The day was growing dim, a dark cloud in the distance coming their way. Shea grabbed for her shawl, dragging it further over her eyes but it served only to encumber her vision. She had already wrapped the shawl over her face to protect it against the raising winds. Bare slit was left open for her eyes yet that proved more than enough.

Sand was quick to worm its way in through the smallest of openings and Shea resisted the urge to scratch at her back, hands, near the knee. Her feet were already numb from all the walking so that was something.

They’d been travelling for what felt like days now.

Soon after they left the city, Commander got them lost. It was night and without the sun guiding their way, he walked in random directions. But he didn’t stop, nor did he listen to words of advice.

Father had loved stars and taught her how to navigate by them, so she could have told him they were moving in the wrong direction. Half the time they were returning to the city, then venturing off to the side, around some hill, and back to going forward, away from the camp.

But the man didn’t want to hear opinions. She’d walked up to him, ready to explain about the stars and how to navigate them, when he shot her down. He ordered her to fall back, away from him unless she wanted something more amorous.

Shea had no idea what he meant but it didn’t sound right. Alec also tugged her back. It was impossible to see his face through the helmet but he seemed worried and so she let him bring her back to the middle of the group. The soldiers spread to make way, and she settled back with disgruntlement in her heart.

What was happening here? Why was Commander acting with pride rather than brains and the soldiers followed him? It didn’t make sense! Why would anyone follow someone who didn’t listen to reason?

She looked up to see Tyr moving with a light step by Commander’s side. They were quiet now, tired like the rest of them, but it was the first time in hours. For most of the journey, Commander was telling one tale or another of his younger days. Tyr listened to them with eagerness she had only seen when they discussed bringing Iago down.

It was disappointing; she’d thought she was the only one who could interest him so. Silly, she admonished herself, tugging her head into her shoulders. There had been a day to get accustomed to the fact but the embarrassment wasn’t going anywhere. She was just glad for the covering on her face, it saved her from the questions if not the weird looks.

Straightening out, she plastered a smile on her face before remembering she was hidden. “It’s nothing,” she murmured and returned her eyes to the ground. It was better than staring at the horizon where there was nothing but sand dunes and more plains of sand.

A glance backward warned her that the cloud wasn’t going anywhere. It was growing in size and she could have sworn she heard howling from there. The wind was raising, tugging at her clothes and pushing her forward. It wasn’t strong enough to unbalance anyone, but fear gnawed at her heart.

Time flew on the wings of a diving eagle and soon the storm was close enough for its grappling fingers to reach their little band. There was no hiding from the furious wind threatening to take her away or the armfuls of sand thrown from all directions, blocking the sight.

It was impossible to even raise her head. She tried to shield her eyes but it was too dark, too much sand everywhere. For a second she wondered where had the sky gone, the whole world turning into a huge mass of sand and wind. It was howling, screeching, chortling. She would have covered her ears from the noise had she any idea where they were.

Something grabbed her hand. She pulled at it, trying to escape but the grip was strong. Blinking rapidly she made out the contours of a soldier’s armour and stopped struggling. The hand pulled her closer and she went with it.

Other figures manifested from the storm. Their armour was being assaulted by the biting wind, leaving small dents as they struggled to find purchase in the shifting sands under their feet. Most were holding onto each other to keep from being separated.

The vision in the storm was terrible. She couldn’t say if everyone was here or not. Three, four shapes stood there, bowed against the wind. Was Tyr one of them? She couldn’t tell, Commander’s form was certainly not. He was tall and wide enough for her to tell part with ease.

The one holding her hand tried to say something but got a mouthful of sand for his troubles. The wind was screeching too loud for any sound to be made out. It must have infuriated the speaker for his grip tightened on her hand, but then he relaxed, motioning to move with his free one.

She hesitated, waiting for others to make a move. One soldier reached for her and she grasped his or her hand. They spread into a tight line, hands clasped and walked in a random direction. There was no telling where they were going, sky and earth seemed to have united, but they were moving. That had to count for something.

They trudged forward against the wind, each step harder than the previous. Armour was weighting down the soldiers while she felt light as a feather, any stray gust could take her away. Her heartbeat quickened and she forced her legs to walk faster. If they could just manage to get out of this storm, it would all be all right.

