Exhaustion had made his dreams hazy, but Willem found the experience almost relaxing as he slept. His weary body had collapsed almost immediately after he had channeled flame at the skal’va, all strength leaving his limbs. Not even a gasping word had managed to escape his lips before he had fallen over, sleep claiming him.

His dreams were shifting and feverish, unclear and indistinct. He saw himself in Mea Vatal once more, only in his dreams he was no longer a cripple. He walked those streets with whole legs, like how the taller men always had. He strode on the roads, tossing handfuls of coins for wares from the merchants, ignoring and scoffing at the beggars on the sides of the roads. In his dreams, he was whole—he was the one staring down at the weak. It was a liberating feeling, one that filled him with a quiet pride and exhilaration.

Yet before he could revel in the sensation, he suddenly keeled over. Jeers and mocking laughter surrounded him as he groaned and tried to rise, only to find his legs gone. Puddles of crimson were all that remained of those now-bloodied stumps, the pain unbearable as he screamed. He was in the middle of the cobbles, surrounded by ridiculing onlookers. Embarrassment and shame made him want to hide, made him want to disappear and sink into the earth. He wanted to fly away, to join those uncaring birds in the sky, and so he did.

Wingless and legless, he caught a sudden gust of wind and rose up into the air. The angry crowd shouted and hurled stones at him, but still higher he rose. He left that crow-cursed city behind, climbing higher and higher until finally he was safe. He was riding the wind, weightless as a feather. Slowly he drifted, uncaring and unthinking, until a familiar sensation gripped him.

There was a buzzing in his ears, and his gaze hurriedly turned down. As he did so, he plummeted back to the earth, a terrified scream tearing its way out of his throat. He struck the ground with a plume of dust, dirt and debris flying around him and blinding him. He coughed violently struggling to sit up only to find his crippled legs defying him once more. When his vision finally cleared, he saw five coffins bare before him. A sinking feeling filled him as they opened, knowing in his heart what he was about to see.

Inside were the Vysians, their corpses shriveled and withered with age. Kes’ssan had his stomach devoured, and Bes’sahn was missing an arm. When they opened their eyes, there was only depthless black in those sockets. Their mouths opened in an unheard scream, that buzzing sound growing louder as a cloud of black dust poured out of their throats. Skal’va gathered, whispering in that rasping tone. “Co...ward...” they mocked, “Cripple…” The voices grew louder and louder as the skal’va circled him, gathering around him like a stifling storm.

His breathing grew ragged, his chest growing tighter. Hands clutched at his head and ears, falling onto his side as his eyes gazed emptily at nothing. His heartbeat grew erratic as the voices grew more numerous, their mockery and jeering blowing away all other thought. Tears streamed down his face as he trembled, twitching helplessly until he could do nothing more but wail in remorse. As he did so, the skal’va seized the opportunity to swarm down his throat, dust and beetles pouring into his mouth greedily.

They clawed at his insides and devoured his flesh, eating him alive until the pain was almost a blessed release. Is this death? The sensation was strange, a warmth in his chest growing hotter and hotter until he convulsed involuntarily, white smoke curling from his nostrils. It was like the burning of magic, filling him with a tingling feeling from inside that stemmed from the pit of his stomach. A flame seemed to burn inside of him, the smoke searing his lungs and scorching his throat until the buzzing and whispers of the skal’va turned into their death throes. He could feel them twitching inside of him, crumbling into ash and nothingness as they were consumed by fire. And in the end, he found himself lying there, shoulders heaving as he struggled to breathe.

Are you the Oa’kul to the south that has piqued my king’s interest? A sudden voice filled his head, rasping and reptilian in the way that it hissed. Shock filled his head, making him twist and turn as he tried to identify the source of the voice. Yet it seemed to come from inside him, echoing inside of his skull. The voice sounded distorted and strained, as if it was an effort to communicate.

What was it saying? Oa’kul? King? He did not understand the strange words in his mind, the strange voice that spoke to him. It beseeched him, tugged at him like it held a rope. Come north, it cried out to him. Come north to meet my king. Come north to the Outlands.

He wanted to ask more to the voice, ask more of what it meant and what it had called him. Yet he could feel that tether pulling away, feel that connection wither and withdraw, and then his thoughts were all his own once more. That thing had been an envoy, whatever it was. Its message had been delivered, its purpose fulfilled. A slow trembling filled him, a quiet urgency that compelled him to wake quickly. Wake, cripple. Wake, fool.

Willem rose up with a gasp, his forehead covered with sweat as he sat up. His chest was heaving, drawing in heavy breaths that were fever-hot. He gazed around dimly, his flesh swollen and pink, unnaturally hot to the touch. His head throbbed with a dull ache, his mere thoughts making him nauseous as he struggled to remain lucid. While his bandages had evidently been changed, the crusted, bloodied sensation that covered him did not leave. His entire body felt worn and consumed by fever, flaming and tired. Yet confusion was enough to keep him awake as he examined his surroundings, his breathing ragged.

He was lying on a bed of straw, inside of a wooden room too-small to be described as anything other than cramped. Light shone in from a small window, letting him see the treeline that extended outside. The sounds of voices came in from outside, and he shifted in his cot in an effort to get up.

