Hiding behind a tree, ears flexed tight. Iri listened to the cool night air as screams echoed all around him. Clouds were above cloaking the land in such darkness that his eyes struggled to piece the haze. Breathing heavily, he surveyed what areas he could, his family axe held firm in his grip as he waited for the approach of a foe.

Only darkness, only screams. He continued to wait, refusing to leave his cover.

A twinge cracked to his left; he stilled his breathing.

“I know you’re there.” Said a deep voice, a fellow Kolune, which meant a worthy fight.

Taking a deep breath and righting himself for the battle to come, he left the tree. Lifting his wooden shield, he approached where the voice had come from. At first he thought it a mistake, the darkness was so deep he didn’t see the figure. A few steps more and it came into focus.

“Brave.” Said the foe who idly twirled an axe. “So many of your group are cowering in the dark, running from any foreign voice they hear.”

Iri continued his approach, his guard staying up even with the distance between them too great to warrant the trading of blows.

“You were trained well,” the other Kolune said, still unmoving from his spot. “Others would be boasting, or claiming my head. You stay silent.”

Iri didn’t say anything. ‘Keep your focus on the body.’ His father told him often during their spars. ‘Nothing else matters, no matter what insults they sling, never lose focus. Else.’ His father would always be so quick, catching him off guard no matter how hard he tried. ‘Else you lose your life.’

“For this,” the figure spoke, equipping a second axe. “I’ll give you a fight, rather than an arrow.”

Iri tensed, the words held a finality to them, the time of talk was done, and his foe treated the dual with its proper respect. They began to circle each other, watching for openings as they moved closer and closer into an ever-tightening circle. Iri fought the urge to blink even as the crisp air touched his eyes. Even a second of blindness was enough to put him at a disadvantage.

Around and around they went, the air filled with the howling screams of the surprised and dying. He pushed the sounds from his mind and studied his opponent. The figure was relaxed, flowing smoothy, he was comfort with the situation. Which meant Iri was fighting a foe who’d been through many duals before. And given they were in the wilds, Iri had to assume they were of the lethal variety.

Still, even with experience, the body always betrays its steps. Watching the legs, he saw them tense, the necessary act before a rushing charge. Iri instinctively readied himself for it. His shield arm braced as he watched his foe came at him.

Shield rising, he planned to meet the strike, use the impact to break his opponent wrist or at the very left fracture it.

Instead, as they made contact, his eyesight obstructed by his shield. Iri felt the chill of death. The axe of plain metal, but swung was immortal strength, bite into the shield cracking it in half. To his horror he watched as the realm slowed, the axe cut through his shield arm, and kept going. It sliced through his shoulder next, and his whole arm went numb.

He backpedaled as he noticed the sound of meat hitting the snow-covered floor. ‘Eyes on your target,’ echoed the voice of his father.

Life leaving him he ready what strength he had to charge forward, use his axe to inflict harm before his time was done. Yet, eyes unblinking, his foe surged forward in a blur.

Iri still tried to counter, and only rewarded with his other hand being lopped off. The Fear took him them, never in his life had he been helpless. Like an infant he hastily retreated, and embarrassing tripped over a branch or root. With a grunt he landed on his back, yet he tried to scurry away, kicking his legs and using his remaining arm.

Meaningless effort as his foe easily kept pace with him. He prayed, called to Wargain son, Sigfus the god of duels. He pegged for strength; the imbalance made right.

“Sorry,” the figure said looming over him. “Father says not to play.”

Iri prayed with all his might as he watched the axe come down with eerie clarity, and felt it as it split his skull in two. The sensation of the body left him then. Yet he continued to stare up, struck by a new horror as the realm shimmered around him in color. The Glen, he is dead, but that was forgotten. Instead he gazed at his killer, who in turn was looking behind himself. Gazing at a giant Kolune, fur sickly, armor worn, and wielding an axe with an ominous aura.

He went still, he knew, his instincts screamed it. He was in the presence of a god, and Iri dared not budge. The god motioned to the living dualist and Iri saw a ball of light travel to the victor. After the dualist left, seeking another prize. But the god remained, and fixed him with a piercing stare.

In his mind he heard. ‘They rarely answer prayers, and rarer still give power to mortals with no name to themselves.’ The death god neared, and though Iri coursed with fear, he found himself fixed in place. ‘We however,’ the god said, raising a hand, a glowing light within. ‘Are charitable to those who walk the path of Wonder.’

He stared at the light, he felt an impulse, a want, a need to have it. He knew, somehow he knew, all he had to do was reject those he prayed to and the power would be his.

‘Wonder.’ He thought, the word brought forth memories. ‘Beware the lure of his champions,’ he recalled a preacher speak. ‘And their lies of wonder, know it is the word they use to disguise what they really are.’ The preacher had raised his voice, gained the attention of those losing focus. “They are bringers of chaos, their sole purpose to spread disorder and destruction to our orderly realm.’ The preacher stared at them, ‘ignore their words, their lies. Keep to your faith, to your purity.’

‘Keep to your faith,’ echoed the words from his past.

Before it would have given him strength, the courage, the will to face this god and refuse its offer. Yet in his moment of need, what had his faith done for him, his gods?

All his training, the sacrifices and hardships he’d forced upon himself, striving to be a warrior to earn a name. All of it undone in the span of few heart beats, because his foe and been blest, while he had not.

He found himself risen from the dirt, the fear fading. Why should he be afraid? The god was offering bargain, if he took it, would they not be allies? He began to step forward, the light calling to him. The power, how he hungered for it, too be able to do as his killer had done.

‘Do you accept Wonder?’ Asked the death god, the hand holding the orb of light nearing.

The god already knew the answer, but he felt compelled to voice it. “Yes” he said, casting away his hold beliefs, the same way it had done to him. In the end he had been nothing, not even worth a small miracle.

The god pressed the light into his chest, and Iri felt surging strength. He laughed unhinged, how blind he had been. ‘Keep to your faith,’ the words of the preacher echoed, and he saw the truth of it. A line said to keep the blind from the truth, to the wonder they could have if they simply chose another path.