But there was no end to it. They pushed forward again and again, relentless in their pursuit of an exit but there was none. The storm raged, throwing all it had at them and there was no way out.

Her legs weighted like granite blocks, every step was a battle of wills. Where was the end?

It had to be close! They were walking for ages!

Her hand slipped, she lurched backwards to grab it in awakening shock and lost her balance. Wind beat her to the ground. She knew she should get up, couldn’t stay curled here but it was so hard. All she wanted was a moment’s rest. Then she could raise and move again. Just a single moment of rest.

Hands reached for her and brought her up. She balanced on her feet, wanting nothing more than to fall back again but a glimmer of resolution kept her standing. She didn’t want to die.

They started walking again and for a while everything was all right. For a very short while. Her strength was waning and there was little Shea could do about it. She couldn’t shape the whole storm into submission. It was impossible. There were things that were beyond even shapers’ capabilities.

One leg before the other. Another step. That’s all that mattered now. She didn’t want to be left alone as others lumbered forward.

Something whisked through the air, a lot of somethings, but she couldn’t be bothered to pay attention.

A scream pushed through her thoughts. She listened in but there was nothing besides the storm’s howling. It was too loud for anything to have passed through, she must have been imagining things.

There was trouble in the line. The soldier behind her was pulling her back and she tugged for the leading person, Alec most likely, to stop. He did so, his helm hiding what must have been a questioning look underneath.

She pointed with her head towards the back. There was nothing to see, the third figure behind her was a blur in the wall of sand but all of them were staring backwards. Alec squared his shoulders and pushed in that direction.

His steps were slow and Shea cursed the person who’s fault this was in her mind. Now she was being forced to walk back. So much wasted energy! Energy of which she had so very little remaining. If they stopped, she wasn’t certain she’d raise to move again.

The trek, sleepless night, no food and little water were weighting heavy on her body. She wasn’t meant for such extreme conditions. Never in her life had she been in anything half as bad as this.

Reaching the disturbance, they saw one of the soldiers on the ground. There were wooden debris around his feet that the wind lifted off and carried away as they arrived. From the ground closest to her, Shea’s gaze travelled forward to a heavily dented chest armour and a stick embedded into a shoulder.

Someone from the crowd separated, fell next to the soldier and must have screamed, though no sound carried. The armoured figure waved its hands, reaching for the fallen and pulling back right before contact. It was scared to hurt more than be able to aid.

Everyone tightened the circle, crouching, then going on all fours - it was easier to balance that way - around the fallen. Shea couldn’t see anyone’s expression but knew it must mirror her own. Despair and horror. Tiredness shifting into hopelessness and desolation. It was over.

They were over.

Resting her head against the ground, unable to see the injured form before her, Shea wondered what would her mother do if she was here. She was a stalwart defender of life and could turn any situation into something, if not good, then acceptable. “There’s a little good in every disaster, just dare to look,” she always said. “Trust me, just let me take care of it and you’ll see.”

And she delivered. It was a continuous wonder for her young self to see mother’s achievements. Whatever struck the village, whether it was the drought, a pillaging mercenary group or overflow in the wolf population, she managed to make the villagers see a bright side to it and continue with their lives.

But she was not here now. Shea wanted to scream her frustration, fall before her mother’s knees and plead for understanding. What was she supposed to do on her own? Mother had taken care of all the problems, telling her she would know what to do when the time came.

She didn’t! They were lost with little supplies, a furious sandstorm raging over their heads and one of their comrades injured. Lying still like that, he might as well be dead.

Tears collected in the corners of her eyes.

Useless. She was a nobody! Save these people? What a joke! She couldn’t even help herself, so how could she save anyone else? It was no wonder no one considered her a threat. The Mistress dismissed her as insignificant while Iago paid her no heed. He simply ignored what she did that didn’t align with whatever his plan was.

Iago… That got her thinking. What would he do? There was no doubt in her heart that he wouldn’t die in such a situation. He would carve a hole in the desert and hide there if that was what was needed to survive.

Her eyes lit up at the thought. She was a shaper! She could carve a hideout for them in the middle of nowhere!

