June Jerylieu clutched her staff close to her chest. A soft, warm breeze ruffled through the seemingly endless fields of grain, filling her ears with a calming, white noise. The assortment of pistons and springs beneath their caravan ablated most of the imperfections of the road. She could still feel the bumps and pebbles. It let her know she was still on land.

Days had passed since they gained a new wave of escorts. Newly graduated recruits from that training camp near Cadeau de Chires. She wasn’t hearing great things about them. It wasn’t her intention to eavesdrop, but she couldn’t help it.

“Bunch of fresh boys and girls playing soldier,” a bald man said two cars down the line. He was a merchant, once a fighter of some kind. June’s detected irregularities in his heart. High blood pressure, even higher stress.

“Ah swar ah sau wan o dem,” another was saying, “a fokin Eldren. We trustin an enemeh to protayct os nou?”

“What is the emperor thinking with this youth program of his? Encouraging kids to submit service? We not had enough land? We had enough before.”

“It’s the wedge ears in the Northwest woods. He’s been worrying about them. Every policy for the past forty years has had our noble families running campaigns reinforcing human supremacy like them tree fuckers are going to attack at any moment. Fuckin’ hell like we didn’t have enough of an ego boost after the victory over Aldren.”

Hours and hours of conspiracy. Was this how the common folk entertained themselves between towns? June had tried covering her ears. It never worked. Even the other casters were wary of her. She felt them pop muffling Spells whenever they saw her. She still heard them through the barriers. Nobody liked talking to someone who could hear you lie.

No, she mustn’t think this way of others. She was charged with protecting citizens; she was needed. The Archbishop’s light was behind her. His Holyness believed in her, and she had never heard his heart lie. June took a deep breath and tried her best to concentrate on the sound of the wind.

At night they left the cramped carriages make camps, cook stews, and exchange song. Despite it being prohibited, traders did business with the other carriage passengers. Somewhere farther away from camps, a group of traders rolled tubes of grounded up tetralichen, lit the end, and breathed the wisdom of ages into their lungs. Their conversations would grow increasingly nonsensical as the night progressed.

June nursed a bowl of beef and tuber stew as she sat on a small log. In front of her, people talked and picked food off the potluck braziers. The beasts of burden were fed water and grass with berries and nuts mixed in. Mechanics meticulously checked the long line of carriages. Everyone in their place.

The night grew cold in these parts. She contained a shiver. Out of the number of Spells coursing through the fabric of her priestess robes, protection from chill wasn’t one of them. Everything had a budget. She wanted to move closer to the fire. But then she’d be close to other people. And they fidgeted when they knew she was there. Their heart rate would go up. Their pores dilated.

So there she stayed, and then inconceivable happened. Another weight settled on the log next to her. She hadn’t heard the person approach.

June recognized the black uniform. A Scoutrunner. That explained much. The suits were built to conceal. Yes, that must be why she didn’t hear her come.

“You looked lonely, hope you don’t mind,” the runner said.

“N-no! I’m just- do you know about me? What I am?”

“June…I think? Vaguely remember your name on the roster we were given. Priestess right? I’m Lisŗa.” She extended a gloved hand. June grasped the fingers and moved her wrist up and down. Lisŗa suppressed a chuckle.

“I’ve never done this before,” June said. She felt her face redden.

“I figured. I’ve had very few friends myself.”

“I used to have a lot of friends. The Order took me in when I was six.”

“Not the High Academies?”

“There are more methods to alter our world than through planes and Spells. The Order specialized in these ways. I am learned not in arcanery but in faith. My talent peels apart the shells people protect themselves with. That’s why you shouldn’t talk to me too long. I might invade your privacy by accident. People hate that.”

“What am I hiding?”

June blinked, unsure of what she just heard.

“You don’t care?” She asked. It was inevitable. They all grew uncomfortable in her presence eventually. June decided to get it over with. “You’re hiding… a hurt. A prolonged suffering. Not physically. For a long time… oh God.”

Lisŗa patted June on the back. “You didn’t reveal anything particularly insightful about me, June.” She gestured at the congregation of people before them. “Point your finger and do a twirl, and you’d land on someone who has probably lost a friend, a loved one. Or gone through something rough. Or far worse. If you worry all the time about hurting people, you’re only going to hurt yourself. And no one would know to help you.”