‘For a mortal you were well trained,’ the god said. ‘Devoted yourself to Wargain, or one of his sons. But they don’t care, don’t appreciate the struggles their followers place upon themselves.’ The god hunched and leaned close. ‘We do.’

Iri felt his mind swimming with foreign knowledge, so much it blurred passed. But he recalled pieces, he clung to those, the way he could gather Devotion himself. His fur flared with excitement.

‘Nor are we afraid of our followers holding power.’ The god finished, its gaze moving across the landscape. Iri followed in his example, finally noticing the area filled with Shadows. Freed from the darkness, of mortal eyes he saw the plain clearly. Witnessed as the dead followed the living being easily tracked and killed. Not a single one received a miracle. They all died alone in the dark.

But the Shadows were there. Waiting patiently, offering aid and kinship to those who sought it. Yet Iri didn’t find himself become clad in a dark cloak.

‘You are one of mine.’ The death god said, looking at him again. There was an absoluteness to the words, one he agreed with. Iri felt himself shift, his clothing which had been the same garb he’d worn in life. Became a mix of scared plate and worn leather. His normal deep brown fur dulled, became grayish. And on his scalp, he felt a face plate appear and hide his features.

‘You are a Huntsman.’ The god said, ‘Will seek out those who have earned my and Malan wrath.’ An axe appeared in Iri hand, one that fitted perfectly with his grip. ‘And deal out the death they deserve.’

Iri kneeled as he inwardly rejoiced at his newfound luck. Given power, knowledge, and now a purpose that would earn him merit with his new patrons. All from those he was supposed to despise and fear. He thought of the preacher, wondered if the man still lived, if he did. Iri looked at the axe in his hand, and smiled. ‘We’ll see how long you keep your faith.’

-------------------------

“Bring us more.” Shouted out a Kolune, his voice mingling with many other travelers.

‘Gluttons.’ Was the first thought to come to his busy mind and body as Ebbo hurried with the rest of his siblings working in the kitchen. With his trained ears, he picked up on the voice of his sisters, assuring the customers they would get their fill.

He suppressed a groan, those words meant none of them were going to be helping with the main festivities tonight. A really downer that, he’d been hoping to be there to watch the poison take hold on the hordes of city folk stomping roughly on their quaint land.

At least he got to play a part, kneading a slow acting poison into the bread rolls and honeyed treats. Honesty he known the stuff made people eat, but by Malan he’d never seen it work on Kolune before.

Large as they were, they had to eat quite a bit to begin with, now though? Ebbo kin were struggling to keep up with the demands. They were so many of high struggle city folk Ebbo was starting to worry about the harvest they brought in, and if it would last them the winter.

“What’s taking so long?” Another of the large fanged and drunk Kolune yelled irritably. “We’re stavering here.” Ebbo noise twitch as he suppressed a laugh.

Though the Kolune believed his words, his body telling him he was famished, by the amount of food consumed, Ebbo was quite sure most of those in the hut were about to burst.

Their sisters tended to the matter, since he didn’t hear any more complaints from that group, but there would be more an-

His mother brushed his ear, and brought him a special vial. They shared the briefest of glances before she went to help others. Instantly he began incorporating the liquid with the bread, and sprinkled it on those already kneaded and freshly taken from the ovens.

‘I can live with a smaller show of death.’ He thought to himself as he and his siblings hurried. Not long and the freshly made dishes left the kitchen to the cheers of the guests devouring everything presented to them.

Allowing himself a movements weakness, Ebbo glanced out into the seating area, watched as Kolune of varying sizes and fur color, shoveled his cooking down their fanged filled mouths. They were hardly chewing their food at this point, causing some to chock before they washed it all down with alcohol spiked with the same poison.

He went back to work, extremely pleased with the sight, and knowing he was going to see the fun soon. Because somehow, he blames the alcohol, the Kolune in the eating hall were unaware of how round their bellies had become. Honesty some looked pregnant, it was quite amusing, and disgusting. He wondered, as he worked on more bread, if the Kolune invaders would be able to lift themselves from their seats. Or if they would find themselves crippled as their stomachs weighed them down and their bodies succumbed to the cups of alcohol they’d drank.

He was surprised none had passed out yet from that alone. But Ebbo was seeing that Kolune, the accursed Heon eaters, could handle alcohol a great deal better than his kin could.

“More booze.” He heard shouted in a drunken tone, before it stopped and shifted to groans. It was soon joined by more, and Ebbo, accompanied by others stuck their heads out the kitchen window to see the fun begin.

‘Divine’s mother how potent was that liquid you brought?’ He wondered as he watched. Every Kolune was rubbing their stomachs, some tried to get up, only to crash to the floor.

The clicking of a tongue, mothers’ tongue, had them hurry out the kitchen and help their sisters. While their guests moaned, joined by echoes of it coming from outside. Ebbo helped clear the outer area of the hall as others began to use charcoal to draw a circle. It became more elaborate as they went, while mother fiddled with an ornate stone that she placed in the center of the room.

She whispered a prayer, offer Devotion and the charcoal pattern shined.

“Heretics,” a Kolune mumbled out terrified, his eyes wide with fear as he choked on his own drool and blood.

“Our Offering lurker of the shadows, maker of poisons. Foy the ever shifting.” His mother said, kneeled by the shrine.

The sacrifices began to still and slump in the way that marked a corpse. Blood spilled from their mouths, their stomachs finally bursting from the poison. Bodies didn’t stay that way long, they began to shrivel, their substance dispersing into light and ash as it collected into the shining runes.

“Help them along children.” His mother said, and Ebbo smiled pulling out a small knife. Kolune tried to fight back, but they find their bodies either unresponsive or too weak to do anything of note. He eyed the Kolune that had spoken the truth, and neared him with a knife twinkling in the light. His prey watched him, the fear mounting as the warrior tried and failed to rise.

