The moon hung high in the sky, now just cusping the narrow window of the tall marble ceiling. In its luminescence was the Nine Covenants. The mighty Hoth. The swift Maraki. The lost Azeric. The lesser gods that bordered their more potent masters. Their carved forms perched around a singular centerpiece below.

A well.

Against the gleaming stones that reached to touch the sky, this well was a decrepit, aged thing. An unsightly mess of cobblestones and moss that sat in defiance against the gemmed opulence of the Kasarrich Hall. What the Nine Covenants saw in that well was beyond the minds of Rune Scholars. From the Age of the First Covenant to the Rune Age, this was their chosen conduit to the mortal world. In the wellspring, they waited. From fools to sages, lame to illustrious, all were welcomed in the trial of still waters.

For centuries, lesser men had glimpsed into to the world of gods and was found wanting.

As they ought, the litany came unbidden. The Source purified all.

It hadn't been until the High King Balric, moon shine his way, gazed into the divide between mortal and immortal and came away... more.

The trial was well-known through the lands. And all flocked to the well, paying pilgrimage at the majestic power. It was the source of the kingdom's might for generations since. The trial itself, however, the adults left it to ambitious youths.

Dana was not the ambitious sort, yet she sat in the pew with the rest of the initiates. Some sat clutching their hands, tales of the trial whirling in their heads. The crop of fair-haired farmboys clustered around their lanky leader to trade secondhand tales of adventure. To the back wall, the matron stood rod-straight in unerring steel. Her eyes ever on the swivel over her small flock, though her mouth was oddly permissive. Thus, hopeful whispers of power flitted in the air more freely than normal.

Then there were those like her who dread what hid behind the matron's honeyed words of history and glory.

Madness. Decay. Death. Eleven years of life, discarded because she was deemed unworthy.

Those who grew up with the Obligation knew of their duties. Three children of each blooded house were to be offered to the services of the High King. Third of the surviving Lin and eleven years of age, it was her turn. Her blood right.

She wanted to run to Mabby, her barely three years old brother. She missed the bright stone walls of castle Zalthus. The sweets that the cook would carefully neglect after a particularly harsh lesson. The new buds that sprung from Tharca's mundane green magic. Her father's broad back, ready to carry them all through the day. Anywhere but the cold marbled walls of the capital.

Yet there she sat, limbs as weighed as the marbles around them. Maybe one would be so kind as to smash her flat. There would only be mourning of a tragic accident and none of the blame. The well-trained part of her knew that such thinking was silly.

Damn the High King. Damn the Moon Court. May the stars swallow them whole.

A flash. She was back in the pews. It had gotten less crowded in their seats. The rest, those who did not rejoin, lay behind a heavy curtain. She tried not to think of them, that she had made it. That at least this burden would not fall on little Mabby. But relief eluded her.

Another flash, this one more distant. Stars came and went since then. Barely a waking moment where there was not pain or blood of some kind. As long as it wasn't hers, she was content. Drills being what they were, those were rare.

She was still alive. Changed. No longer the child she once was. That part of her had been hammered away, her mettle purified by blood and iron. Only a part of a whole, a gleaming armor amongst many.

She was content. She had to be.

-

The cloying air brought news of rich earth and the first breeze of harvest. It was a scent that belied deep, fragrant potential. The crusted salt-sweat accompanied such times. Hands toiled readily for greens and grains, reaping their rewards at the face of creeping frost.

But that was not the harvest she was a part of. This had the sharp tang of metal and blood. A scythe, with its heavy swing, cut through the land. Its harvest was for the things common men can be called to march for: Promises. Of land, of riches, of victory. Hope plucked from the hands that stood in the reaping path and put into solitary cages. It cared not for grains.

As the earth rocked beneath her, all she felt was fog and chains. They crowded her mind and filled every crevice. She didn't understand why it felt wrong, just that it wasn't how things should be. She struggled to recall how long they had traveled. Vivid one day, only for the waves to reclaim her. The bloodied men that approached her cage worked as a marker of sorts. They crowded around her after a skirmish, all demands and desperation.

Coarse manacles gripped her hands together in forced, mocking prayer. She wasn’t sure to whom. On days like this, when waves had not reclaimed her, she tested herself against the iron. They dug into her scarred flesh, with an enough bite in them to sharpen her senses.

