“Why didn’t you save me?”

Joran’s eyes bolted open, surrounded by hellish flames, scanning the area until he saw Drekor on the ground, burning to a crisp as if he was nothing more than a wooden mannequin. To his horror, Joran watched his friend snap his neck inhumanly to look up at him, empty, blank sockets where his eyes should be.

“How did you let this happen?”

“Stop!” Joran’s voice quivered in his scream, dropping to his knees, shutting his eyes closed, until he felt the flames lick at his skin before finally being sucked away with a strong gust.

He felt hands come over him. Different shapes, some small, others larger than his own. Grabbing and assaulting him as he dropped to the ground completely, cradling his body, shivering.

“Shame I love smart boys,” Was all Joran heard before he dashed wide awake, bolting upright from the vine wreathed bed he was in, drenched in sweat.

Swallowing deep breaths, he pinched his nose before burying his face into his hands, shaking in his own skin.

The cool breeze of the night brushed along his body, drying him of his cold sweat. The sounds of the forest soothed him as it did the last few nights he had been here. Calm buzzing of insects enveloped around the wooden shack he was in. The moonlight lit up the silhouette of the looming expanse of the north, that he could see through a lone window.

He could faintly hear the slight hum of a young woman nearing him, her soft lullaby a gentle embrace compared to his nightmares. Finally, he could feel his heart stop threatening to beat out of his chest as he pulled his face away from his hands, studying his hands absentmindedly.

Emilie rounded the corner from outside, stopping short after seeing Joran awake before she frowned, “Another bout?”

Joran scoffed self-mockingly as he balled his hands, “… Yeah.”

Emilie sighed in lament, clearly far more dejected than she had been moments earlier, “Would you like some of the honey again? It worked wonders last night.”

Darting his eyes up to Emilie before flitting them away skittishly, he took a few moments before he responded flatly, “Yes please.”

Emilie drifted over to a counter by Joran’s bed, the entire room completely wreathed in vines and almost looked as if nature had completely taken over, if not for the crisp clack of the drawer opening and Emilie sifting through it. In fact, that was how the entire shack looked.

Joran sighed to himself, “Thank you for letting me stay here. I know it must’ve been hard keeping your Master from coming here.”

Emilie harumphed to herself, “She doesn’t even come here anyways. Always letting me fetch stuff from here instead. I think I might’ve ran out of honey,” She continued to look through the other drawers, knowing full well it would have only been in the top one before drooping her head in defeat.

Joran smiled weakly as he waved her off, “It’s fine, your company has worked wonders already.”

“Is that so… Well then I’ll accompany you a little longer.”

Before Joran could say another word, the girl skidded by him, settling herself on the bed, her legs swept off the ground slightly as she looked sideways to him with a comforting smile.

He closed his eyes, taking a breath in as he looked out the window to the looming mountains, his eyes softer than before, even with the bitter resolve flickering behind them, “I’ll be leaving tonight.”

“… So, what do you plan to do?”

“… I’m going to go North.”

Emilie gave him a look of surprise, before giggling to herself, relaxing herself and looking up at the mountains like Joran, “Even though you’re from the Metropolis?”

The first time he heard this from her, he was shaken to his core at how she even knew. But by now, he realized it made sense. After all, she saw him kill the deer the first time they met. He looked sideways at her before giving a knowing smirk.

“So what if I am?”

She held a finger up to her chin as she hummed to herself in thought, “Well that’s your business I guess. But be careful! Many of the Clans here aren’t as welcoming to outsiders as the Metropolis might be. And…” She jumped off the bed, steadying herself before turning around to face Joran, “Not everyone likes the Idaten, Joran.”

Taken aback slightly, he scoffed at the warning, considering it as if it was condescending and responded in the same way, “Well obviously. I wouldn’t have found myself nearly dead if that wasn’t the case. Any other advice?”

Emilie shrunk back slightly, but shook her head before making her way towards the door, “… Since you’re feeling better, I’ll take my leave. Follow the river and you’ll find Mizore.”

Joran frowned, his eyes closed as he pinched the bridge of his nose, before asking pointedly, “And how do you know I want to go to Mizore? I could be going to Mira? Or Mudoku.”

Emilie’s eyes hardened as her face slipped into shadows as she turned, “Just a feeling. Until we meet again, Joran Idaten.”

Wincing at the surname, Joran looked away, casting his eyes back up along the mountains as he heard her footsteps leaving. Alone now, he clutched his legs close to his body, burying his face into his knees.

