Within sight of Sakrain was the mountain range collectively titled The Shell. The name was derived from eggshell, on account of the region’s peculiarities. Jagged peaks curved inward around a central point. Stone there was stained with the purity of marble. Cracks seemed ever-present. Certain areas were deathtraps, filled with footholds that collapsed upon the faintest touch. Eggshell was rather accurate.

Rivers flowed from The Shell and united, falling into Parzath’s major current. Another river flowed from the southern jungle. It also fell and joined the others.

Cyrus considered both paths of travel. Between them, he leaned towards the jungle.

Parzath’s current was vital for transportation. Flowing East to West, South to North, the river crossed the country and terminated into Oceanus. Sailings were smooth farther downstream. Here, however…

Upon the riverbank, a woman was resting and bleeding. Her clothes held more holes than cloth. Hair was short but golden. Facing the mud, she cradled a green basket that overflowed with strange flowers.

Lotus bulbs?

Cyrus reached down and grabbed one. He sniffed and coughed: the scent stung both bitter and sweet. Azaz snatched it from his hand.

Guards stood behind them. Katerina rushed forward and knelt upon the bank. Carefully, she began evaluating the woman’s injuries. Katerina turned the woman over. Then flinched. Then gasped. Cyrus stepped forward and craned his neck—Huh. Apparently, the woman was missing both of her eyes.

Azaz was sniffing the lotus. “These. I know these. Native to the southern jungle region. Medicinal, if I recall correctly. And delicious. What the fortunate find…”

Katerina stood and turned. Her priestess garments were stained with mud. “The wounds are mostly shallow. Her…sight…is gone, but the injury appears old. Perhaps a birth defect. Regardless, her condition is stable. I suggest moving her immediately.”

“Oh?” Azaz replied. He was chewing a lotus petal. “I wasn’t aware you held that authority.”

Katerina hid her glare with a blink. “I…suggest moving her immediately, Lord Azaz. Shall you allow it?”

Azaz plucked another petal. “I shall.”

Fortunately, Azaz had the foresight to bring along a stretcher. Guards moved forward. Carefully, Katerina and Cyrus moved the woman onto the stretcher, which was then carried by the guards. Their entire party retreated. Sunlight was nearly gone; none among them wanted to linger here after nightfall. They hurried.

Azaz was walking fastest. “We’ll keep her within the tower until she recovers. Then, we’ll begin prying into her circumstances.”

Cyrus chanced a glance backwards and looked at The Shell. Only two more days.

“Ah! Almost forgot,” said Azaz, kissing his fingers. “Cyrus, you’ll be guarding our guest for the night. And the next several. Consider this punishment for your recent blunder.”

***

“You can enter now,” Katerina said.

Cyrus stood and opened the door.

Tower Azaz contained dozens of rooms. A surplus existed for the lord and his servants. Therefore, finding accommodations for their guest was trivial. Any vacant space would have sufficed. Azaz, however, insisted upon a room positioned in the tower’s higher levels. Cyrus walked inside and stopped.

The room was plain except for the window, which was wide but blocked. The opening was crisscrossed with iron bars. The bars of a prison. Azaz must have suspected that their guest would attempt to flee. Cyrus shrugged, then approached Katerina.

She stood beside the bed where the other woman rested. Their guest’s rags were gone, exchanged with a brown gown. Bandages covered her. A blindfold hid her eyes. Cyrus suspected that the thin cloth was for the benefit of Katerina, rather than for any wounds. Overall, it seemed she would recover.

Their guest also seemed fairly young. Around the same age as Cyrus.

Cyrus turned to face Katerina. “Found any clues? Azaz seemed to think she was a runaway.”

Katerina shook her head. “Nothing. She doesn’t possess a brand. The only oddity was the basket she carried.” Katerina pointed to a bedstand. The green basket was placed there.

Cyrus considered the sudden mystery. A woman travelling alone along the river. Fleeing from the jungle, perhaps. No eyes. No food, except the flowers. And no brand. Even the assumption that she was a runaway servant remained dubious.

“So,” he said. “What’s the damage?”