“Mmmf.” came the mumbling sound from next to him, and he nearly fell off the bed in surprise. Clearly, the room was not as small as he had initially taken it to be. What he had first taken to be a wall was merely an outcropping to another section of the room, where Norus lay dozing on a wooden chair. He had evidently been woken up by the noise, slowly rising and bending over to carry Willem on his back.

“Where are we?” the boy asked, feeling rather embarrassed as the soldier hoisted him up like some child. He swooned, the movement fortunate enough to prevent his head from striking the top of the doorframe as they left the room.

“Whitestone. Village.” Norus replied tersely, leading them out into a cozy hall with a fireplace and rugs. The furnishings were well enough. Kat was talking with an older man, sitting on the fur rugs with a small cup of what seemed to be tea.

“Ah,” the old man smiled, seeing Norus come in with Willem. “So the channeler has woken. I hope our humble village has enough to service you adequately.” he beamed, bowing lowly as Norus set Willem down on the ground.

“Uh—yes, of—of course.” Willem managed nervously, awkward and confused at the sudden formality. The old man seemed to relax at the sound, previously unseen tension leaving his back as he breathed out in relief.

“He is pleased.” he murmured before turning to bow apologetically to Kat. “I am sure there is much you have to discuss. I will trouble you no longer.” he replied before making his way to the door, leaving the space so that there was only the three of them left.

“How are you feeling, Willem?” Kat asked, being the first to break the silence. He smiled gently, turning to face Willem who was lying awkwardly on the ground.

“Well enough, I suppose. What is this place?” Willem replied, thrown off entirely by the way that the older man had treated him. It had been a strange mix of reverence and fear, to the point that he had almost been afraid that Willem was unsatisfied with this village. For the cripple that had long been abused and ignored in Mea Vatal, it was a stark change.

“This is Whitestone Village, a bit west of the Kingsroad. It was two hours march from the Gates; we carried you here two days ago. You’ve been sleeping since burning the skal’va.” Kat explained, making a motion to sip from his tea only to frown as he found the cup empty. “We’re in the village head’s house right now. He’s been letting you rest in here.”

“Why—why is he so afraid of me?” Willem stammered out, embarrassment coloring his cheeks. Norus strode over to a chair half-falling into it and giving a loud snore almost instantly.

Kat watched with a vague smile, remarking, “He’s been watching over you two days now. I suppose even he has to sleep.” The statement confused Willem, yet before he could ask on it any further, Kat continued. “The people here have never seen a channeler. Most channelers are born east in the Heartlands, don’t you know? And even still, they’re rare. There will hardly be more than five alive at once that the king knows of. To these villagers living on the border of Malifor, you’re like a legend come to life.”

He waved his hands wildly, gesturing to the air and the walls. “You can burn them, freeze them, or steal the air from their lungs. You can till their fields, water their crops, or bless their children. In their eyes, you’re a god. Why would the village head dare to trouble you?”

“But I’m just a useless cripple.” Willem protested, looking forlornly at the stained bandages that covered the stumps of his legs. Even his fingers throbbed, the stunted things a constant reminder as well. There was hardly a piece of him that was whole at this point. “I’m not god—nothing could be farther from the truth.”

Kat shook his head, smiling gently. “You burned the skal’va, Willem. That was you. That was something neither of—that I couldn’t have done.” he paused, glancing briefly at Norus before continuing. “You have a power inside of you that most men could only dream of. You keep mourning your legs, Willem, only to ignore the wings on your back.” He got up slowly, striding over to hug Willem gently. “Fly. Don’t crawl, fly.”

Hesitation seized Willem, and his thoughts turned suddenly to the skal’va in his dreams. Surrounded by Kat’s gentle warmth, he felt the sudden urge to share the weight that he had been carrying on his chest. “I—I need to tell you something.” he started, and Kat pulled back curiously. Willem fidgeted with the frayed end of a bandage awkwardly, uncertain of how to continue but having gone to far to stop.

“When I...saw the skal’va first, it was in a dream. And in that dream, I saw more than just the skal’va. I saw a—a corpse, and it was still alive. It spoke to me.” he explained, shuddering slightly as he remembered that vivid dream. “He called the skal’va its servants, and I could see them covering all of Malifor. He said that he had succeeded where others had failed. He called himself Faith, and he told me—told me to tell the others, to warn the others.”

He looked up finally, meeting Kat’s gaze. Willem had no way of expressing the fear that he felt, the hopeless dread that filled him just from gazing upon this thing. It had been abhorrent in every possible way, a living corpse that simply did not belong in this reality. And the power it wielded, the harbingers that it called mere servants—how could anything hope to stand in the face of that? The skal’va would descend on this land like locusts, blotting out the sun. And all they would leave behind would be bones.

His lips trembling, Willem struggled to gather himself.Kat seemed about to interrupt, to ask something, but he pressed on. “There was something else, another voice. I don’t know what it was, but it spoke after we had left the Gates. It said something about a king wanting to meet me.”

“It wanted me to go to the Outlands.”