Rough leather slides against even rougher stone. Strong wood taps against even stronger grounds. The footsteps of her father, her warlord, her judge, send spiraling vibrations rattling within her head. The feeling nauseates her.

“You-” Her father’s voice is rough and strong against her ears, yet it is so familiar that it burns holes in her aching chest. “You cannot be Zalish,” The language of the Zintonians is not a pretty one. It is nameless and nasty. It is filled with harsh barks and spoken with snarls and flashes of teeth and tongue.

She has always thought it ugly when spoken after the mainlands melodic diction.

It is even less beautiful when it is spoken to berate her. Tanitha- Zalish, can barely bring herself to lift her head to meet her father’s cold blue eyes. She knows what she will see in them, and she hates the fact that she cares so much about the expression that he will have.

Zalish’s head is yanked back as the straps of her muzzle are split. Her jaw, stiff and creaking, almost doesn’t want to let go of its mouthpiece. But she lets it fall with an unceremonious thud and finally raises her head.

What she finds in the eyes of her warlord is not what she expected. She expected disappointment. She expected anger. She expected something. Zalish is his daughter after all. One would think that a year apart would leave some type of feelings festering.

But she sees nothing in his eyes. For the first time since Lilian, she sees no ghosts when she looks at them. But this can’t be. Her father has killed his fair share of people, and he has made decisions that have indirectly led to the deaths of hundreds. How…? “Disgraceful,” The man mutters, his hand loosely holding onto the long and threatening war spear.

Amonos are imposing creatures all on their own. They stand tall, most of their men nearing seven feet in their natural states. Their skin is the color of Remnant trees, dark in a way that allows for easy cloaking in the night. Yet the light always seems to find them once the moon has left, illuminating their strangely soft features in a godly glow.

Their eyes are shades of startling blue. The color of fallen tears and harsh rivers. The Zintonian tribe is different from most amonos in their fierceness, for they were marked by the Gods. From the day of their birth, golden rings band their arms, each one signifying a single God’s blessing. The bigger your band, the stronger your blessings, and the more bands you have, the more Gods there are watching you.

But for all their fierceness, Zulith is the only one that can stand so tall and supreme and utterly, magnificently, terrifying. He is a wall of taunt muscle, given to him in birth and earned through blood and sacrifice. He stands just under the seven feet mark with hands the size of dinner plates and legs as wide as tree trunks.

What would be soft and beautiful features are skewed by the self inflicted long and puckering scar that runs down the middle of his face, stopping at the beginning of his mouth and starting up again at the chin. He has earned a lifetime of merit and that is written in the sharp silver tattoos that cover only the right side of his face. Zulith is a beast in his more mundane form.

Zalish has never seen him shift, but she can imagine that he is every bit as intimidating then as he is now.

She remembers striving to be just as he is. She trained hard. From the moment light filtered into the sky until it was so dark she could barely see the outline of her hands in front of her, Zalish battled with herself and others. She trained so that she might gain not just his strength, but his stature. His demeanor. She wanted to be looked at the same way he was. Zalish became the shadow of her father.

She was everything that he had ever wanted in an offspring. She was clever, strong, courageous, yet her arrogance didn’t overtake her. She was ambitious, but also comfortable not always being the center of attention. She was his everything.

Until she wasn’t.

Zalish can’t stop the snarl that shoots from her mouth. Her teeth elongate as her head whips up with newfound anger. She was his everything, yet he would not believe her when she pled her case. How could he have not believed her?

Zulith’s upper lip curls, his otherworldly eyes narrowing at her small act of defiance. “Disgraceful.” He says again, his tone sharper than before. “How can a princess act so… grossly.” Zalish almost finds it in herself to bark at him. He is the man that raised her. She acts as he taught her to. He has only himself to blame for her actions.

Something is thrown, but Zalish’s reactions are too slow to catch them. Everything is too fast, really. It’s as if she’s been plucked out of time and forced to watch as it accelerates.

Zulith’s spear twists within his hand until its point is facing her. She watches with unchanging eyes are he slices the bonds holding her wrists together behind her back. Her arms fall to the ground, dead from the lack of circulation and abuse. She struggles to raise them, the weights shaking with the effort. Her father’s eyes darken at the display of weakness.

