Horses. That was what the dead called these strange beasts, with long maws ill-suited for meat and bodies too slender to fight. They were made only to run, every aspect of their structure built for speed. Atop them sat riders armed with curved wood and string. Bows, spoke the dead, and Joy had visions of warfare. He saw black arrows falling in horrendous volleys, punching through steel and armor and sending blood spraying as they thudded into men. He saw them blotting out the sky, saw soldiers cut down without ever seeing the faces of their killer. His heart shuddered at the thought. Truly a fearsome thing, this bow was.

He had felt the sensation of danger, and the dead had hissed at him to hide. When he saw the horses and their riders storm past, a sensation of danger and fear rippled through him as he realized just how many there were. With tanned, dark skin and thin leathers, they bore the signs of hardship and triumph. They brought their sires, dams, pups, all manner of their people. It was a never-ending flood that just continued to pour through along the wide road.

Behind him, he could feel Sister’s fear pouring off of her like rain. Even with magic, even with his strength, they would be swarmed if they were noticed. He could only hide there like an ant, like prey, waiting for them to pass.

He hated the feeling—the feeling of weakness, or helplessness.

When the final rider had passed and the road was empty, he hissed at Sister. “Who are they?” He could tell that she knew them, or at the very least of them. It was etched all over her face, in her nervous posture.

“Malifori.” she murmured. “Invaders from another country, here to burn Altaros.”

He grunted, slowly standing. His leg burned from staying still for so long, and he brushed off the thorny leaves that had once more stuck themselves into his fur. “Do we care?” he snarled out casually.

She paused as she stood, looking at him strangely. “They’ll burn the Capital if they have the chance.”

Turning around to face her, he cocked his head in confusion. “Then they are stronger. If you want help, why not theirs?” The words were coming easier to him now, after days of practice with her.

Sister opened her mouth to answer, only to close it in consideration. “I suppose you have a point.” Slowly, she mulled it over before shaking her head. “In any case, we have a more pressing issue. We can’t get past them on the Kingsroad, so we can’t get to the Capital now. At least, not without running into Malifori.”

Joy hissed, clutching at his head in annoyance. “So then what?” It was frustrating; he was tired of all this plotting and planning. He knew best how to fight and how to flee. To him, all of these hypotheticals were best resolved by barreling forward through them until they shattered into dust.

“Well,” Sister spoke suddenly, looking up at him with a broad smile. “What if we were to join them?”

I had a name once—or at least, I believe so. It all is a hazy memory to me now, lost to time and madness. I used to have a body, used to have a face. I used to smile; I used to smile. I used to laugh with a bright voice, used to dance and twirl under moonlight. I used to sing valley songs; I used to play the harp with delicate fingers. I used to love. I used to live. They’re all just memories now.

Or is it all just a hopeful delusion?

Joy hissed in annoyance as he crawled behind Sister, the sun already beginning to set. They had followed the Kingsroad for the day, trudging on those cracked stones. All the lush grass, the thick vegetation, it was all foreign to him. He could not help but wonder if this was what the rest of the world was like, filled with such abundance and vigor. The birds that flew above with easy grace, the clear, uncovered sky—there was a completely different atmosphere of life that suffused the air around him. He wanted to revel in it, in these lands outside of the Outlands, wanted to bathe in it and relax in its gentle warmth.

He hissed at himself, reprimanding his thoughts. Such foolish desires would only make him weak.

Finally, they saw the camp that the smoke in the sky had been coming from. The Malifori had settled along the road, women and child building rudimentary tents and cooking food over small fires. The horses had been turned loose to the grass nearby, men keeping watchful eyes over their mounts as they settled in to eat.

You need to stay behind me, Sister had told him before with quiet urgency. If know you’re a demon, they’ll probably panic. If I can pass you off as a strange beast, they might be more open to negotiations. He had no argument to give, and so Joy found himself crawling on all fours, eyes downcast as they approached the camp.

Yet before she could give a greeting, he saw movement in the crowd of men. “Move.” he hissed, and she instinctively dodged to the left. A grey-fletched arrow buried itself in the grass behind them, flying through the space where her head had been just a moment ago. “Hail!” she called out belatedly, raising an arm towards the scowling figures.

“And what does a pale-skin witch want with the blood of Mali?” called out one warrior, his bow nocked with another arrow despite being the one who had fired that first shot.

“To share in his food, and claim the gift of the firstborn.” Sister replied calmly, almost as if reciting from memory. With a free hand, she tugged down the cloth around her face, revealing her ravaged mouth. “I approach without blade or bow. I am due a meal in hospitality, am I not?”

The bowman’s face grew even more ugly at her reply, the shadows of the fire throwing themselves over his scowl. “Those rites are for the firstborn of Mali, not a pale-skin! And certainly not for a witch!”

Yet as he was about to loose his arrow, another man placed a hand on his arm. “Peace Ahtoka. She comes in peace. Do not forget our pride. We should at least hear what she has to say.” Grudgingly, Ahtoka lowered his bow, his expression still twisted from anger and now from embarrassment as well.

“Come, blood of Altaros.” called out the new man, his head shaven and covered with war scars. “Let us hear what a whiteblood witch has to say.”