“I bet you ate a lot of my kind.” Ebbo said in a whisper, knife puncturing the beast stomach and spilling out its contents as he sliced it end to end. “How does it feel?” He whispered into the warrior’s ear. “To die to a weak little Heon?” He got no answer, only chocking gurgles as the sacrifice died and the body rapidly decayed in his grip. He pushed it so the corpse laid half on top the table and turned to find his next target, enjoying every moment of the fun. But Thinking all the while of his lost brother, who he was helpless to save as a Kolune ate him alive.

--------------------

Conor walked through the makeshift village of tents the civil folk had built for themselves. A pathetic thing that displayed their building skills. Any Verm would have begun the construct a nice hovel, one that linked with others slowly spreading outward unground. Followed with stone monuments and proper holdings to mark the surface once the place was decently settled. Not Kolune though, they couldn’t build, except for weapons. That they knew with a keen insight. The workmanship of it was everywhere to see. Axes, spears, some even had meat cleavers. It all shined with the glint of fresh polish.

The sight should have made him squirm, to find a safe lodging of try to befriend a Kolune he could coax into keeping him safe. Not today though, maybe never again. For one of the six Wonders was with him, the Verm god Ryan was within his mind, joined with power and miracles. One of which was coursing through Conor.

Courage, he felt it in his chest, and even though he was afraid, he powered through rather than hide. The gift let him walk among the Kolune, even as some eyed him hungerly. Yes, they planned to eat him, and take the pack of spices he carried on his back as a means a flavoring. But that had been the point, to let the heretics think he was a fool and a walking meal being guided towards the heart of the camp, where the open kitchens laid.

He could already smell it, the aroma of bleed and searing flesh on iron. He was close and the guards helping him find his way began to lick their lips, some looked at him intently. Yes, he was supposed to be a meal. Yet fear did not take him, Conor suppressed a smile, for he wasn’t the prey hear. He was the predator, surrounded by unknowing heretics.

“Yes, yes,” he spoke up, purposely smelling the air. “See, see,” he added, playing the part of a halfwit. “Need my spices, none in the air.”

“Good thing you’re here then.” A Kolune said behind him. “You’re really going to add to the meal.”

Conor began to clap then play with his hands, “yes I always provide, make meal good.”

The guard in front chucked as they entered the clearing of the kitchens, it was packed of course. Kolune never stopped eating, needed the fuel for those large bodies of theirs and their extraneous activities.

The guides shouted at the cooks, who looked their way, eyeing him then the guards. “Spices and meat,” the head guard said.

“I don’t have meat.” Conor added playing his part, the head guard looked back at him, a wide malice grin on his face.

“Sure you do, you’ll be a nice dish I’m going to gnaw on.” The words were to make him fill with fright and beg for his life. They always liked that before coming in for the kill. Instead Conor began to cackle, he’d held it in long enough.

“I know I’m a good actor.” Conor said, it had and sometimes still was one of his professions. “Still, when you see a single Verm approaching a camp of hungry Kolune, there has to have been some concern going through your minds, right?” The guards encircled him, and though they were fools, that didn’t mean they were any less skilled killers. Their blades came out in flash, small daggers to them, but to Conor they were short blades. He would have been cut into bits, his meat the next in a long line served.

But he was ready and had a god at his side. “Die.” A single word and the towering guards fell over, there was no mark on them, nothing of note to explain their deaths. They were just dead because he commanded it, and had the power and authority behind him to make it so. He loved it, the utter control he had over others.

Every heretic in the clearing turned to look at him, their ears pressing flat against their scalps. Eyes widened, and jaws tightening as some rose form their seats.

It was so beautiful, they were afraid of him, a little Verm. He smiled wide, power coursing into his body. “Did you see what I did?” He asked, expecting no answer. Everyone in the area flinched, through him his god began to work. “Little helpless me able to kill all of you without effort.” His god warned him, from behind a Kolune was readying a bow.

With an idle wave of his hand, he spoke “Die.” He heard the Kolune in question fall over, joined with shouts of alarm as other scampered away from the corpse.

Those in his viewed of vision remained motionless, the clever ones lowered their gazes, afraid that any look may incur his wrath. The sight was so sweet to behold. “You are all heretics,” he told them. “And should die for what you are.” Many flinched, panicked from him saying the word again, but no one fell over dead. “Yet my lord is understanding, you serve self-centered gods out of ignorance.” Conor had been privileged to be born into a castle of well informed. Those that understand the lay of the land, and the multitude of lies the masses were fed daily.

“As such,” he added, power pouring into him, then out in a wave. His lord was working his wonder, helping the heretics see the light. “Ryan the Guide, the god of inspiration, offers you all salvation.” While Kolune in his sight glanced at each other, his god whispered to him, showed which of the heretics to kill, those to blinded by the lies to ever see the truth.

“Die.” He said gain, his heart racing with joy each time he did it. Dozens of heretics fell to the floor. For the first time in his life, Conor heard the sound of whimpers come from the camp of butchers. Men who were supposed to be the ones feared were now shivering in fright.

“My lord is kind,’ he added, his voice sweet and smooth as honey. It was so pleasing to hear even to his own ears. “But he is no fool, not an entity you can push around. He is offering you all salvation out of the kindness of his heart. Even though many of you have eaten his kin.” He glared at them, moving his gaze about the clearing. Where it went warriors looked at the floor, giving him every sign imaginable of their submission.

“I forgive though,” said his god through him, the voice had the Kolune fall to their knees, and stare at him with pleading eyes. “Join me,” said his glorious god. “And I shall save you all, bestow such wonders, such might.”

Conor wanted to fall to his knees, bask in the majesty of his god. But his lord kept him upright and focused. That was not the case for the camp, Kolune were screaming their loyalty, throwing away their old gods and their endless lies. It was causing quite the ruckus. Enough the hosts making up the camp began to head for the kitchens, see what all the commotion was about.