Raising her head, she surveyed the soldiers. They were in a tight circle around the fallen one, eyes downcast. She ground her teeth, reaching for the Energy pond within her. It was small in comparison, she wasn’t yet fully recovered, but it would have to be enough.

She focused on the ground below them and let the Energy flow through her body and into the sand. Shea knew it couldn’t be good for the injured soldier but she didn’t have time to hesitate. The sand was collecting around them, ready to entomb their bodies.

Without warning the ground below them shifted into dust and they dropped more than a man’s height. Shea’s side ached as she fell in a disarray of limbs, hurting her elbow. It wasn’t twisted but she was certain to have a number of blue spots after.

Laughter bubbled, stinging her dry throat. One moment she was preparing to die and the next complaining about bruises.

But her task wasn’t over. The storm followed after them, quickly filling the deep indentation with sand. Shea had no doubt there was enough of it to bury them and then make a mound on top. With a deep breath, she used the rest of her remaining Energy to change the sand above their heads into a dirt ceiling.

Darkness fell.

She didn’t know whether she had succeeded but the howling quieted. It was muted now as if it was coming from a room next door. Somewhere that wasn’t here.

Relieved, Shea was glad to see a drop of Energies in her inner pond. There would be no life risking to regain her powers this time. The currents will fill her in on their own. The process will be slow but safe. No playing with the dangers of wild currents.

She had seen them, flowing calm through the storm. Not the smallest of currents disturbed by the wind, the sand. It was eerie. Unnatural. There and yet not at the same time.

Voices came from the darkness. Familiar and comforting. She had saved them, protected from the worst. Warmth spread through her and she fell asleep with a smile on her face.

***

Heat radiated in waves, and Iago was glad for the respite inside the temple’s shadow. He’d hauled the rocks with the survivors for the majority of the day and now was sitting, resting. Mala brought a water skin to him and he took it with a heartfelt thanks.

It was pure idiocy to work in such heat. No human should be put through such torture, but these virtuous lambs were doing it of their own volition. They wanted their temple restored as soon as possible, secretly terrified of the goddess’ wrath for letting her home go into disrepair.

No one truly believed his words, that Elecar was at fault and not The Lady, that this was no divine judgement. In their minds, no human could destroy the world on his own. If only they knew the truth…

The power of old artefacts, of knowledge hidden and forgotten in the history annals. He reached to touch the medallion hanging at his neck. What he had was a mere trinket, an heirloom kept intact to this day through accidents more than intent.

The metal was warm against his touch, heated from close contact with his body. Iago looked down at the swirling pattern, the gold etchings in a long gone language on the sides. He let the medallion drop against his chest, chuckling to himself. “At least now there’s precious metals enough that no one will bother to try and steal.”

Most of men and women in his surroundings wore some kind of jewelry. Emeralds, sapphires, diamonds and pearls glittered wherever he turned. Mala wore diamond earrings, six necklaces ranging in size from a choker to a tumbling locket that rested against her bosom. Her hands were encumbered by gold plated bracelets that glittered with ruby eyes. No lady would have been ashamed to wear them to a ball.

If there was one where she could show so much skin, not hiding it under spotless white gloves.

More than likely, the jewelry had belonged to some lord’s kept woman. The precious stones on her hands and the rest of her body for him and him alone.

His lip curled into a shadow of a smile as he thought about how would Mala and the other women react were they to find out the truth. It would be a sight for sure, but he still wanted to keep his head on his shoulders. Better he stayed his tongue.

Laughter caught him off-guard and he turned to see Evic talking with Mala. The usually stoic man was smiling as he watched the woman before him twirl in what could only be an attempt at a ballroom dance. Scorpius’ kid had brought his music box and winded “The Swan’s Fall”. Others were standing near the boy; an elderly man Iago had talked to before, three women in bright dresses he’d seen walking around with Mala and five men from twenty to forty.

Most leaned against the wall, snickering at Mala’s dancing. She sent them a pointed stare and then grabbed one of the younger men to be her partner. The youth, what was his name.. Irea? Irvi. Irka! Irka, that’s the name, went scarlet, eyes turning to his peers for help but they just laughed at him.

Merry dancing ensued and Iago sat down in his shadow, keeping his head turned sideways. They would feel uncomfortable were they to catch him staring.