Katerina frowned. “Other than the eyes? Just shallow cuts. And perhaps some hunger. She’s thin and pale, like she was gnawing on nothing but those flowers for…who knows how long. Could you bring over some fruit?” She pointed towards the table where a bowl of apples waited.

“Fruit…”

Cyrus and Katerina spun, turning towards their guest. She was beginning to stir. Cyrus hurried and fetched the bowl of apples. His rush proved unnecessary, however. Murmurs aside, their guest remained within the grasp of sleep.

Light from the window gradually faded. Katerina continued waiting with him despite having completed her role. Guard duty belonged to Cyrus. Still, she kept him company.

Time passed.

Katerina was peeling and slicing the apples. Her movements were beginning to slow. She yawned, then said, “have I ever told you about the Night Hunts?”

“Hunts? Like when the Nobles get paranoid over leaks?”

Katerina laughed. “Not quite. You see, several centuries ago…”

Thus, Cyrus found himself within a familiar situation: entranced by Katerina and a story. The priestess prided herself on being a living library. History. Legends. Rumors. She collected narratives wherever she could find them, then repeated them when the opportunity arose. She enjoyed playing the part of storyteller.

And she told him. She described events from centuries ago: the Night Hunts. Back then, superstition was spreading like the plague. Alongside the rumors was an actual disease. Together, the two enveloped the population of Parzath. Fear spread. Growths spread. People somehow convinced themselves that the disease only spread during the night. Later, the White Moon was blamed. Beasts were blamed. The blame was brief. Regardless, hunts were held during the nights and targeted travelers and strangers. Back then, someone like their guest would have been doomed. No one would risk helping a potential carrier.

Cyrus pondered the story long after Katerina left. Stretching, he moved closer to the window and looked.

Lights and noises were in the distance. Nothing odd. The parade was ongoing. Overhead, a shadow loomed over the city: the ziggurat. Cyrus looked even higher. Nighttime was wonderful when the sky was clear and the celestial bodies revealed themselves. Better sights were offered from the windows in the observatory. This, however, was enough.

The White Moon was shining tonight. For now. Soon, light would recede until the object became the thinnest crescent. Then vanish. Then reappear, again as a crescent until reaching full brightness. Cyrus often compared it with the Green Moon. The green one also went through variations in shape and brightness. The variations occurred over a month, however, and the Green Moon would spend the nights traversing the sky. The White Moon never moved. Right now, the Green Moon was missing a sliver. It would wait days before reaching fullness of form.

And within that time Cyrus would flee.

The celestial canopy always invoked this mood within him. Wonder. Mystery. Nostalgia for something he couldn’t remember, as if the moons and stars were waiting for him. A birthright. His birthright. The entire world was waiting for him to traverse it, to search and explore and map. The entire world was littered with unexplored territory; Azaz’s global map held more blanks than solidified places. Cyrus himself had lived within Sakrain—a dot upon Parzath—for thirteen years, trapped and barred from even the remainder of the country. And what of the continent? Or Oceanus? Or beyond?

He needed to know. And find. And see.

He knew that servants were expected to serve until death. He knew from Katerina and the Church that there was an order to the world, that following this path would reward him. He knew humbleness was a virtue. And he knew, deep within himself, that he couldn’t do it. Thirteen years…he wondered how he had lasted. Knowing that the southern land went unexplored. As did the northern frost. Or that Oceanus went uncrossed, an expanse of emptiness covering the planet. Anything could wait there. Even Qlips. Or Sheks.

Once, Cyrus wondered why the royalty of Parzath didn’t use their Shek to explore those remote places. Katerina laughed when he asked her. Sheks aren’t for show. They balance the worldly powers, she told him.

Cyrus struggled with that answer. If he possessed the right blood, he would have stolen a Shek and braved the unknown. If only.

Regardless, he needed to explore. Because he could. Because he was alive. Cyrus knew his justifications were flimsy. Irrational. He ignored his own misgivings and pushed himself onward. An incomplete map begged for explorers. Until his map of the world was complete, Cyrus would always charge ahead.

And his journey would begin by fleeing from Sakrain. From Azaz. From Katerina. He would begin by becoming a runaway. Right… Guarding their guest would complicate the matter. Glancing aside, he looked at said guest.

