When Lisŗa woke up she was met with a single demand and a pile of clothes made with tough fabric.

“Dress. I’ll be waiting in the carriage.”

She wiped the dried trails from her eyes and cheeks and did as she was told. The clothing was constricting, exuding officiality. She stuffed herself into the formal wear and rushed downstairs, nearly running into Madam Licelle.

“Already causing trouble?” Licelle called after her.

Lisŗa ignored her and went outside. Valdren’s palanquin had a door opened, waiting. Lisŗa climbed in and closed it behind her.

“Drive.”

And they were off. From behind the carriage’s walls Lisŗa heard the usual morning cacophony. Boots lifting off stone and unintelligible chattering. People preparing for work. On week’s end too. It had been busy here for a long time, so much so people worked even on the day of rest. This carriage ride promised to be as uncomfortable as possible.

Formal wear seemed to find every itch on her body. It was difficult enough worming her fingers into the tight spots of her long jacket to reach the itches. Lisŗa tried to relieve it as discreetly as she could.

“Stop.”

She pulled her fingers out and set her hands by her sides. Bored, she let her head turn to the side to look out the window shawl. At the center of the city a church rose over the rooftop horizons. The building’s spires towered over Cadeau de Chires. Impressive, even when seen through the shawl’s fabric. Lisŗa realized why they were going there.

“Vald- mother, I…”

“What.”

“I don’t think we need to do this.”

“We do.”

“Okay…”

The horses stopped. A valet ran up, awaiting their exit. Lisŗa sighed and opened the palanquin’s door. The valet extended a hand. Lisŗa swatted it away and stepped down onto the paved stone.

The stairs to the basilica’s grand entrance numbered over a hundred steps. Intricate marble statues were carved into the entablature above the entrance. The same level of detail went into the colonnades which supported it. When she was little Lisŗa wondered in amazement how artisans could animate stone. She was too possessed by dread to care now.

The valet took the carriage to the stables. Valdren had started walking up the stairs without her. Lisŗa skipped two steps at a time to catch up to her mother’s side.

“Mind your gait,” Valdren said.

“Yes ma’am.”

“Your button’s been undone.”

“I was finding it hard to breathe.”

Valdren seemed to consider it. Was Lisŗa truly uncomfortable? Or was she searching for the slightest opportunity to rebel?

“Fine,” Valdren said.

Lisŗa smiled, relieved. The long jacket wasn’t the only thing strangling her. White trousers complemented her attire, tailored for her a year ago with the expectation she’d lengthen into it. The tailor had not anticipated her practice of rooftop acrobatics. A lady, exercising, and for hooliganism too.

They left the summer heat and entered the chill interior of the basilica. Lisŗa squinted. Radiant rays of sun, as solid in the dust as to appear like pillars, rained from the roof’s panes. Rows and rows of wooden pews shrunk towards the hall’s end. An enormous tabernacle plated with gold stood tall. At its feet a man in pure white robes turned and smiled.

“Go to him,” Valdren said.

“But mother-”

A priest arrived from one of hall’s alcoves. He bowed briefly and extended a hand.

“My lady?” He beckoned.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

Valdren glanced one last time at Lisŗa, said nothing, and walked with the priest into one of the connecting halls. The tail of her mother’s jacket disappeared around the corner. Lisŗa resisted the urge to run after her. The man beneath the tabernacle waited patiently, his hands formed a basket by his stomach.

Lisŗa took her time to approach. Every step she made echoed. She looked to the pews by her side. The seats were loosely filled. No one seemed to notice her; they were all engaged in silent prayer. She stopped at the feet of the preacher’s platform where the man stood. It was raised by two steps.

He was thin. Up close his pure white robes were revealed to have many subtle patterns and distinctions. A pendant hung from his neck: a platinum mold of the Falerian hawk. But that wasn’t what Lisŗa noticed first. The sun’s rays didn’t seem worthy of the man’s presence. He exuded a welcoming lightness, magnified by a genuine smile.

“Ms Crescent,” he said.

“Who are you?”

“I am an Archbishop of the Order.” He extended a hand. “But since your family is not of the faith you can just call me Vulka.”

“Why was I told to come here?”

“Come. Walk with me.”

Before Lisŗa could say anything, he had already descended to the steps, hands tucked behind his back. Lisŗa followed a couple meters behind. They went through one of the basilica’s many branching corridors. Tall windows lined the inward facing sides. The complex arrangements of flowering plants and fruiting trees just behind the glass panes were entrancing.

