoints a tyrant as her Voice. My help has been flaunted at every turn, now I realise it would have been a waste of time.” A white hot fury burns through me at their simplicity.

My apparent friends are happy to send me to an early grave. I see the same feeling reflected in Piia, her hand trembles over her Imp dagger.

Then she lets out a deep breath, steadying herself before it’s too late.

“If you think that way then do not let my people drag you with their end. You should leave.” She states cooly, accepting the fact that I’m not who she thought I was.

Then she’s gone and I’m alone in the rain. The infrequent droplets find me through the canopy, running down my nape as the anger melts away. They couldn’t see my dilemma so I pushed back, no, I lashed out.

Maybe loneliness is what I deserve, so I walk into the ferns, soaking my hemp trousers but feeling little. Only the guilt remains, thriving in my turmoil like a festering cancer, as I distance myself from everyone.

The forest is a dismal place in the rain, colours dull with the cold dispersed light that reaches the floor, even Mother’s motes are lacking and rare.

Leaf falls turn to branch falls, that turn to tree falls. Satyr time measurement is ridiculous, yet I adopted and absorbed their terminology, as I hoped they would accept me.

I continue to play out the argument that may have destroyed my only true friendship in this world, discounting Cane who I hope loves me but was also involuntarily ‘tamed’.

The pettiness of my words was fueled by fear, the terror that has followed me from the Depths. Of creatures that want to tear me apart and of myself, in abandoning my friends and those I’m supposed to protect for self-preservation.

But isn’t that what I just did? I abandoned my friends and the entire tribe. I should go back and beg for forgiveness, I’ll do the forsaken trial. But this time I will force the Voice to let me prepare properly and not run headlong into open jaws.

A flickering warmth dances across the ground before my feet. I look up and see rows of burning torches leading into a canvas tent. The over-embellished sign squeaks on rusty hinges in the light breeze, and a damp musty fragrance wafts out to greet me.

“Livingston’s Emporium, a good place to prepare for another trial.” I huff out, reminiscing about my last encounter with the pompous ass. I have to give his wares credit, they saved us from the Hunters, and I do have loot to spend.

I let the path lead me up and into the grand circus marquee.

Pushing the canvas flaps open, I discover a ravaged world.