She was awake.

***

“Hello?” Cyrus ventured.

The woman stilled. Carefully, her hands brushed against her gown and bandages. Her movements were gentle and precise. Slowly, she wrapped herself into a hug. She shivered. Still, she didn’t respond. Her breathing was short but steady.

Cyrus tried again. “You passed out near the river. Looked like a crash landing. You’re lucky, you know? Your trip could have easily proven fatal.”

She maintained her silence.

He scratched his chin. This was going rather poorly. Would she respond better to Katerina?

Cyrus coughed. “If you want, I could go and—”

“Helmet.”

Cyrus stopped. Her voice was soft but sturdy. Across the room, she raised her hands and held her head.

“Where is my helmet?”

“You weren’t wearing one when we found you. Probably fell into the current,” Cyrus said, then hesitated. “Sorry?”

Her hands fell from her head to the bed. Her shoulders slumped. After a moment, she gave a long sigh.

“Oh!” Cyrus recalled the lotus bulbs. Walking over, he reached the bedstand. “We found your flowers and basket though!”

She raised her head. “Basket?”

“Yeah. It’s—” he caught himself. Description was useless. “Right over here. We found your flowers too. Want them?”

Her forehead creased. Cyrus caught the expression that flickered over her face. He lifted the basket. Tilting it sideways, he hummed.

“Oh!” she said. Her voice was iron. Her lips formed a smile, tight and forced. “My basket. May I please have it?”

“Sure. No problem. Here—”

Someone pounded against the door. Cyrus placed the “basket” onto her lap before crossing the room. Opening the door, he found himself facing Azaz.

The man leered over the room before dragging Cyrus into the hall. Briefly, Cyrus updated him on the basics. Their guest was awake and talking. Her condition was stable. Her circumstances remained unknown. Cyrus opted to exclude anything about the helmet. Azaz nodded, then told him to begin questioning her. Cyrus promised a prompt interrogation.

Soon, Azaz released him.

Cyrus returned to the room and closed the door. He noticed Azaz was being generous with their guest’s care. Azaz had his faults—which rivaled the stars in number—but the man was well versed in hospitality.

Cyrus shook his head. Really, Azaz would be missed.

***

His servant closed the door and hid himself behind it. Azaz welcomed the obstruction. Anything to avoid the eyesore, the deadweight that trampled over his goodness. Ingrate. He scoffed and walked towards the stairs. Azaz wondered whether his servant was attempting to…impress…their lovely guest. He wouldn’t be surprised if the ginger bastard was attempting to elope with the cripple.

He climbed his tower and reached his observatory. His office. His lone sanctuary within the world where he could think and scheme. The place always stroked his imagination. The cityscape and starlight always brought his situation into perspective. Oh, and the wine. The wine was wonderful.

He walked towards his trunk that held his bottles. Passing a suit of armor—a luxury imported from Parzath’s capital—Azaz pondered his opportunities. He pondered. And thought. And schemed. His situation was obtaining a complexity that reminded him of Sakrain’s politics. Meaning, needlessly convoluted and involving individuals he wished were gone or dead. He looked for a certain bottle.

Ah, there. A violet bottle from Zaborc. Qlip derived. Perfect.

Carefully, he carried the bottle to another table where his supper was waiting. Beside his plate was a lotus. Despite the time, he hadn’t eaten. He had been waiting until sunset for Cyrus.

Cyrus. Overgrown brat. Azaz always suspected that the dolt was only feigning idiocy, but now he was certain. The situation with the Chimera couldn’t have been accidental.

Azaz poured himself a glass. He shook his head. Pouring my own wine… Alas, there was no other choice. He wouldn’t entrust this task to anyone. He wouldn’t risk any blunders. He grumbled and poured.

He then removed his turban. The damn cloth was hotter than his food; it burnt like the iron he used in brandings.

Azaz recalled the rumors Katerina—cursed informant of the Church—spread about him, about how his turban was faking his humanity. How absurd. Azaz, former Shaman, hiding from the honor of the Beasts? Bah. The truth was mundane. He almost welcomed Katerina’s gossip.