“Prove your loyalty to Wonder.” his god said, as Conors body moved by another accord. He swept a hand about pointing towards the mob of newcomers. “Slay the heretics, slay their lies!” The god shouted. “Free them of their captivity, and be blest by the light of Wonder.” Power radiated out from him, he witnessed muscles bulge as the Kolune took up their weapons, eyed those coming with open hate. They howled war cries and charged from the clearing.

A new butchery began and Conor watched it all with a pleased smile.

------------------------------

Pulling his cloaks tighter around himself, due to the frigid air, he quietly approached the remains of a skirmish.

Under pine trees, and much of the land blanketed in fresh snow. Bertrem was guided by the God of healing and shower of paths. Without said aid he would have never found the place, nor the body half hidden. Naturally it was a Kolune, and as he approached navigating around the dead felines. He noticed it was an old one. The warrior coat, which should have been a rich autumn brown, was dull. His body was fit, full of muscle, but it was also lean in the way only age produced. Still by the looks of the ground this seasoned warrior had killed many of the enemies before succumb to his wounds and being left for dead.

‘He did not succumb.’ Bertrem father whispered to him. ‘He won and now acts dead in order to give his body time to heal.’

Bertrem readied himself for any surprise bursts of strength from the warrior, as he carefully worked his way around so he was in front, and able to the see the old timers face. It was scarred, and missing an eye. ‘He has to be quite the dualist to still live with such a wound.’ Even old, Bertrem was sure the weakened fighter could still kill him if it came to a fight between mortals. Which wasn’t saying much since he was a Heon, thus not even half the killers height.

‘He’s waiting for you to draw closer,’ his father said. ‘Stay back, he is filled with fright, he doesn’t want to die.’ Bertrem did as instructed, taking a few steps back to greaten the distance between them.

He felt his god grow closer, hands lay upon his shoulders, then pass through when Bertrem welcomed his father. After a moment he felt numb, disconnected as the god of paths took control.

“I know you are awake,” came a voice and words not Bertrem own. “I know you seek a different path, and so I am here to offer you such.” The old warrior half open his only eye. “If you are willing to walk it.” The eye opened wide as it caught sight of them. With his god in control, Bertrem was aware certain characteristics manifest, such as emerald eyes that glowed with divine power.

The warrior began to weakly chuckle, warping his blanket of snow. “A little late don’t you think?” The warrior asked, sounding resigned.

“No,” his god answered. “I have arrived when needed most, you see the truth now.” His god added taking a step forward. “It doesn’t matter what you do, how many battles you win.” Another step, and the warrior began to rise. He was coved in scars so much that in places it left him naked of fur. And that was just the portions not covered in mired garbs of leathers.

“What do you know?” The warrior asked, a well-used axe in his hand. Bertrem smelled blood, saw that some of the warriors wounds had reopened. Yet he stood straight, framed imposingly and ready to strike.

Bertrem body remained relaxed. What did a mortal matter to a god?

“I know you’re tired,” Ryan the healer said. “That even making a last stand killing a handful of fighters on your own still didn’t earn you any recognition.” The words seemed to zap the strength from the Kolune, his posture sagged, his weapon arm became loose. “No matter what you do, it won’t, you are of the wrong blood.”

The warrior eyed them amused. “What does that mean?” He asked, falling to his knees.

“Wargain,” Ryan said, moving closer, his right hand going into a pocket. “Favors only those tied to his linage. It doesn’t matter the amount, as long as there is some.” Bertrem stood right in front of the Kolune now, even kneeled he was still shorter than the figurer.

“You brave warrior, don’t have any at all. He, nor any of his sons will ever give you a boon.”

Faster than Bertrem could track, the Kolune sharp clawed hand wrapped around their neck. “You’re lying,” he growled through long pointed teeth. The hand squeezed, it should have been hard, na , impossible for them to breath, yet by his gods will he was fine, and spoke: “You know I’m not.”

The grip weakened, the Kolune looked troubled. The words had been spoken so easily, as if the Kolune wasn’t trying to chocked the life out of them. “You’ve seen it firsthand numerous times. Young bucks, not even doing half your deeds, being bathed in praise. Given favors, honors.” The grip weakened more then fell away as Ryan moved closer, whispered into the Kolunes ear. “Even when you bested them in duals to the death, away from prying eyes.”

The warrior shivered, and it wasn’t from the cold breeze filling the air. “They still ignored you, even as you shouted your triumphant, pleaded for their recognition.” His god words were soft, nurturing “They ignored you, because you are not of their line, you are an outsider in their eyes.” Ryan rubbed his small left hand down the length of the warriors muscled arm. “These scars tell you the truth.” He whispered; power woven into the words.

Bertrem felt a wave of anger and sadness coming from the link with his father. “You never received healing, the proper kind they could so easily bestow.” The Kolune looked at the scars. “They’re trophies,” he said, the words holding no conviction, merely a lie told so many times it became a habit.

Ryan moved their lips, offering a sad smile. “And a reminder,” his god added, patting the arm of the warrior. “of every time they ignored you. We won’t Vestar.”

The voicing of his name made the Kolune shiver, “What do you want from me?”

Ryan shook their head. “It’s not what I want, it’s what you want Vestar, it’s why I’m here.” They leaned away, eyeing the dying warrior. “You’re tired of trying, you want a new path, a calling to appreciate you. I can offer that.”

“I’m almost dead,” the warrior stated. “Death chill spreads through me, I won’t make it this time.”

Bertrem right hand left the pocket and took out a vial that hadn’t been there before. It glowed with divine power; the sight caught the attention of the warrior. “Death has no power here.” Ryan offered the vial. “Drink it and experience firsthand what we can offer you.”

The warrior chuckled, that of one refusing, but his eye never left he vial. “I’m old for a reason, I’m no fool, this comes with a price.”

“I gift,” Ryan offered. “To take without any ill consequence, even if you decide to stay with your negligent gods.” The warrior stared at the vial for a long moment, before sighing and taking the object. Even then he hesitated, perhaps he would have thrown it aside if death hadn’t been closing in. Instead, he removed the cork and drank the elixir of life.

