They approached the settlement openly, weapons held but not readied. It was new, and comprised of only six buildings in total – three near identical, unpainted wooden homes, a barn, a small stable, and a tall, dark-wooded hall. Surrounding the home were the fields, where two men worked with a horse. Plowing so early would be difficult, considering how cold it still was in those parts, but Redmun supposed they'd need to get a head start to have any chance of surviving. Not that they had much to begin with.

The two men didn't spot them first, the lookout did, bellowing their arrival from atop a catwalk, stretched between the homes. The field workers stopped their work, and drew weapons – an axe and a cudgel.

Jessa held her axes up. Redmun held his spear in one hand, the blanket in the other, which caught the wind and spread like the divisive flags of old.

One of the worker men – the axe wielder – took a step forward, lowered his axe, then began sprinting towards them over the half-thawed fields.

The two Possessors stayed where they were, and let the man approach.

“Zuma! That's my Zuma's!” He called, in the last, long leaps of his sprint. He snatched the blanket from Redmun's hands, ran his fingers delicately over and under its surface, even smelling it once or twice. His eyes opened, bursting from their sockets. His hand pulled away from it, rubbing crusted blood between fingers. It marked his face. He looked up. “Where…”

“Dead, good man,” Jessa said. She might have been trying for compassion, but she didn't get close. Not that Redmun could summon much better, right then. Jagged rocks looked comfortable right then.

The father's face – already hollow with exhaustion – was shed of what little life clung to it. He looked at them each once, then returned his eyes to the blanket. His fingers ran over its surface. Still soft, despite the stains.

The father dropped his hands to his sides and started towards the house, face empty. The other man caught up, catching the childless father in an embrace. Together they staggered back to the settlement.

…

The other, younger worker held the door open for the two Possessors, and let them into the largest house, looking just as hopeless despite his youth. Those inside were already sobbing.

“You'd leave your bags in the 'all, if it'd please you,” he said. Redmun nodded, and shed his burdens, leaning them against the wall.

The interior was mostly bare, but here and there the beginnings of a comely home could be seen. Lit mostly by sunlight, the drab, wooden interior took on a living feeling, as though the building were letting the sunlight in as it pleased. There was care in that hall, and rooms beyond.

In the main room the elder farmer knelt before a rocking chair, and the woman in it. His head was on her knees, his hands clasping one of hers. With her free hand, the woman held the blanket to her face. It muffled her sobs, but in that silence they permeated the house.

Jessa and Redmun stood in the doorway, unsure of what they'd been invited in for. The younger man – who looked like a typical, muscular, well-meaning but uneducated farmhand – had closed the front door, and stood watching beside them.

Footsteps crept down the stairs. The young girl on them was frozen, staring, eyes as wide as she could make them. “Momma!” she called, and shoved her way through. “Momma? Pappa?” With a wail she fell to the ground grasping her own section of the blanket in her hands. Her father pulled the both of them into an embrace.

“There's more for us to do here,” Jessa said. She turned, grabbed her pack, threw a look at the young man by the door until he moved, and exited the house. Redmun watched only a moment more, feeling strangely required to, before following.

“Hold, Possessors! Please, won't you hold?” The young man called from the porch. Before the two could respond, a hand appeared on his shoulder, and the elder farmer came to the front.

“My name's John Mellowie,” the man said. His eyes were shot red, smudged on his cheeks matching. “This is Kurt, my farmhand. Won't you please come in? I'd hear of our Zuma's last days.”

Redmun turned, not sure how to reply. They were tired, and a short rest might do them good. “Of course,” Redmun said, touching Jessa's arm She nodded, and came forward with him. “We just thought you wouldn't want to.” He adjusted the scarf on his front, made from spare cloth in their pack, though even if these people did see his glowing chest, they'd think it no different than Jessa's pale arm. They climbed onto the porch, shook hands with the men, and were welcomed as friends.

The five of them sat at the table, while the wife – still in the throws of her grief and mourning – prepared drinks. It was a disgusting sight to behold such a broken women going about her hostess chores, but perhaps it gave her some small solace. The young man – Kurt – was holding the daughter's hand, while the father, who flanked her other side, rubbed her back, gazing unblinking out of the window, at the trees beyond. His face twitched, fighting off tears, no doubt.

When the drinks were prepared, John's wife took the seat at the head of the table, took her husband's other hand. They looked at each other, a kind of look that told all of their helplessness. It's happened, it said. The wife broke off, and served the tea while the father finished the introductions.

“Isabelle, this is Redmun Briandry of Khelvorias, and Jessamine Forseth of Al'Hagr.” He sniffed, and let out a blocked-nose sigh. “They're the ones that found it.”

“Aye, of course.” She put a small, steaming teacup before each of them. Only Redmun and Jessa took it up to try it. It was nettles, tasting of nothing but the forest itself with a little bitterness thrown in. They each took one sip.

“This is my daughter Bess, and my wife, Isabelle.” John finally dragged his eyes from the wood, to look at them. “Would you tell us... tell us what happened?” The rest of them looked up, then, as if Redmun or Jessa could put their suffering to rest.

“Do you know what a Pilaven is?” Redmun asked. Blank faces, then John shaking his head. “A Pilaven is a hive-mind. Each individual – they're called Eyes – share part of that single mind. Do you understand?” They all nodded, though Isabelle's eyes had returned to the wood of the table. “They took your baby, your Zuma, probably in the night.”

“That was three nights ago,” John put in.

“Yes, that sounds about right,” Redmun continued. “The Evil used Zuma as bait, to bring in bigger prey. They caught us.”

“And you couldn't save her?” Isabelle asked. It was so devoid of emotion or intonation; it couldn't be anything but an accusation.

“The Pilaven keep's its bait asleep, until it's ready to draw its prey, good woman Isabelle,” Redmun said. He kept his tone professional, cold. Anything else and his held back emotions might break. “It's their toxin that woke up your Zuma, and drew us near. By the time we even knew she was there, she was already dying.”

Isabelle covered her face, and fresh drops hit the table beneath her eyes. Her husband wrapped himself around her. “Did you… help her?” he asked, and then his face distorted with rage. “Did you kill the thing?” he growled.

“Most of it,” Jessa said. “It fled before we could finish it, and even then was a task. But we gave her a painless death.”

“Why were we told it was safe, then? If the forest is full of these Pilaven, why'd we get told it was alright?” Kurt asked.

“It's never safe outside the walls,” Redmun said, and planned to leave it at that, but Jessamine was already talking.

“It's rare. Very rare.” Jessa took a cool sip of her hot tea. “It was an unlucky thing for it to be here, Redmun's right. It's not safe here, and never will be.” Jessa's cold tone made the accusation clear. Redmun didn't fault her for making it. This was their fault.

The young girl, who had been sitting still, mouth open, staring at her hands on the table the entire time, turned to her father. “I told you we shouldn't be here,” she whispered. “We're going to die here.”

“No, Bess,” her father said, pulling her close.

“Is there anything else you'd have of us?” Jessamine put in before the family dramatics could continue. “We have business in Khelvorias, and we must be going.”

John stood, and wiped his hands of both tears and sweat. “No, that's all, good Possessors.” He offered them each his hand, and the shake was even weaker than before. “Thank you for all your help. Is there anything we might offer you?”

“No,” Jessa said. “But if you'd accept it, we'd give you some advice.”

“Of course,” John said, but his face grew hollow at the idea of more chastisement.

Jessa made her voice soft. “Your daughter is right. If you stay here, more will die. All. It isn't safe here, and never will be. This land is hell. Go home, wherever that is, and stay there. Never cross the wall again.”