“And how is Horan? Last I knew, he left after Messa’s passing.” asked Warchief Moktoga, and Lily looked up nervously.

“He...is gone now. I woke to find him with a slit throat one night. “ The words were not quite lies, and so they came to her easier than any falsehood could. She found it difficult to lie to him, to face those hard eyes that seemed more stone than flesh.

Moktoga scowled, his age showing suddenly on his weathered face. “Is that so? Then it seems I am the last of my bloodline.” He took a deep breath, running a hand through his braided hair absentmindedly. In that moment, his scarred skin seemed less that of a warrior in his prime; she saw him as an old man, too weary and too tired for the role that he was given.

Lily had heard stories from her master, from the old professor in Telavir. He had been a traveler in his youthful years, and he had snuck his way into Malifor along a trading vessel. There, he had met the dark-skinned riders and managed to earn their trust, healing their wounded with his magic. He had lived with them, learned their tongue, and eventually fallen in love. Her master had spoken fondly of his late wife Messa, and of her brother Moktoga as well. He had learned much of their history, of the rich and tragic history of Malifor.

It was said that Malifor was founded from a fleeing traitor, who strayed from his duties to the new king. Yet when he had his men made to settle the red sands, they found that they were not the first to those harsh lands. Native tribes, riding horses and roaming the scarce plains, were scattered throughout. They did not know steel nor magic, and so they were forced to labor as serfs under the former Altarosans.

When war broke out between the traitor and the boy king, it was those natives who were forced to fight against the Altarosan legions. Yet they did so with ironic eagerness, for the magics of the traitor’s channelers had watered their fields and healed their people. So they took his name in respect and honor, took his blood until they were the blood of Mali, and they threw away their lives for his sake.

Where there were once natives scattered throughout the land, there were now only a few pockets along the coast, where the Malifori did not touch them. They were the ones that survived the war, returning to their beloved king only to find rejection and hate. They were used and discarded, cast aside like the tools they were. While they honored the channelers and their magic, they held only disdain for the ordinary men who only took away their lands, and so they grew to hate those “whitebloods”, with their too-pale skin.

Yet as time passed, and those whitebloods worked the lands under hot sun, their skin too grew dark. That hate became muddled, because clouded, and the two peoples began to meld into one. Their words and legends began to bleed into one another, and the hate for fair folk spread as well. When the Altarosans returned to wage war once more, that hate for the whitebloods returned as well. Ironic, how the word that had once divided the people now held them together against a common enemy. Ironic, how the former Altarosans now held such hate for what ran in their own blood.

When King Mali died, the country split itself. Different parties were led by their chiefs, each vying for the crown. Legend said that a boy managed to challenge and defeat all the chiefs, naming himself as the next Mali, and claimed the title of Warchief. The title of King, he declared, was to be sacred and never held again. So it was held down through the ages, until the Warchief now stood before her eyes.

Her master had managed to reach their Capital aboard a merchant vessel, a short travel across the Crimson Sea. He had presented himself as a scholar and healer, offering his services in exchange for information. While at first skeptical, the people grew elated after he had demonstrated his abilities. Malifor had never birthed a channeler after the traitors had fled there, and magic had quickly become the things of legend. Horan soon drew the attention of the Warchief, Moktoga, and he was led into the palace. It was there that he met Messa and courted her, and two were soon married.

When she grew ill, Horan could not heal her despite his best efforts. Her death was a great blow to him, and he eventually fled, unable to face Moktoga. His failure had harmed him deeply, and he hid himself in Telavir, poring over tomes and volumes in the hopes of learning why he could not save his love’s life.

Lily had learned of this from him, over the course of her years in his service. She had never imagined that they would come to her aid now, of all times. The Moktoga before her was unlike the grand figure that Horan had painted for her. He was old, worn, weary, and wasting. His body bore the signs of a warrior past his prime, his eyes shadowed and sunken with too-little sleep. His shoulders bore a heavy burden on them, and his back seemed to struggle to remain straight.

“Why do your people flee?” she asked, her heart starting to race. What kind of danger could force a Warchief to lead his people into their enemy’s heartland? But even worse, was the problem that had been itching at her ever since they had entered the camp. ”And where are the rest of them?”

Malifor was a nation of millions, nearly triple the size of Altaros. Their armies could swallow the horizon when they charged; their horses could wear away mountains with the rumbling of their hooves. Yet this camp could only be a thousand at most, and nearly a half of them women and children. Where were the rest? Lily could only imagine that she would not like the answer. Moktoga looked up at her with haunted, baleful eyes.

“Dead.”

The word struck her like a hammer, making her suck in a sharp breath. An entire people, dead? “H-how?” she murmured.

Moktoga placed his face into his hands, the great man looking as if he was holding back tears. “Monsters. I thought that I was dreaming, or perhaps that it was a nightmare. They swallowed my men, my people. I wanted to grab a blade, to hold a bow, but how do you kill a shadow?”

A shadow.

“Skal’ai? In Malifor?” she whispered, horrified. He merely shook his head, his face wrenched in an expression of terror that chilled her very core. It was not a look that belonged on someone with such strength; it was not a look that belonged on the leader of a people.