Sometimes he wondered whether it was worth the trouble being a shaper. All that power in exchange for human company. A grand sacrifice of sorts.

He pulled his knees close and rested his head on them. The heat, physical exhaustion and simple loneliness were driving him mad. Everyone kept him at arm’s length, watching him in turn with terror and disgust. Or indifference. Pretending he didn’t exist.

The only existence that was even close to a friend had disappeared without a word. He hadn’t seen Scorpius since they’d talked about the child and that was four days ago. It was unnatural, and disappointing.

Closing his eyes, he breathed in the humid air, forcing his mind to relax.

Something cold rested against his hand. He touched it, feeling the jagged surface of the crystal earring. It wasn’t cold per say but retained a normal temperature, not heating up from the surroundings.

“Kallum…” he murmured, letting his head droop again. “Why did you have to go?” The question hung in the air, lifeless. Just like the person he was calling.

Sorrow welled inside him and he wanted to laugh, chortle at his own pitifulness. Slightly more than a month on his own and he was already sliding back into the abyss. It waited for him with outstretched hands, a doe-like smile on its deranged face.

He remembered standing on a river’s edge, contemplating the swiftness of the current. This time he didn’t have such an easy way out. No river whispered sweet suggestions in his ear.

But neither did he have anyone standing in his way. No one called him back with a cold voice of reason. Or begged him to stay for entirely selfish reasons. He smiled at that, a tired, rueful smile.

This wasn’t the time to feel sorry for himself. Standing up, he ignored the laughing group and entered the temple. It had been cleared from most of the rubble, revealing bleak walls and portions of engraved scenes: Lady Nature with her hand over the wheat, Lady Death gently putting a man’s soul into her basket. Next should have been Lady War holding a spear in her hand, rallying the armies to battle but only her brown booted leg remained.

He traced the edge of the etching, wondering whether all temples had been reduced to this. All those decades of work engraving the walls, painting the colonnades and creating stained glass windows lost in the destruction.

How long will it take to return even this little temple to its former glory? Ages, if it would be returned at all. Who knew what might befall this ragged band of survivors next; they could be wiped out tomorrow and no one would know they had even lived after the Scourge. Forced to care only about survival, they would leave nothing of themselves to be remembered. There were no historians left to write the books.

His gaze travelled further into the room where the shattered sculpture of the Lady lay. What seemed years ago, he recalled attending the ceremonies. Upon entering the temple, people would first come to the statue, bowing their head in respect or fell to their knees if they felt they had sinned. Some came to kiss the Lady’s feet, while others touched the fabric of her dress. It was a task for the priests to keep the robe cleaned and change it depending on the celebration and which face of the Lady was being worshipped that day.

There were no priests left, and so there was no statue too. It was a balance of sorts.

But was it right? Shouldn’t the survivors have at least something, no, not something, someone to believe in? It was well-known that there were no atheists in the trenches. This was little different from that position, sitting and waiting to find out whether you’ll be killed by a random accident or not.

He bent and picked a piece from the sculpture. None of the survivors had dared to touch the holy stone. Translucent alabaster with an ethereal blue tint to it was one of the rarest stones and used only, and only, for depictions of the Lady. For some reason, even the shapers had never dared to play with this stones scarcity. They neither made more of it, nor decreased the current amount.

Divine, it was called. Maybe. But Iago could not see anything special about it. Just another pretty stone that wasn’t especially easy to carve. And for it’s rarity, only master sculptors were ever commissioned to work with it. Yet all the temples had at least a small sculpture of an alabaster Lady dressed in satin or silk, wool or linen.

Collecting the pieces, he put them in a pile on the altar. It was more of a pedestal for the statue than anything else, but the priests had adopted the word from the religions in the east continent. It made the simple slab of stone into something more than just a higher ground to put the sculpture on.

Blasphemer, all the priests of the past would have called him - had they heard his thoughts. They would have shooed him out of the temple and barred him entrance. He would have lost all credibility in the eyes of the world and anyone seen talking to him would have been found an unbeliever too. A swift and easy way to ensure no one dared to say a word against the faith.