Dana, a thought clicked into place. I am Dana.

How many times had she had this very thought, only for it to be washed away again?

It all felt so futile.

She was tired. So deeply tired.

She twisted her wrists against the metal with more force, writing out the last drop of the ritualistic comfort. With this controlled pain, she regained more of herself. The heat against the bare skin told her time of day. A distant bird seemed to circle the caravan, its squawk insistent.

She would like to have chosen something else to plague her mind. Her father's face, perhaps. Or the feel of dirt after harvest when cupped in her hands. Something to retreat into beyond the view of the laboring backs of beasts and men that filtered through uncaring steel. But it was all blurring together the longer she traveled with these broken men and their blood-soaked hands.

They talked often of riches. Of warmth. Of their deepest desires. Things they would have if only they had more power. They teased and taunted and prodded one another, often breaking into petty fights. In the cage, Dana sat outside this odd form of bonding. They were careless around her, tongue loosened by wine, but never enough to engage with her without cause. It was a silent compromise; to not cross into or out of the cage unless there was something they needed of her.

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The best outcome. The quietest outcome.

A frustrated conversation drifted to her from behind.

"Dead. Couldn't tell wellspring apart from common barrot." One spat. "Leave it to that idiot to put poison in his food."

The large one, with cracked voice. "Tsk. Gerlit of all people. Now we're out of a cook."

"Just get the servs to do it."

"I don't want some weird freaks to touch my food. You do it."

Another one cut in. "Drakkri burns soup."

The large one whirled on him. "And I'll burn you if you don't shut it, cur."

And so began a plan.

-

Approaching steps jolted her consciousness. Her clasped hands reached for a weapon and found only air. So she did what she had learned to do best and willed her breathing to slow.

Time must have passed and they have settled for camp. The creeping chill gnawed into her. But she was conscious. That was what mattered.

It wasn't the heavy one today, with scraping footfalls and laboring breaths. It was the little one. A curious little thing who brought news of the outside world beyond her cage along her ration of stale bread rolls and thin broth.

It hadn't been the heavy one for many nights now. Wellspring in his food. From the chatter, the body was rigid when they found it. Soldiers gave up their investigation quickly, nearly as quickly as they did the escapee a time back.

"The Star-damned place claim the pig" was all they had to say on both matters.

No one mourned him. Not the crude men. Not the servs. What mattered was that the little one had been sounding better rested. The servs that passed her cage on their way to their tasks gave a word of thanks.

Dana felt the serv's eyes lingering from beyond the bars. She waited for the two taps on the bars to respond in kind.

She was here. She was listening.

"Gray lady. Please, it hurts."

Dana reached out her bound hands to the edge of her cage. A small, raw hand clasped it with urgency and she poured her will into it. Here was a working hand, rough and raw from slaving away for the same men that kept them imprisoned. While she was able to mend flesh, the process was rarely a pleasant one. The girl, to her credit, remained quiet as Dana probed for the pain.

"Tell me what's around us." Anything to keep the girl distracted.

The girl sucked in a shaky breath. "There's big trees everywhere. Bigger than anything I've ever seen."

"A forest, then. And the men?"

"They're setting up tents. One took Pavi with them to hunt with that purple box. He has the same gem on your neck."

Her stomach turned with primal fear. The box was how the men forced Dana to heal when she wouldn't give freely. It was, she suspected, what kept her mind muddled. Her curse was a luxury not afforded to the like of servs. But those who sought to control it grew tired of keeping watch. Complacent and fat, all. Careless in their strategy and cruel in their power. Times when she was forgotten was when the servs knew to seek her, reach for her.

This, she gave willingly.

The girl's breathing slowed and Dana let go.

"Gray lady. It's tonight. Can we count on your help?"

Dana tapped on the thick dome that clung heavy on her head, another separation from the world. "Of course. But get the box first. Destroy it. Then get the key for this cage."

"A pinch of wellspring in his nightly wine. Nin will take care of it." The little one sounded so sure in her whisper that Dana wanted to believe in her.

-

It began with a strangled cry.