Its touch was instant, and the warrior gasped, they heard bones pop back into place, the scars vanished under a new coat of rich brown fur. The Kolune pawed at his face in disbelief as a new eye grew causing him to blink several times. He rose as they backed away. Stretching himself as his body healed and filled out with larger muscles. By the time it was done he went from a Kolune over ten, to a youngster, maybe two or three years old.

The warrior laughed madly, “Yes!” He shouted, muscles bulging as his body surged with strength. He stared at his hands with two working eyes, eyes that began to slightly mist. “A gift,” the warrior mumbled out before looking at them. “Is this really something you can hand out without reprisal?” The god of healing answered by pulling out more elixirs from the pocket.

“No one needs to suffer,” Bertrem god said. “Healing could be given to all, yet your kin are left to rot once they receive to many wounds.”

“So I can just walk away then?” The Kolune asked. “And nothing will come out it?”

“If that is what you want.” Ryan answered. “To continue down the same path that led you here, dying alone in the cold.”

The warrior looked about the area, a field of dead blanketed by snow, left forgotten. “That really is all it amounted to, isn’t it? All my years, my life.” He motioned to the scene. “Not even a funeral pyre.”

The warrior laughed, then shouted to the sky. “Do you find it funny?” The mirth turned to frustration. “That I flayed myself in the fields of war for nothing.” Silence was all he was given.

“Answer me!” He roared throwing his axe.

Seconds passed and nothing change, the warrior shoulders slumped as he stared up into cloud covered sky.

“They aren’t ignoring you,” Ryan said nearing the defeated warrior. “They would have to be aware of you to do that.” The Kolune looked down at them, eyes burning with rage. “There are million calling out to them,” his god continued. “All vying for their attention, doing an endless list of acts to prove their worth.” The warrior grunted, his gaze returning upward. “They only have so much attention to give, and so those like you Vestar are never noticed at all.”

The warrior body tensed, the hate in his eyes growing more vivid with each spoken word. “But you lot will?” asked the Kolune, his tone heated.

“We will,” Ryan answered. “And even when we don’t, you won’t suffer for it.” The warrior eyed them skeptically. “We give our followers all they need to thrive; they aren’t reliant on us to advance in the realm.”

Though it certainly helped a lot to have a god helping, but Bertrem father didn’t mention that, didn’t have to, this Kolune was clever.

Breathing a large breath of air, and sighing. The warrior turned to them and kneeled. “I accept this path you offer, this chance to rise by my own merits.”

Bertrem felt his face crease with a smile: “Welcome then brother, to the religion of Wonder.”

The warrior gasped, his eyes rolling back as his father bestowed Vestar the knowledge all followers gained. The secret to gather and use Devotion.

When the deed was done, the haze fading, it was the Kolune turn to smile, his eyes alight with the promise of vengeance.

--------------------------------

The first night she killed one of her villagers in the wilds, far off so their cries of alarm couldn’t be heard. She trembled with fear, waiting for the moment where light would appear and render her to ash. Yet as seconds, then minutes passed and she remained whole. The Fear subsided to confusion, then, then sadness. All her life she and those of her village believed the Bringers of Order watched over them. Made sure those against such hallowed beliefs were quick judged and removed from blessed lands.

That was not the case, she was living, defiling proof. And with each kill, her old beliefs died more. The Orders weren’t watching, nor listening, they weren’t even there. It was just her, and her prey.

Later she’d been furious that she still lived, that everything she’d been told was turning out to be lies. It was bad enough to lose her children to the forever sleep. That her sons had left with her life partner to aid in the great crusade out east. That daughters were too busy tending to their own pups to notice she was all alone in a hut of lost. But at least then she held the belief their gods were watching over them. Fighting back the demons of disorder.

But with every passing cycle that her prayers remained ignored, she’d began to wonder how true that was. Weakness claimed her, her pups whimpering in the night, unable to wake, it stole away her resolve.

She’d prayed at her lowest moment, lost and desperate for aid, calling to the weaver of suffering to release his curse. She’d promise all she had, herself. Even then, she thought the offer would go unanswered, since her own gods had been mute.

Oh, how she had been wrong. Even now, hiding in the dark, bow stretch tight hunting beasts and villagers she caught rummaging alone. She could still hear his beautiful voice, the warmth it brought, the care. All her life she had been raised to know him as the liar, the spreader of curses and demons. Only her grandmother had dared tell otherwise in hushed whispers.

She knew the truth now, Malan, her god, didn’t hide knowledge. No, he shared it, even when the subjects hurt her, made her weep. The knowledge came unhinged. All offered to be used as she saw fit.

The god of Wonder had placed the burden of helping her pups in her own hands. By his own words, he didn’t have the means to save the taken. It was up to those bestowed his knowledge to find out if there was a way.

Waiting in her perch, Dotta wondered if they were getting close. The Devotion she’d been able to gather, and share to her pups, did nothing. She always felt something cancel out her work, something, wrong. It made his fur and skin crawl with disgust.

But she wouldn’t give up, couldn’t in fact. The taken was spreading, every child ranging upward to one years old were bed ridden. And every pup born came out asleep and never waking. If things didn’t change, if the curse remained all was lost. Everything would die.

To her horror, after weeks of hunting game, she had stumbled on a sundering truth. It wasn’t just them being taken; the wildlife was also falling prey to the curse. Everything young was stuck in a dream.

The concept made her shiver, and wish it really was Malan who was responsible, for then it would be a god she knew, and had been taught was often defeated. Instead she, and those of her new faith, had to face something none of them understood. All she gained from the passing Shadows was the sights that the curse was everywhere. Even strongholds, where kin of the pantheon of Order were said to reside at times, weren’t immune to this horror.

It had her wonder of the countless stories told of her old gods, their unstoppable might, how they always bested every foe to dare challenge them. The curse was showing otherwise, and it troubled her.

It brought about a question. Were her old gods weak? Or was the new threat just that powerful, that even mighty gods could do nothing to stave off the curse? She prayed it the former, at least then they had a chance.