Four days… Was all he could think to himself. Four days of being nursed back to health, since he massacred the encampment he had been imprisoned at. Four days of doing nothing but steeping himself in his pain and torment, receiving nothing but bittersweet silence from the Siren.

Grunting in frustration, Joran looked back out at the mountains, and then scanned the meadow that was directly outside before taking in a deep breath. Emilie was kind enough to bring him regular green smudged robes, albeit very worn out. Joran mused to himself once or twice it must’ve been what she had worn before secluding with her Master in this pocket of Virriben. But such musings left his mind now as he grabbed Rulm, and what little that she was able to offer him in supplies on the counter before setting off under the moonlight.

Joran would’ve preferred to leave on better terms, but in these few days he’d already realized how different people could be. Emilie was as spontaneous as the wind and rain. Although she was largely bubbly and happy towards him, he could always glean past the surface a force that he didn’t want to ever confront. Especially within her domain of the forest.

Shuddering at his thoughts, his gait quickened, and he made his way towards the river, following it upstream. He could hear the night life buzz all around him, the water trickling down the course, pitter patter echoing off of rocks and dirt it relentlessly thrashed at. His strength had mostly returned to him, only a bit of his energy locked away under fatigue and emotions he didn’t want to even try to unwrap, consciously or subliminally.

His trek was mostly him submerged in his thoughts, for better or for worse. He knew for sure that him and the Siren could never reconcile. She clearly considered them in a partnership in some sick, twisted way. As for how she believed he could become a Beast in the first place was far beyond him. Or how she believed he would even do it. Recalling how she consoled him in the shallowest way, saying he was becoming like her. He scoffed at the remark, finally unbottling small portions of his emotions, small streaks of tears dripping down his chin as he made his way to the upper parts of Virriben. Even as rattled and violated as he felt, he did feel grateful to her. Despite his loneliness, he couldn’t help but feel that he wanted to have her company. But this swirled within his growing hatred that spindled his heart. He trembled in his growing anger, until he stopped walking, somewhere along the foothills, shaking as he clenched his fists into balls. Until he could feel trickles of blood from his skin being pierced by nails.

I can still feel them… He sniffled, resorting to returning to the Sanctuary finally. Descending down into the frozen wasteland, the pitch-black sky hiding whatever light shone on the field. Dropping to his knees, he shook in his body, clutching his side. He felt how alone he really was, this wasteland offering no solace, the Siren either not here or unaware that Joran had come. His brother dead.

“’Why didn’t you save me?’”

He screamed to himself, confusing his emotions for one another as he walked up to the tree, smashing Rulm’s sheath into it over and over and over and over again.

Can I do anything? Do I deserve to be alive? Why am I alive and not Drekor?

Why was I the one that would be the Joker…

…

The sun rose on the horizon after Joran fell asleep for the third night of his trek, laying awkwardly somewhere by the river. The light filtering through the conifer-filled alpine world, he could tell he had probably reached the true end of Virriben, where the trees would quickly begin to disperse, leading into sparse shrubs and bushes. His eyes barely opened with the sun hitting them as he numbly laid there. His energy was sapped from the three nights he had spent, and he hadn’t even bothered to put something down to sleep on before he fell asleep for each night.

Sighing his aching pain away, he sat himself up, scanning his surroundings before grabbing some bread and jerky to eat. His body was fine for the most part, but his heart wasn’t. After he finished his small breakfast, he grabbed water from the river, which seemed to grow more turbulent as he went up, and resumed his trek quietly.

Completely different from the prior days of struggling with himself, he stayed silent verbally, externally stoic. All he could do was remember everything again. Repeating them in his mind again, and again. And again.

The nightmares that plagued him ever since he was a boy, morphing and evolving into something far worse. The loss he felt with his parents dying, leaving him to his Aunt and Uncle that were far too inclined to push him away in his grief. But now…

He stopped walking, as he looked down from where he was. The tree line cut short, leaving a view that he had never beholden before. To his left in the east, a vast field of blue-green grass that peered over the horizon, a gargantuan steppe of rolling land. To his right, he had the Raium Desert in its hollow, looming expanse. The barren sand only interrupted by orange buttes and plateaus that continued off until the horizon as well.