But they were all dead now. Their iron rule of the temple and the faith was gone. No more power struggle between the emperor’s council, his shapers and the priests of the Lady.

Finishing his pile of translucent stone, he closed his eyes, remembering the many temples he’d visited in his life. This wasn’t one of them, so it was time to improvise. Recalling a fitting image, he reached for the currents. They jumped at his call like eager children, barrelling at him without a thought.

He gasped, the power overwhelming him for a moment until he clamped the open gates shut. The amount he took in was more than enough. Still with eyes closed, he fixated the image in his mind and sent the power forward, into the stones.

They warped under his touch: shifting, twisting into forms that he ordered them to take. It was against nature, he felt the stone’s resistance, it’s dislike of being tampered with, and then submission to his will. There was no need for sight for the power was part of him. For a moment, the stone was of him too. It’s strength, resistance to outside pressure.

And in an instant it was all gone. He was spent and exhausted, an emptiness opened where the power had been. He breathed, deep, and relaxed, letting his heart return to its normal rhythm from the excitement.

Opening his eyes, he took a step back to have a better look at his accomplishment.

The Lady stood in a thin robe, looking down at him with a teasing smile. It should have been gentle, motherly, or that’s what he had been aiming for, but the slight lifting on one side made him feel like she was smirking. Could she? He shook his head at the reverie in his own mind and went to take the cloak that he’d dropped by the front door while working.

It was dusty and worn but would have to suffice. He lifted himself on the pedestal. Draping the cloak around the Lady’s shoulders, he was certain he was committing at least a dozen sacrileges for which he would suffer eternal punishment at Lady Death’s hands.

Whatever. It wasn’t like he was doing this for himself. It wasn’t he who needed Her guidance. He was already condemned for the worst torture the Lady could come up with. And having lived as long as She did, he was certain it would be something ingenious.

With a sigh, he returned his thoughts to the now. He shifted the cloak a bit so it fell nicer, then straightened a couple wrinkles and jumped from the altar. It was a terrible choice even for makeshift clothing but he had no better. Survivors would start coming in soon and seeing a barely clothed goddess…

As if called, footsteps came. He glanced back to see Evic with Mala entering through the front doors. Whatever they had come to do, their gazes were now glued to the ethereal sculpture watching their approach with a gentle curve to her mouth. It was as if she moved, beckoned them closer as a stray ray hit her through the crack in the back wall and the light caught in the statue.

Standing behind her, Iago marvelled at the deviousness of the priests. No wonder they had taken ownership of this particular stone. He could have sworn he saw the statue move as the light travelled within, muddling his perception of reality. It wasn’t hard to attribute this to a higher power. A divine one.

He stepped around the altar, and was about to pass the two survivors when Mala’s question stopped him. Truthfully, it was little more than an exhale of breath.

“What did you do?”

“Restored what was,” he answered, lifting his shoulders in a shrug. “It felt like the right thing to do.”

Others filed into the temple, wondering what had so caught the attention of the two preceding them and fell into a hushed silence as they met the Lady’s translucent gaze. The old man dropped to his knees, tears streaming from his eyes.

As if prompted, the rest went down too, their heads bowed in the direction of the statue. Iago took a step back, behind a colonnade, away from the fevered gazes. They weren’t on him and he planned to keep it that way. For now he was trying to win everyone through Alec and his soldiers, this was just a contingency in case something went wrong.

It wasn’t in his best interests to become a holy man. Too many constrictions, too many expectations. Soon he would find himself caught in his own web, unable to take a step without someone trying to gleam deeper meaning from his every fart. No, this was the last path he would partake in. Only, if all the other choices were exhausted.

The old man started a prayer, one meant to worship Lady Light, followed by Lady Nature and Life. It wasn’t any of Iago’s concern and quiet like an assassin in the night, he made his way out. Midday sun blasted at him, scorching his skin and he found himself wishing for the shadow of the temple.

However, it was occupied. He grabbed his shirt from a sitting stone, slid it over his head and went to pick up a jug of water. It was almost empty, and he drank the last bits, putting the jug back. What now? He had nowhere to be, no one waiting to see him. With a shake of his head, he marched towards his tower.

Sleep. That’s what he needed. The oblivion that sleep brought with it.