The soft cracking of dried leaves pulled Dotta from her whirling thoughts. She flared her ears, focusing on the shifting sound to determine the weight and stride of the quarry headed her way. A few more sounds of it, and she knew it wasn’t a beast. A fellow Kolune was around getting close to the area where she would have line of sight.

The occurrence was often enough, a small pond was near where animals liked to drink from, and hunters used to refill their water skins. It should have been quick to catch sight of her prey. But the Kolune was being slow, if they had been better trained, she might not have heard them. But the foot work was inexperienced, which meant she was dealing with a youngling.

She waited, breathing controlled and muscles ready. A minute later, she saw the intruder. A young boy by his fur and build, he had to be two years old. She watched him, clothed in hunting gear with an axe and bow, the latter in his hands, joined with three arrows.

A look at his face and she realize she was wrong about the age. It was Finn, meaning he was four, a man with a meek body. She lowered her aimed arrow, she’d helped raise this one, he was a faithful and kind. Dotta didn’t have callus enough a heart to kill someone she nurtured.

That and now she wasn’t focused on sticking him with arrows, she saw a Shadow trailing him. She nearly gasped when it clicked. He was a follower of Malan as well, hunting like her for sacrifices.

The Shadow went still when their eyes meant and it noticed she could see it. she slightly bowed her head, the shadow did the same. After it moved to Finn, he turned to it, then to her in shock. “You?” He said in disbelief as she removed herself from her covered perch.

“Doting Dotta,” Finn said as she neared, his bow aimed at the ground, arm loose. He chuckled, his head shaking in bafflement. “Stern teacher and preacher.”

Her jaw tensed and her ears pressed flat. Not only because he should have been speaking softer, but because it burned her with shame. She was a teacher, not stern, that was an exaggeration. But she made sure the young knew the village rules, grow up to be proper youths. As for preaching. Yes, often she led sermons.

‘And what had that gotten me?’ She thought bitterly. She had been treated the same as everyone else, ignored. She was self-aware enough to know that outcome played a role in her accepting a new patron. For if preacher was rejected, what chance did she have getting the attention of her gods? She was old and a woman, a terrible mix to try and earn war trophies. Which would have been the only real means to gain favor. The guiding blaze that was Wargain was the easiest to receive blessings from, if a follower committed the right acts.

None of that matter now though, she had a new pantheon to knee before and beg for aid. As well as Finn considering the Shadow.

“These are troubling times.” She said in response to his words. A poor excuse, but one the youth before her accepted without comment. He is a good boy, Finn, never caused trouble, always showed his respects to the elderly, and a helping hand whenever asked. As a whole he was liked by most of the village, save a few males who saw him breeding as a weakening of the collective seed. But they were gone now, left for the crusade. Not the best thing to do if they believed their own words.

“Troubling, yes very troubling,” Finn said glancing around them. The Shadow sent something to Finn, no doubt more visons, and he gazed back at her anew, the look of shock returning. “I always thought you a kind lovely lady.” He said low, the words hurt. “You killed-

She hushed him with a wave of her hand and a low growl, the latter of which she’d never done to a man before. Not the wisest act, especially for her age. But Finn took it well, it wasn’t the first time someone growled at him. And this time it was for a very good reason.

“Not here,” she said in a whispered. “Not anywhere, leave the secrets in our minds.” If they were to talk of the dead, then it might as well be done with sendings and visions, that way only those allowed would see them. A shame it took a morsal of Devotion to do, but that was a fine cost when it came to discretion.

Finn grunted with a smile marking his muzzle, the shock of the things she’d done leaving him. ‘Did you kill all of them?’ he sent; the words joined with visions of her victims.

She looked him in the eyes. ‘Yes,’ she replied feeling very litter remorse, she had no close connection to those killed. In fact, she went out of her way to remove those that had been an embarrassment or hindrance to the village. But she wouldn’t be able to do that forever, they weren’t many bad fruits left. Eventually she would have to pluck those she’d prefer to save.

‘I never saw you as a killer.’ Finn sent, the sensation mixed with waning shock and sadness. She got the feeling he admired her, saw her as a symbol of care maybe. The sense had her look away from him for a moment. ‘Were they worth it?’ He asked, and she forced herself to meet his gaze. Had they? Her children were no closer to being saved, the changes were still happening. Yet, she knew more now, understood their situation, had Devotion in her veins.

‘Yes’, she sent. There had been gains, she would do it again, she had to. No one else was coming to save them.

Finn let out a shivering sigh. ‘Good,’ he sent. ‘At least they died for something, and you picked your targets well.’ He added, glancing at his bow. ‘The males that remain don’t care to search for the beast, they see it as a sign of the Orders removing wicked from the village.’ His maw spread wide, and nearly laughed. ‘Gods but the twist that turned out to be.’

She didn’t share in the amusement, but she was relieved, her hope had come true, the genuine dislike of those she’d killed kept people from looking closely. Save for one. ‘Did you come out here to slay this beast?’ She asked, and wondered if she perhaps was one.

Finn shook his head, motioned to his body. ‘Do I look the type to be a beast slayer?’ He gave a self-mocking smile and swipe of his tail. ‘No, I came out here hoping to gather sacrifices, since the less brave aren’t venturing far into the woods.’

That explained the drop in villagers, both to her annoyance and relief. ‘Well,’ she sent. ‘You’ve found a good spot.’

At her words Finn looked at the Shadow who was keeping guard for them. ‘That’s what he said.’ Finn sent to her. ‘Plenty of large game to be found if you wait long enough. So,’ he looked back. ‘You plan to share? Or do I have to find another hunting ground?’

‘You can stay.’ She answered, since often times multiple beasts arrived.

The youngster smiled, set his eyes to the task of finding a place to hide and wait. It surprised her, she expected more questions, demands of why she’d changed her faith. Finn didn’t seem to care, enough that it had her voicing the question instead.

‘You’re not going to ask why?’

The question got him to look back at her amused. ‘Why would I? I already know the answer.’ Which got her to study him. ‘It’s the same as mine, and my mate, you want to save your pups.’