As they walked forward, another arrow buried itself by Joy’s neck, plowing into the dirt. “Leave your beast behind.” called out Ahtoka. Joy gave growl, but Sister shook her head.

“Stay.” she commanded, addressing him as one might a beast of burden. Irritation flickered across his face ever briefly, but he hissed and stopped. She continued ahead of him, bowing before the shaven-headed warrior. He strained to hear what they were saying, carried on the wind.

“I see your eyes, blood of Mali. I am the student of Master Horan, who has known your blood in years past.” she murmured, meeting his gaze confidently. The man started, clearly surprised by what she had said.

He grinned suddenly, replying, “Horan, eh? The old bastard still lives?”

Sister shook her head. “I found him with a knife in the throat one night.” Her face seemed to go pale at this, one hand clenched into a fist as Joy watched.

“A shame then. It seems he went soft with age. But what does the sul of Horan want with the firstborn?” asked the man, his stance relaxing slightly.

“I am a wanderer. When my master died, I was cast out by my people. I would think it better to wander with others than to wander alone.” she replied.

“And your beast?” called out Ahtoka, gesturing to Joy who lay crouched in the grass a ways away.

“Rescued as a pup from the slums.” she replied calmly. “He is of no harm to you, unless you be a cow.” Her words provoked the hot-blooded warrior who had to be restrained by others around him when he threatened to lunge forward.

“Enough, sul. You will not rouse my people like snakes in a pit. You say that you are a wanderer, but we are not. We do not come to your lands to wander—”

“Nay, you come to flee.” she interrupted, and the air fell silent.

The man’s face twisted, but behind there was some trace of truth. Joy could see it in their eyes, even at this distance. “How dare you! The blood of Mali does not run!”

“No?” she asked. “Then why do the firstborn bring their women, bring their children. Can your infants fight? Do your babes come out swaddled in leathers?”

His jaw clenched in response, the cords in his neck bulging as he struggled not to lash out. “Chief!” cried out Ahtoka suddenly, breaking free from the grips of his friends. “Let me face the one who insults the blood of Mali. In combat.”

Joy’s ears perked at the sound, his gaze focusing on that young man. His body was well-muscled, built lean rather than tough but with enough strength to work that massive bow he used. His eyes were sharp and his flesh still pulsing with the vigor of youth. Yet there was an absence of scars or wounds on his body, no signs of battle. He was unblooded still, still eager to prove himself. Still foolish.

Sister could take him.

In a blur of motion, she flew in close, too fast for him to use his bow. Yet as he postured to defend, Sister suddenly fell to the ground. Pushing up with her legs, snake-like arms threw a quick jab at his throat. His eyes bulged visibly at the blow, the warrior caught off-guard by the strike. Without pause, she swept his legs out from under him in an almost casual motion. He toppled onto the dirt gracelessly, coughing and choking violently.

“Is that enough?” she asked, reveling in the silence of those around her. Calmly, she cocked her head to the side as Ahtoka slowly got up with bloodshot eyes. His face was stricken with humiliation and rage, and he staggered over to his friends with a look of pure hate.

The chief merely shook his head in exasperation. “Enough, whiteblood. It is enough.” he turned around and made to leave before gesturing for her to follow. “I’ll let the Warchief decide what to do with you.” He paused before adding, “And bring your beast.”

The other Malifori parted before them as they walked through, women and children watching nervously, men glaring with hateful eyes. Joy bared his teeth as he crawled behind Sister, tossing his head from side to side. His claws dug deep tracks into the dirt, and some of the Malifori refused to walk near them even after he had passed. He snorted at the thought. A people of posturing, and weak of heart.

He was filled with a certain sense of wonder as they walked through the camp. There was so many people, all soaked with sweat and weary. Absentmindedly, he wondered if this was what those cities Sister spoke of were like—just a mess of people sprawled out over the earth. Seeing so many fearful gazes upon him, Joy could not help but feel the slaver begin to drip from his jaw. Yet he restrained the urge in his stomach that cried out desperately for meat; even a lion could be killed with enough ants.

They neared a tent like any other, horse leather draped over long sticks that served as a meager shelter. It was large enough for four people, yet it seemed that there was only one in this tent. “Warchief,” called out the chief. “I bring you sul of Horan, who was han to Messa.” There was a pause before a tired, hoarse voice from inside spoke, “They may enter.” The chief pulled back the flap of the entrance, and they both entered the tent.

There was a single man inside, yet he was truly a monster of a man. Almost twice Sister’s height, his body was all muscle and scars. Beads hung from his long, braided hair, and a single, long bracelet looped around his left arm. His chest bore a massive gash, running from the shoulder to the hip. His left hand was missing a finger, his right shoulder bearing an arrow wound. His legs were crisscrossed with scars from swords, likely from when he was on horseback. Even his face bore signs of battle, from his crooked nose to his partially sheared ear.

“You are sul of Horan?” he growled to Sister, and she nodded. “He knew the blood of Messa, who was my blood as well. He was her han.” Joy did not understand what he spoke of, but Sister seemed to agree nervously. The Warchief smiled suddenly, his teeth crooked and some missing but his smile still broad nevertheless. “In your words, that would make you my...my niece, no?”

Sister returned the smile, cheeks flushing deep red. “Aye, uncle.”