Katerina…

He disliked her the moment the Arch Church assigned her to his tower. He assumed the feeling was mutual. Mere hours ago, she dared to glare after attending to the…runaway…

Right. The runaway servant. Was she a runaway? His intuition screamed in agreement. His logic scoffed and taunted his intuition. The two often tussled in this way. Still, he couldn’t ignore the facts. Katerina told him herself that their guest lacked a brand. Which meant she wasn’t a servant. Probably. Unless?

Azaz shook himself. He grabbed a fork and ate his food. He sipped his wine. Between the two problems he faced, he began with the easier.

Cyrus.

The obvious explanation was that the ingrate knew. How else would he have sidestepped the ploy with the Chimera? The situation was so simple. Too simple? Simple enough to sidestep?

Cyrus claimed that poisoning the Chimera would result in an investigation. And he was right. That was the point! Send Cyrus on the fool’s errand, then wait for an investigation to begin. Offer Cyrus as scapegoat. Azaz’s word would trump whatever his servant could claim. And Azaz’s conscious would have rested easy, knowing that Cyrus’s guilt was technically genuine. Sure, other servants would have gossiped. Katerina would have seethed. But the pretense was better than nothing and would have cushioned his reputation among the nobility. Cyrus would have been accepted as sacrifice. Most of all, Azaz would have ridded himself of the disappointment.

And how disappointing he was! Azaz’s expectations were too high—he admitted that much. The chances of the dolt being royalty were slim. He knew that. But his age seemed right. And the area—south of Gogmagoz—hinted towards the possibility. Azaz seized the chance. He gambled. And lost. And seethed. Cyrus possessed the blood of a commoner.

Azaz planned on sacrificing him years ago. He waited. He procrastinated. He blinked, then found that the clergy seemed to take stock in him. Damned Katerina.

So Azaz planned on setting up his servant. And Cyrus knew. Did he? He did. Why else fight the Chimera in broad daylight? He claimed current circumstances made them untouchable by officials. He was right. And that was the problem!

Local hero. Bah.

Drastic measures were required. Azaz would wait until the eve of the Sacrifice.

The issue went unresolved, but he moved past it. Azaz considered the runaway.

He continued calling her the runaway because his intuition demanded it. Servant or otherwise, she clearly was fleeing from…something. She chanced that trip down the river. Alone. Blind. From the jungle, where Shamans and bandits often operated. Even Beasts lurked there. True Beasts. Not those domesticated herds that trembled within Sakrain.

Azaz lifted the lotus. Its scent stung with sugar. Tearing off a petal, he chewed. Sweet. Hint of bitterness. Ah, nostalgia.

He wondered whether their guest had been trekking through the southern jungle. An explorer? She didn’t seem like a native. Regardless, her circumstances suggested she fled from something.

He considered the biggest clue: her missing eyes.

Azaz drummed his fingers. A hypothetical was considered. If she was a fleeing servant, then she fled from the jungle. She was likely property of a Shaman. Azaz was once a Shaman. Eyes were valuable ingredients. Removing them also made escape borderline impossible. Azaz nodded.

With escape impossible, was there reason to brand? Yes. Obviously. But his hypothetical Shaman hadn’t. Why? Why would a Shaman, who was shrewd and worldly by default, avoid branding his servant?

Risk. Reward.

Risk. Reward.

Risk…

Azaz stood abruptly. Silverware clattered. Feverishly, he began pacing across the room, lingering near the back.

There was a reason. Hypothetically. The woman went unbranded because the risks involved were severe. Which meant one thing.

Blood.

Azaz marched towards the back and began digging within a barrel. His skin rubbed against coarse iron. Removing the rod from the barrel, he turned the instrument between his fingers. He almost forgot the thrill of the tool.

His plan was hatched. Their guest would be branded as his servant—because the rewards were worth the risks. His servant gained would replace his servant lost. Balance would be reached.

Three nights. Two days. Azaz would outsmart the others. Upon the arrival of the solstice, Azaz would offer his servant to the Qlips. Then, Cyrus would kneel. His lifeblood would splatter. His life would be forfeit, another sacrifice offered upon the ziggurat’s golden floor.