And here he could see the forest he had been in, several rivers that drifted through from the Northern Mountains, no doubt forming the river that led into Gaia. Virriben stretched as far as he could see to his left hugging the mountains, encroaching the stark line of trees until it wrapped around behind the mountains in the distance, going all the way down south as far as he could see, imagining in his mind the start of the sea past the horizon. Standing there Joran felt himself seize up in awe, like he had when he first made it to the valley he spent 10 years in. Where he drew the card that would change his life. Thinking back to that it had been almost a year since then, he let out a shaky breath of relief. Almost like a farewell to the forest, thanking it for the company he had forgotten to appreciate.

“… Onward to Mizore. To the Frozen Asgard,” Joran said to himself as he turned around to continue on the marked path up around the face of the mountain.

The path made a sharp increase in its incline, wearing Joran out more than he expected. But persisting on, he made his way into the shadows of the mountains away from the bleak sun. Here, he could soften his eyes, not needing to squint against the ground reflecting sunlight, and could now stop to pause in the newfound surrounding he found himself in.

As if he had stepped across an invisible barrier, he could feel the temperature dramatically drop, and before him, the stream he had been following until now pooled into a relatively large lake. The path hugged along the edge of the lake as it bulbed out before reaching a wooden bridge that led directly to what was likely Joran’s destination.

Mizore was supported by crystallized beams from underneath out in roughly the middle of the lake, and the entire palace-like city was crystallized blue. The tallest spires that reached above it caught glimpses of sunlight that shone brilliantly as highlights. The surrounding mountains that converged here were blanketed in snow, with a plethora of grey grass and shrubs that dotted their surfaces. Joran could also see various wild beasts here as well, grazing that vegetation.

The scale of the sudden gulch he found himself in put him on pause for a moment, gaining his bearings again before scuffling forward along the path.

He was surprised at how quiet it seemed to be. Only the occasional grunt from a beast, the bristling wind above him closer towards the mountain peaks, and the water beneath him. But no one seemed to be around.

His eyes continued scanning the area, curious but also wary, as he reached the bridge. Testing his foot on its surface, he kept his pace, seeing the gate that enclosed the rest of the city from view. With only two or three steps taken, it opened… Or rather, melted, with a lone figure standing where it used to be.

Their voice was firm and strict, but also laced with surprise, “… State your business, traveler!”

Joran stopped in his track, furrowing his brow for a second as he considered what he should say. He knew he wanted nothing to do with the Joker title, and it wouldn’t be that beneficial to say he was either. He had no clue who he could openly trust anymore.

He sighed, holding a hand on his waist, “I’m from the Central Districts, and seeking to learn the Ice Tempest Arts.”

The man that stood at the gate got closer, his features becoming more apparent. He was substantially taller than Joran, his grey eyes suspicious as his short blonde hair bobbed as he jogged closer. The two of them stood about 15 feet away from each other as the man looked Joran up and down and frowned himself.

“… There were no Exams in the last month. Not that I heard at least, so why are you alone and late?”

Joran cursed under his breath before sighing, letting more of the truth out, “The caravan I was with was attacked by Dune Runners... I’m not sure if I am the only survivor, but I was the only one to get away.”

The man grunted as he cupped his chin, pondering to himself as he looked down at the bridge. Then back up at Joran as he pointed over to Joran with the same hand that had held his chin.

“And that blade?”

Joran instinctively reached for Rulm, unsure of an answer to give as he stammered in a slight panic, “Uh... A weapon I found in one of the wagons. I thought I should have something at least as I made my way here?”

“Fair enough,” the man shrugged as he turned around, shaking his head as he took a few steps away in his pace.

Before Joran could say anything however, he watched the man whip around, his hand open as Joran could see a spear made of bluish ice form in it near instantly and whizzing towards him now with the full flourish of the man complete. Reactively, without a second thought in his mind, Joran unsheathed Rulm and held it diagonally to deflect the spear, feeling the impact move him nearly a foot back as he grunted, his hands numb from the recoil.

Shakily, his eyes moved from the spear that had fragmented into pieces that were already dissolving to the grey eyes of the man in front of him. His smirk telling the story. Joran slumped forward in defeat, letting his turquoise blade’s point drop down to his feet as he shook his head. He knew now the spear wouldn’t have hit him, or at least wouldn’t have done any lethal damage to him. It was a test to see if Joran was telling the truth. And it was as clear as day that he was at least extremely familiar with his sword.

Joran let out a grunt, giving up his façade, “I’m from the Terrene Metropolis, although it is true that the caravan I was with was attacked.”

The man frowned, “... And you want to learn the Ice Tempest Arts? What’s your last name?”

Joran winced, pinching the bridge of his nose as he moved closer, “... Idaten.”

“...” The man scratched his nose, keeping his eyes trained on Joran.