‘That obvious is it?’ she asked, and in truth it was, there wasn’t much else that could have forced her to reject the Orders.

Finn gazed somberly about. ‘It is, since I’m pretty sure the village has never been ignored before. You could say we’ve been abandoned, since the children. Well mine, are turning into abominations.’

She had pushed such thoughts from her mind, how her innocent pups were deforming, some had grown extra limbs, ending with razor sharp claws. Others had a third eye growing in the middle of their forehead. Nothing she did, no miracle she forced herself to memorize, was able to stop the changes.

‘Do you know?’ Finn sent, pulling her from the painful memories. ‘That in the strongholds and castles they’re burning the children.’

‘Yes, I know.’ She answered, heading back to her hiding spot. With the use of Sending, they didn’t need to be near each other to speak. ‘Though I didn’t have the stomach to keep interest on the matter,’ she added. One glimpse of the sight had been enough for her.

In her youth she’d dreamed of living in such holdings of the divine, now she was relieved of her place in the realm. Able to hide in the woods and keep her children away from people who had a different outlook on how to save the taken.

‘They’re not stopping,’ Finn continued to inform her. ‘In fact, there hunting down every child, throwing them all into the fire. From the Shadows I’m told a decree has been made, that any child warped is to be killed on sight.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’ She asked pained, she didn’t want to hear about it.

‘Because,’ Finn started again, and from the lack of sound, must have found a spot to wait. ‘Our old gods aren’t content with just the children of the larger dwellings.’ Dotta heart quickened.

‘No, they wouldn’t.’ She thought to herself, fear coursing into her veins.

‘They wany all the deformed dead,’ Finn continued. ‘And have sent out hosts of crusaders and priests to help motivate villages into following this decree.’

Dotta fought down the panic trying to claim her. ‘We have one headed this way.’ Finn informed, her will faltered, she began breathing heavily while her hands shook. ‘How long do we have?’ she asked, happy her sending to didn’t convey her terror.

‘A week, maybe,’ Finn answered. ‘Me and Gunru plan to leave with our children. You’re welcome to along… Please.’ He added.

‘No need to beg,’ she sent back quickly, mind racing with thoughts ‘I’ll happily go with you.’

------------------------------------

Seated in a well-furnished library, all of it comfortably lit in divine light. Tibarn was hunched over a table, pouring over text, looking at old forbidden lore. Currently he was trying to find some reference to the curse holding the lands of Wargain in a tight grip. His work was going slow, not only because of the volume of knowledge contained within the library, but because of the constant harassment he and his fellow scholars were incurring from the guards.

People wanted answers, correction, the gods wanted answers. And so far, Tibarn didn’t have any to give. No matter where he looked, or how ancient the text, there was no mention of the dream curse. At least not one that took the land.

Tibarn found himself at a point all scholars dreamed of being in. At the epicenter of something new, something unpresented. It would be he and his fellows who would be looked back upon for clarification of what had happened.

Thrilling, or would have been, if not for the displeased stares and growls from the guards. They didn’t share in his excitement; they didn’t want the unknown. No, no they wanted insight. To look upon a scroll, read its contents and know the events that were to follow. Allowing them to plan accordingly in the ways of order

Chaos could not be the answer, but it was the only one he had to give. They didn’t know, and Tibarn was getting the impression that wasn’t going to change, they would have found something by now. They had been combing volumes for weeks, no references, not even the smallest of hints on where to look. It was all blank and they were now searching blind, acting as though they were on to something. But they weren’t, it was just a ruse to avoid being hit, or worse seen as unfit and removed from the library.

The fear of that kept his eyes open, even as sleep stabbed at them, and his body begged just for a few moments of rest. He ignored it, kept sliding pages away with his increasingly shaky hands. He needed to eat, but he stayed put, the guards were watching. There was more of them now, he’d even seen Ascendants matching the halls. Their polished frames, and cracking flames promising swift punishment if they continued to fail.

‘You’re going to fail.’ Tibarn read and blinked his blood shot eyes. He looked again, but the words were gone.

‘Oh gods I’m hallucinating now.’ He wasn’t going to last much longer, he’d already been up for three days, the toil was becoming too much. Yet he kept reading, not only for the sake of his task. But because, if he was to fail, this would be his last time within the hallowed hall, able to read lore to his hearts content.

He loved reading, loved seeing into the past.

‘It doesn’t have to end.’ He read, and looked back at the spot, the words were gone. He kept readying, nervousness being to take him.

‘You won’t find the answers here, or anywhere.’ He didn’t look back, he kept to his task, he wouldn’t be slowed.

‘The wonderful thing is, this hasn’t been seen before. Aren’t you excited?’ Tibarn flipped the page even though he wasn’t done reading it. And looked upon two blank ones.

‘Impossible.’ He thought, no one would waste paper, he flipped another page, blank.

Tibarn pitched himself, deathly afraid he’d fallen asleep. Yet he felt the chill, he was awake, gods he was awake yet the oddity remained. ‘I need to sleep, my body is playing tricks on me.’

But he couldn’t, a guard had yet to give him the right to do so, he was stuck working.

Before his eyes he saw ink rise upward, as if it was coming from a depth below the page. It moved upon the two pages in front of him, merging into words.

‘You’re going to fail.’ It read, the phrase repeating over and over. He stared transfixed, fear holding him in place as the ink moved again. ‘But they don’t care Dargown, they don’t care about us. All the work we do to understand and remember the realm.’

Tibarn mind blazed with thoughts, trying to find some reason to explain this. ‘A curse,’ he first thought, but throw it out, such a thing wouldn’t get passed the runes covering the place. ‘A demon?’ He thought next, that held a hint of possibility, a working of chaos come to claim him.

‘You are to fail.’ It read again. ‘But it doesn’t have to be the end of your path.’

He closed the book, not roughly, never roughly.