“Do you like them?” Vulka asked. “We ventured into the Heldrasi woodlands to harvest them.”

“Just for flowers?”

“The forest isn’t so dangerous nowadays. Aldren did a number on the natives there before we arrived.”

“Look, why am I following you?”

Vulka stopped. “Your mother asked me to talk some sense into you,” he admitted. “We can cut to the chase if you prefer.”

“I would. I don’t see why some fancy believer has to listen to my mother about anything though.”

“Your mother’s kind provide an essential service to Faleria. We’ve much… state work to get through and-”

“My kind?”

“Stow your venom, child. I meant the Chalet’s occupation, not your nation of origin.”

“Pleasing dirty, unfaithful men?”

“Relieving the mounting stresses from labor. Integrating new lands into the empire is a volatile and busy time. Morale among the laborers is paramount. Your mother and her ilk’s work is to be respected.”

“I guess it’s not a big deal then to help out the district’s most beautiful whore with her problem child then, huh.”

Vulka’s smile pursed, shifting from welcoming to amused.

“I’m going to enjoy our discussions.”

--

Jorge cried out at the top of his lungs. He had awoken covered in squirming tubes of colored flesh. They pulsating forward along his exposed skin and clothes, dozens of tiny legs dragging their bodies along. In frantic movements he brushed them off. His elbows knocked into his shelter, and the whole thing nearly fell apart.

“This can’t be real,” he muttered to himself. He was too exhausted to continue his panicking. His sleep had not been restful. And he was parched. Jorge left his shelter carefully and stumbled to the stream where he began shoveling handfuls of water into his mouth.

Motion made him freeze. His ears picked up the sound of slurping water. His head slowly turned. Only several meters away, a familiar yet uncanny creature drank next to him. It looked like a deer. Black nose, sleek body, four long legs, two heads. Each head had one half of a full set of antlers on the outward side. On the sides of its head facing inward, a small crystal grew instead.

One head lifted to regard Jorge, then returned to its drinking. When Jorge stood he realized why it wasn’t afraid of him. He was not a short man, and by inspection he guessed the top of his head just barely reached the base of the deer’s neck. In this world, he was the small one.

His heart began to race. What were the predators like in this place?

He decided if there ever was a time in life he needed to suck it up, it was then. He didn’t want to die. He was going to prove to himself that his parents were wrong about him and find a way back to his world with air conditioning and real food. What was the most important tool they always talked about on those survival shows? A knife. Jorge began to search for a sharp stone along the river.

Too round. Too oblique. Too smooth. Where were those perfectly tear-shaped flint edges forest natives always had? Maybe he had been going about this the wrong way. Jorge picked out a stone that was at least shaped like a knife. He ran a finger along the edge. Dull and pointless. But maybe…

He picked up a round stone and set the slim one upright. Gritting his teeth, he brought the makeshift hammer down onto the slim stone’s side. The whole thing broke.

“What am I doing?!” Jorge began swinging at the water, splashing it everywhere. The tantrum lasted only seconds. He was out of breath. “What the hell are you looking at?!”

The deer tilted its heads. Then it began to walk towards him. Jorge forgot his anger. He stumbled backwards. A jutting stone caught his heel and he fell onto his rear. Pain shot up his spine. He covered his mouth before he cried out.

It stopped in the middle of the river. The water was split by four hooves, lapping against elegant legs. The deer lowered its heads to examine Jorge. He could feel the heat from its breath and see the wetness on its noses. Then it raised a leg and struck a stone beside Jorge. He jumped to the other side. The rock split cleanly in half, revealing its dark, smooth interior. With that, the deer left the riverside and walked back into the dense veil of flora.

Still breathing heavily, Jorge crawled over and examined the halves. Understanding grew like a hungry spark in his mind. He began to pick up more stones along the river, raising them in the air and throwing them down. Some shattered. And of those that did, most did not break as cleanly. Jorge spent the whole day dropping stones on each other until his efforts yielded a single, lucky splinter. A smooth piece of dark rock, sharp on one uneven side. Using the lily vines he tied it to a stick as tightly as he could.

Hours of work sat on his lap. His arms were numb. Dots were forming in his vision. But there it was: a hatchet. Jorge wasn’t dead in the water just yet.