Confusion swept through the camp as bodies fell to the dirt. A camp of fighters, rendered useless by a mere root. The servs wasted no time and soon a fight began.

"Poison! It's pois-

The only response that came was a spear in the throat.

Nin came through on her word. The metal creaked open, then tiny hands clamored to free her. Fresh air met Dana's face, and she took a moment to collect herself.

"Quickly!"

They hurried to a clearing where a scattered group of servs fought with a large man with horns woven into his braids. The braided man was crazed with laughter when his hammer swing caught a serv in the chest.

"Next swing it's your head, scum!"

An old serv in ash-stained clothes leapt for him, spear aimed at the gaps between woven metal. But the horned man was too experienced, too well-nourished, and grabbed the old serv by the throat.

Dana ran into the fray. Fire filled her lungs, protesting at this first surge of activity. Behind her, Nin cried to come with her instead.

"Let him go!"

With nothing but fear and instinct, Dana swung at the arm that fought to crush the fragile life. Where she expected to find the hardness of muscle, she caught wet, thick mush that parted upon contact. The thick arm separated, freeing the old serv. He gasped for air before scurrying for his spear.

"Wraith!" The horned man howled. He staggered back, hammerhead poised to strike the next one to approach. He was too blood-mad to care for his mortal wound. Life spurted rhythmically from his gored stump onto the hard ground. "No more cage for you! You'll die here like the dog that you are!"

There was no time to consider how she cut his arm with her bare hands, just that she could. Getting the attention of this crazed hammer fighter was a mistake. She watched the massive hammerhead that was pointing at her, then to the serv curled in a pained heap. She wasn't strong or fast, and she no longer had the element of surprise. One hit would end her.

So she did the next logical thing. Whatever last bit of self-preservation Dana had, she used it to turn around and run. The maddened man gave chase. The frenzy of the hunt had taken him so completely that he abandoned the servs for a more satisfying prey.

She leapt through a cart with a mad dog at her heel. It was an armory of sorts, decked with weapons in its wooden belly.

She knocked a spear rack behind her but the sharpened stick only bounced uselessly off him as he doggedly pushed through.

Another swing, this time too close to her head for comfort. Just when she thought she was losing him, he picked up speed. A scattered group of servs had followed the noise and, spears in hand, jabbed at him as he ran past.

"Vermin! I'll wear your hide."

She ignored the commotion behind her and ducked into the gap of the large tent. Desperate eyes swept for anything she could use.

It was then that she realized was their feather-capped's tent. There, a man had fallen forward on his skinned rug. The last of the spilled wine tickled down the rest of him, leaving a large, unfortunate stain down his groin in his last moment of indignity. In his back was a dagger, buried deep between his ribs.

She pulled the dagger free, smothered the candle flame, and readied herself for the horned man. The thick canvas provided little comfort between Dana and commotion outside the tent. She would not last long against him directly, but neither would these weakened servs.

Dana clenched her hand. That power that was stark opposite of healing, enough to part flesh. This was how they can fight back. How they can win. If she could do it again. She needed to catch him while distracted and get his hammer arm.

Enough planning. It was time to fight.

She found a group of servs had circled the horned man. They maintained distance with spears, several of which were embedded crudely in the massive back. She ran at him, hand aimed at the exposed bit of flesh where his armor had been stripped.

One good hit. Then all of it will be over.

Her world flashed bright-hot pain. The forged metal caught her in the arm and sent her flying into rough canvas. She landed with a sick crunch of bone. Her world spun as her doom approached, hammer loft high and ready for her head.

Dana dared not close her eyes. Better to face this man dying than fearful and on her knees.

Running was never an option from the start.

Footsteps rushed from the tent behind him. His hammer jumped to greet another foe but found air. Instead of another serv, an ax flew through the gap of the tent and found flesh. It landed solidly in the horned man's throat. His neck separated crudely before folding back at the last bit of tissue that remained. His crimson life sprayed on the white canvas of the tent.

"Ah."

The hammerhead dropped from his hand and buried itself deep into the dirt. In his last moment, he fell on Dana. Warm blood soaked onto her threadbare clothes.

A cloaked figure wordlessly approached the horned man's lifeless body. The ax came away with a squelch.

In the last wave of pain, the world went black.