For a few moments he sat there, skimming at the tiles of other tomes near, playing pretend he was looking for a particular volume to continue his research. If he’d had any say on the matter taking place he would have left. Headed to bed and prayed the oddity was the working of sleep prevention. But he didn’t have any say, and with each passing second he was bringing unwanted attention to himself.

So, with shaking hands he carefully moved another tome over to himself and opened its pages. Swallowing a wine, he forced himself into looking calm. The book was blank, and like before ink formed and moved on its own.

‘You are going to fail.’ It read, then added. ‘You are going to die. At least,’ the words trailed on as gibberish for a moment. ‘In a way Dargown equally see as death.’

Tibarn know what the book meant, removed from the library, deemed a failure. The gods of order would, out of punishment, make sure he would never have the chance to read another book again. His life would be one in the field, working the private gardens with Heon, who would surely mock him.

No books, no ink, no share knowledge, nothing to write down his thoughts and speculations on about the past and how miracles worked. The latter he’d done in secret, in his youth when he was a more venturous man.

‘A horrid lot they are,’ the words played. ‘But they don’t care, don’t want to understand, save for the most pressing and fleeting of things.’ How was it the guards weren’t seeing this, the words were laid bare, why was no one coming to help him?

‘They will see you suffer, no matter how hard you look, no matter how hard you try.’ Why was it telling him this? What did the demon want?

‘We hate them, I hate them, and I know you hate them to.’

Tibarn began to pray, not for mercy, or aid, no, no that would be foolish. Even if by some miracle it was delivered, he would be marked as a possibly heretic. He really would be removed from the library then.

No, he gave payers of devotion, offered his allegiance.

‘You’re going to fail; you’re going to experience the Dargown death.’ The book read.

‘This day.’

No, that couldn’t be, a lie, it had to be a lie.

‘When it’s over, them throwing you out and removed from all you love. I’ll be waiting’ the words read. ‘I’ll be near as you dig in the ground, and when you tire of the dirt, desire for knowledge unfettered. You need only think of me, a Dargown of scholarly robes, the holder of tomes, the giver of knowledge. And I’ll be there to guide you home.’

Tibarn watched as the ink bleed away, and when he blinked the tome was filled with words, words written by a mortal hand with all its imperfections. A glance showed he picked a report on the curses Malan favored during his crusade of destruction. He already knew it wouldn’t hold the answers he sought, even if he’d originally thought it the best starting point.

Malan actions were well known, yet he couldn’t close the book, not so soon after opening it. It would give away he was guessing. So he kept reading, going over information he already knew. He would have kept doing so, for a few hours before placing the book to the side with the others.

Yet, that was not to be.

He noticed it instantly, his trained ears flinching at the sound of approaching steps. Guards, he didn’t need to look behind himself to know. A pack of them, which meant someone important had arrived.

He acted as if he’d heard nothing, as though he was lost in the pages of the book. Maybe if he was lucky they’d bother someone else.

He flipped a page, his heart beating faster with each closing step. ‘Blessed gods not me.’ Was all he could think as they stopped right behind him. He held on to the hope just for a moment longer, but then he heard a growl. He flinched, and looked over his shoulder.

For a second he was sure his heart stopped beating. He saw a Kolune of bronze fur, some parts of him tipped with red. He was ordained in plates of miracle worked steel, the armor dressed over cloths of silk. Tibarn glanced down at the floor, mind racing as he slide out of the chair and prostrated himself. He was in the presence of a divine mortal, one of the Orders children.

“Report.” Demanded one of the guards flanking the Exalted, Tibarn swallowed down his horror. Mind recalling the words of the book. ‘You’re going to fail.’

Forcing himself to speak he said. “There have been semblances of the curse.” A half-truth. “Small in scale.” And all done by demons of Malan. “Though I’ve yet to find records of-

“So you have nothing new?” Said the Exalted, his voice radiating power. Tibarn had never heard nor seen the man before. Not to surprising The Orders had many children, the one in front of him might have been new, a rising prodigy

“Well?” the divine said with a powered infused hiss.

“None Exalted.” He answered before his mind had a chance to think.

He heard a huff of disappointment. “How many times as this one failed?” The divine asked.

“This will be the fourth Exalted.” The head guard answered, and from the voice Tibarn knew it was over, Sige loved being there to see scholars cast out.

The Dargown death awaited him, just as the book had told. He was going to be removed, and from that thought, the acknowledgement, he gained an ounce of spine. “One cannot be blamed when the task given is unattainable.”

Tibarn blinked, taking aback more by his words than the guards. Not that he could see them, staring at the floor as he was. But the silence that fell over the place, the feeling of stares aimed his skull. The hiss of a blade being unsheathed, he blinked again, expecting to be dead.

But he wasn’t, the realm remained the same, the blade didn’t come for his neck, instead he heard a chuckle. “A worthy answer finally given,” the Exalted spoke. “There is no knowledge to be found here,” the divine continued. “But rather than admitting that, you all acted wise, wasted your betters time.”

Tibarn found his tongue heavy and gave thanks for it, lest he spill more words that would doom him.

“For that,” the Exalted said, his voice closer. “You still failed your charge. Take him away.” The divine added, leaving. “He and the rest are banished from this place, and shall receive whatever other punishments you see fit.”

“By your word.” Sige responded as guards fanned out and went after other scholars. All of whom began to plead their cases, speak lies that they were close to the truth. Sige stayed by him, purposely placed his plated paw by his face.

Tibarn heard the chuckle, the one that promise abuse. “Your luck finally ran out Tibarn.” the guard said and stomped down on his right hand. They both heard bones break as he screamed out in dismay. “You don’t need fine hands for your new line of work,” the Kolune said, and began beating the rest of his body.

He curled into a ball, felt the touches of chill and numbness, Sige wasn’t holding back, he might be left a cripple if he didn’t receive healing. Yet that didn’t take up most of his thinking. No, the words of the book did.

‘When they throw you out.’ He recalled. ‘Think of me.’ And he did, he reach out, not knowing a name, only a concept, but that was enough. Something reached back, a link formed and hidden behind arms and cloth, Tibarn began to smile.