“I know not what they were They ate my people, those that were lucky. Others had shadows inside of them, and they were turned to puppets. I saw my men butcher each other, and darkness bleeding on the streets.”

Lily felt fear in the pit of her stomach, that Skal’ai had swallowed a nation seemingly overnight. It could happen to Altaros; it could happen so easily. And what could she possibly do to stop it? “How did you escape?” she asked gently.

“We burned our way to the port. There was an Abaratt trader fleet that was leaving the next day, and they had more than enough space to take what little people we had. They took us around your Gates, and we rode to this road from the harbor. We gave them all that we had in exchange; we hardly had a use for fine tapestries and ornaments now.”

Moktoga gestured around him with a large hand. “This is all that we have left. This is all that remains of our proud people.”

“And now what will you do?” Lily murmured.

He shrugged his shoulders tiredly. “We will go to your Capital and plead with your king. We are nothing now; all we can do is hope.”

She did not want to tell him about the Skal’ai in the Outlands, nor of the danger that would soon befall Altaros. His people were broken enough; they had no need to fear that this desperate bid for freedom had taken them only closer to what they had been running from. Yet as she opened her mouth to bid him good night, he suddenly spoke.

“Your beast, sleeping in the corner. It is a demon, no?”

She was taken off guard, unaware that he could know what Joy was. Joy was breathing slowly, seemingly having fallen asleep during their conversation. “Aye, but h-how?”

Moktoga smiled. “We’ve had our fair share of demons in the past. Do you know how they are made?” When she shook her head, he explained. “When someone dies with enough hate, with enough purpose, his soul can imprint on the world around him. The stone forms a vessel, its strength corresponding to the degree of emotion. If it is strong enough, it can make a demon. What better place for anger could you imagine than a battlefield?” Moktoga chuckled shaking his head gently. “We are a people of war. But we always bloodied ourselves on the sands instead of solid stone, so that a demon would not be born in the midst of our ranks. Your beast seems strong; I wonder what soul gave him life.”

Lily was left reeling from his words, her mind feeling dazed. Yet if it was true, then something must have happened in the Outlands in the past. “How—how long ago must it have been?”

Moktoga shrugged. “It depends on the strength of the soul. A strong impression can linger for years, maybe even decades. As for your demon, who knows?”

Lily nodded before getting up slowly. “Thank you, uncle, for your time.”

He smiled. “Be careful. Many of my people still hold hate towards your kind. If you are to travel with us, you must watch your back.”

“The noble Malifori would dare strike from shadows?” she questioned with a raised eyebrow. “I thought that your people had more honor than that.”

Moktoga could only shake his head ashamedly. “We have little honor left, after our ordeal. What we have left, we are about to offer to your king. Many of the young ones are...frustrated.”

“Aye, uncle,” Lily nodded. “I’ll bear it in mind.”, she replied before lifting the cloth around her neck to cover her mouth once more. The Malifori had seen their share of scars, but still she wished not to provoke them any more than needed. As she rose inside the tent, Joy suddenly cracked open a yellow eye. Seeing her prepare to go, he too sat up on his haunches before stretching with a toothy yawn. Maktoga blanched at the sight of his fangs, and Lily did not notice as his attention was drawn to the gem buried in his arm. She did not notice the fear that crossed his face, nor the fist that he clenched suddenly.

“Done?” growled Joy, and he sank down onto all fours as she opened the flap to the tent. With one last smile to her weary uncle, she stepped outside into the Malifori camp. The sun had already fallen, and the only warmth now was from the numerous campfires around the tents. Men and women were huddled around the flames, eating dried meat and berries as they talked in hushed voices. Those that saw her had their expressions suddenly turn sour, quickly looking away as they ignored her.

Lily saw a familiar chief eating not far by a fire, hurriedly making her way over to him. “I see your eyes, chief.” she greeted, and he grunted in reply. “Should we rest in the camp, or would you rather we sleep beyond your guards?” She did not intend to sleep surrounded by men who wished her to be short a head, and she could only hope that he would understand the sentiment.

“So the Warchief has allowed you to stay?” he grumbled, wiping some water off of the side of his mouth as he rose. “You’ll sleep past the guards then; we don’t have enough space inside for more people. You’ll be responsible for your own fires.” He pointed along the side of the Kingsroad where there was still some space, a small clearing within easy bow range of the three guards that rested nearby.

“And the meal of hospitality?” she asked, her stomach screaming in anguish. Irritatedly, the chief tossed her a string of salted meat before gesturing for her to go. “We’ve no more to give.” Joy growled behind her, hearing his words, but she motioned for him to calm down. “You’d best go, before those glares turn into something more.” the chief cautioned.

Lily nodded before making her way to the clearing, her back turned to the camp. She could not see as Ahtoka watched her with hateful eyes. She could not see as Ahtoka carefully peeled a gnarled root in the shadow of his tent. She could not see as Ahtoka wrung the juices dry from it, letting them drip into a small cup. She could not see the scornful sneer that crept across his face.