Zalish wishes she didn’t care. She wishes that the mask on her face would filter through her skin and into her blood so that the look on the warlord’s face didn’t actually sting her. But the look of disgust sends a rippling crack through her.

All she had ever wanted to be was someone that Zulith could look upon with pride. And for years, that’s exactly what she had been. She can’t stomach the stark contrast between the face she saw then and the one she sees now.

Sluggishly, and with some effort on her part, she picks up the set of brown leathers that were tossed to her, obtusely aware of the multitude of eyes that watch her struggle to stand. It seems she won’t even be allowed a bath, or at the very least, be granted privacy to change into her clothes.

She’s not so sure why she’s surprised. Amonos are never protective of their nakedness, as they don’t wear clothes when in their most primitive forms. They are less protective of their shame, as showing that would be showing weakness. Her fists clench around the clothes. The druid has softened her. Her time with him has affected her more than she knew.

The thought angers her. It sends radiating waves of heat through her body, warming her to almost unbearable temperatures. She steps into her clothes jankily, her movements jerky and unnatural.

Just the effort of getting clothed has taken the remainder of her energy from her. Zalish sways on her feet, her vision blurring to an unseeing degree. “Do you know what you’ve done to us, Zalish?” Her eyes travel to where she hears the sound, but all she sees is the faint outline of a man.

“I have done nothing,” She responds, breathlessly. Her knees bending inward with the effort it takes her to stand upright.

Zulith sighs. Zalish is sure that she would see his heavy shoulders, covered by the pelt of a rare black mountain lion, rise and fall slightly, if her vision had not decided to fail her. Sweat slides down the divot in her back, lighting fire. “Bring him in,” Her father orders.

This gives her a start.

Sentencings are private affairs, shared only between the person that committed the crimes, the warlord, and a few standard Zintonian officials. She is present. Her father is present. The hertri and hotri are both standing in far corners, the former’s eyes digging caves into her skin.

Who else needs to be here to watch Zalish fall?

Though she can hear the solid steps of what must be a fairly large person stroll into the grand yet so very empty room, she can’t make out who it is through her falling eyelids. “Look through everything,” Zulith fills the air with his hard voice.

It’s only when Zalish feels hands on both sides of her head that she knows what’s going on. What’s going to happen. She should feel happy. She should be elated that her father had brought in a drakoen instead of just sending her head first into her grim fate. But she can’t stop the venomous feeling of dread from creeping up her throat.

There’s a shuffling in the corner. “Having someone look into her when she’s in this state puts her and everyone else in danger, Zulith!” Her father hisses at the interruption.

“Take me in as well,” The warlord orders.

Zalish had clear instructions prepared for the drakoen that she was going to hire to go riffling through her mind. She was going to instruct him on where he could and could not look. She was going to protect him within the fortress of her mind. But she can’t open her mouth. She wants to warn the man standing over her, but something is stopping her.

She can’t help but feel helpless as those hot fingers curl around her forehead, their grip so strong that their nails pierce her skin. Not only will they see everything that she’s seen, but they will feel what she feels. They will know what she knows.

Zalish tremors.

But before she can cry out, before she can beg for them to stop, her father, the drakoen, and herself are all being drawn into her head, the solid world falling away at their feet.

Zalish had always pictured her mind to be a dark and dank cell. The corners would be filled to the ceiling with creepy crawling creatures and nasty forgotten memories. Surprise takes over her features as the soft feeling of sunlight streams over her face. Her eyes open to a world that’s beautiful and covered in a sierra filter.

The air glitters around her skin, leaving her shimmering with a distant star. Upon further inspection, Zalish realizes that something looks off about her. Something looks wrong. “We go.” She forgets about the lingering forgotten detail nudging at the back of her head.

“Wait!” She yells in Talagrek, her eyes fall to the drakoen. He truly is tall. He stands just a few inches shorter than her father. His shoulders and waist are narrow and his skin, a burnt red color, transitions into scales just below his collar bones. “You can’t just go looking around everywhere!”

His amber eyes narrow to nearly closed slits. When he speaks, his forked tongue shoots out in almost even intervals. “This monster is a monster that is wrought with nasty affliction.” He points one of his curved fingers at her. His hands are scaled as well.