“The Archbishop helps me.” June realized too late she had made a mistake. As soon as she finished that sentence, Lisŗa tensed. She sensed anger, the motions the Mind made when remembering something terrible, and fear. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry about what?” Lisŗa asked. She finished her food and stood. “Let’s eat together tomorrow.”

“O-okay!” And then June was alone again. But she had the slightest smile on her lips, and the cold felt like a distant memory.

--

“Come on!” Jorge yelled. He waved the villagers forward, standing beside the trail as a guard. Skin blurred past him. He kept a rough count, but lost it in the chaos. The chief was the last one, following closely behind Lyosha. The old Russian had nothing but an old skin satchel over his shoulder and the clothes off his back.

“What a day huh, my friend,” he said.

“What do you know about the volcano?” Jorge asked.

“You want to plug it with your thumb? We need to move at least a couple hundred kilometers. Likely more. The um…” He made a floaty motion with one hand beneath a flattened plank with the other hand. “It’s been moving. The source. I dunno what is called in English.”

“I get what you mean. This one is the biggest one yet, right?”

“Yes.”

“I gotta get to the front.” Jorge ran off, taking great strides through the shrubbery. At the front of the procession, the winding path twisted and turned like a writhing snake. Moving forward was a slow ordeal. The villagers made way for him as he raised his axe. He began hacking away, forging a straight line forward.

Breathing was like sticking one’s head into a hearth. The villagers were coughing, stumbling. Jorge wasn’t too comfortable either, but his unnatural strength gave him a lot of room for tolerance. He peered behind him to check on the Bedazi people. Somewhere in the middle of the line, an older villager sat beside the path, pushing helping hands away.

“Hey!” Jorge stopped his chopping. He drew the attention of a young villager and clumsily formed what little sign language he knew. “Why they not help?”

“He is at peace,” the young man signed back, “It is painful, but respectful to let our elders go if they want. They do it so we can go forward.”

“Damn it,” Jorge said, jaws clenched. He looked at the elder, who had laid beside a tree with his eyes closed. His breaths were stuttered. Jorge looked to the front, where the foliage was too dense to simply stroll through. “Fuck!”

He went back to the front and resumed chopping. It was so hot. Sweat covered his skin in thin rivers. He paused to take a gulp from his waterskin every few minutes. But after hours of progress the sky was still red. He looked overhead.

The Heldrazi Peaks had become a black demon, billowing out in ever transforming shapes. Lightning flashed among its gaseous sinews. It flexed and grew ever larger. He saw its mouth through a gap in the canopies. Hot swathes of molten flow raced down like drool. His imagination projected hunger onto it. Hunger and rage and hate and fire, covering the sky in hot blood.

Something singed his exposed abs. A falling ember had made it to where they were. They weren’t even close to safety. He continued his work. He slashed and chopped. Sometimes a rock stood in the way, and he had to heave it to the side. On occasion luck produced a clear, straight path for them to walk through, but those never lasted more than a hundred steps.

At the back of the line, someone was shouting. The word carried all the way to the front. Fire. Fire. Forest fire. It had finally caught up.

Jorge doubled his efforts. Exhaustion was creeping up onto him. His lungs felt scarred. The truth was he had been lying to himself; he was running on fumes. He had been swinging his axe nonstop in this choked atmosphere for so many seconds, so many breaths. It began as a subtle weight, sneaking up to him, then it pounced onto his shoulders and dizziness gripped him. His head pounded. His muscles were at their limit. His axe slipped from his grip. And he fell against a tree, collapsing on the ground. There was a veritable drum inside his chest, beating away, slowing by the second.

The villagers were congregating around him, calling to each other in a rapid language he never did bother fully learning. A young woman knelt down to offer him water and some dried food. He took some but then shoved her away.

“Leave me,” he said. They didn’t understand and continued trying to nurse him. “Go!”

Lyosha appeared in front of the crowd and silently translated what Jorge was saying. Jorge expected them to go then. Instead they stayed beside him, squatting in a circle among the shrubbery. All while the mountain roared and spat meteors of molten rock, and the winds carried the curtain of incineration.