“This monster is a monster that speaks with conviction.” His hand swivels to point to Zulith. “So this monster will follow that monster into the realm of a dying creature’s head, to uncover the will of the monster to be thrown out, dead.”

Her own eyes narrow as the humanoid creature ends its spiel with its finger curved in pointing at itself. Drakoens… the annoying long lost cousins of dragons. She had forgotten how irritating they could be, both in their rhyming speech and their condescending ‘high gronolias’ attitude.

The only reason the creatures haven’t been wiped out by those they encounter is because they’re so powerful. Their ability to enter the minds of those willing and unwilling is unmatched by any creature on this continent. A little arrogance is nothing to put up with, when the creature in question could quite literally make you forget who you are.

Luckily for most, Drakoens are greedy just like their cousins. They’ll do just about anything for a few shiny pieces of treasure to add to their unspent collections. Unfortunately for her, they bare an undying loyalty for the ones that pay them. Her father is a long time client of the Drakoen society, Kinmos. Most of the older drakoens have met him, and are therefore loyal to him.

“You don’t understand. If yo-”

“Silence child! Or we will leave you here for the rest of your years.” Her eyes widen as she shrinks back. Her father has been angry with her before, what parent hasn’t been mad at their child? But never once has he raised his voice at her. Zulith is the picture of godly patience. His cold calmness is praised and well know in their communities.

Zalish is reduced to a scolded child in a matter of seconds. Her heart hurts as she stares at the expression on his face. His fury actually terrifies her.

She steps to the side as her father pushes through her. He lays his large hand on the drakoen’s shoulder. “Lead us. Help me understand.” She can no longer see his face, but his voice tells her things that she wishes she didn’t know.

With a deep and smooth bow of his head, the drakoen begins to do as he was ordered, and Zalish is forced to silently slink behind them.

Tall grasses lick at her exposed legs and soft dirt sticks to the bottoms of her feet as they travel through the beautiful and empty grasslands. She’s still confused on how this is her mind. Where are her memories? They continue forward in silence.

Where they’re going, Zalish has no idea. As far as she can see, there is nothing but grass and the tanning sky.

They stop walking not long after. The drakoen turns to her abruptly. “This monster hides secrets behind sun and sky.” His eyes catch hers before he points to her father, his talons curling downward. “And this torn monster wants to know why.” Its smile grows, revealing the sickening sight of rows upon rows of tiny sharp teeth.

“This monster sees far and wide. This monster will show you how another monster has died.” Before either of them can protest, bony fingers are clasping onto their elbows and pulling them down, down, down.

Falling deep into the ground.

But it isn’t ground.

No. It seems the drakoen has found a hole into her memories.

The group falls, Zulith landing solidly on his feet, Zalish tucking into a roll, and their guide floating gently down. She scowls as she comes to a stop. He could have warned them, at the very least.

She looks up as she stands, and her body goes still.

How is it, that on his very first try, the drakoen has dragged her into her worst memory. The ground begins to shake beneath her. She hears the sound of a sharp intake of breath behind her. When Zalish turns to look, she sees her father staring past her.

She follows his gaze and sees something she doesn’t expect. “You are a monster and you are a monster, despite your disguises.” The drakoen’s voice is slippery against her ears. “That too is a monster, for we come in all shapes and all sizes.” She can hear the smug smile in his tone, but she can’t tear her eyes away from the scene.

That girl.

Zalish watches herself laugh as a small Swacuran girl jumps onto her back. The child’s feet are bare and her big amber eyes are wide with excitement. “Is today the day you’ll help me!?” She giggles as she asks her innocent question in their crushing language. Zalish’s spirit self swings the girl around, her smile big enough to cover the entire bottom portion of her face.

She hears herself say, “My help, little monster? You have no need for that? Do you know why?”

Present Zalish and the little girl speak at the same time, “Because I already have a knife to your neck.” Sharp teeth gleaming, the little girl presses the razor’s end of her knife tighter against Zalish’s spirit. A thin line of black blood bubbles across the blade.

An abrupt laugh leaves the child’s mouth as Zalish grabs her hand and spins her around to stand in front. The older girl’s voice turns to steel as she speaks, “Remember this, little monster.” She yanks the girl around so that their faces stare straight on. A snarl builds. “You ask for nothing, especially from these people. Understand little monster, that they do not see us as one of them. So we must be our own.”