“...”

“... So could you not use the Sovereign Realm Arts or-”

“D-don’t worry about that,” Joran rolled his eyes exasperatedly, now moving closer to the man, “I’m here to learn the Ice Tempest Arts, shouldn’t that be all that matters?”

“Uhm...” The man held the back of his head, unsure of how to respond as he slowly responded, “Well... Your aptitude needs to be gauged first. Usually, we have... the newcomers spar in Lums with rudimentary understanding of the Arts and go from there... But you’re alone so...”

Joran blankly looked as he took every word, his answer already formed, “So... Have someone spar me?”

The man groaned, shaking his head, “You... realize that it’s not that easy right? I mean, who’s going to take the time out of their own training to spar you?”

“... So, spar me then,” Joran said, his eyes growing dark as his grip on his blade grew more firm, taking his battle stance as he nearly glared at the man.

Holding his hands up, his grey eyes taken aback but again not sure of how to respond, “Look, I could but what’s in it for me?”

Joran thought for a moment, then shrugged, “... But still, I was able to block the ice spear you made, so I could surely let you ‘gauge’ me?”

This slight taunt was spur of the moment, with Joran expecting to get a rise out of the man. Not the suddenly glaring look he received from him, his own body seizing up in anticipation. Joran’s focus nearly flattened instantly as he watched the man step backwards. Then another step. Another. The change to the man’s face contrasting sharply from his mostly friendly demeanor to now with the hostility plastered on it.

“Fine. I’ll see if you can block a real attack from me,” he said coldly as he hunched forward now, suddenly in a stance as his palm opened in the familiar way as before, except now Joran could see the crystallization.

This spear looked considerably more dense than the last one, the tip far more jagged and the shaft glistening in the sunlight now. The man gritted his teeth as he lunged, putting all of his weight behind his arm, his foot moving forward and flattening on the bridge. With a sharp grunt the spear flew out of his hand, spiraling right for Joran.

Joran didn’t even hesitate, knowing how much force was behind this now, and waited for a split second before he swung his blade’s flat side upwards, trying to bring momentum to at least deflect the spear. He wasn’t about to bet on if he could block it like the first one.

Thud!

Joran gritted his teeth, feeling his arms nearly give way as he felt the spear’s tip loudly clash against Rulm. This impact caused Joran to fall back and find himself another few feet away from the man, coughing as he watched the spear fly up into the air, slowing to a stop before whizzing back to the hand of the man who was now already standing above Joran. His expression was serious, but no longer hostile as he pointed the tip down at Joran’s neck.

A small sense of déjà vu filled Joran’s mind as he swatted the tip away from him, sighing, “... Alright, I can only barely block the spear.”

Joran expected the man to insult him, or at least reprimand him, but he only heard laughter spill out from behind the man, Joran’s eyes going wide as he heard it, hearing a coy alto voice, “Soto, you shouldn’t get so heated! What if you had seriously harmed a potential Disciple?”

The man, Soto, turned around and immediately bowed deeply, the spear dissipating long before he cupped his hands together, “Forgive me, Master... This newcomer tried to claim the first spear was the limit of my power... I was furious he would assume such a meager spear would be the testament to your training you gave me.”

Joran shuffled up, hugging Rulm in his hands and across his body as he watched Soto, now giving a knowing smile as he let a small scoff that neither of them could hear, “So that’s why you got so hostile...?”

The Master walked forward closer, Joran now finally properly giving her a look over. She was a little over half the height of Soto and had medium black hair that slacked down to her shoulders. Her warm smile showed faint age, her ice blue eyes captivating to Joran, realizing now she held a wooden staff that seemed to have ornate, crystallization wreathed along the surface and crevices.

Moving past Soto, the Master held a small, lean hand towards Joran along with a warm smile, “Forgive my Disciple Soto, he means the best intentions.”

Joran shook his head, reciprocating the smile as he gripped her hand, “No, I should have been more considerate. I’m new to the Borderlands, and I hadn’t considered such an apprentice-... esteemed Disciple would have such respect for his Mentor- ahem, Master.”

In the corner of his eye, Joran could see Soto immediately relax, no longer hostile as he nodded, and cupped his hands together, a fierce smile on his face and gray eyes, “Hah! Of course, I would respect Master Corun! Her teaching and training are what brought me this far!”

Joran was hoisted up, and then immediately bowed towards Corun, “Thank you for your magnanimity, Master Corun.”

Corun closed her eyes, waving Joran off as she chuckled, “Nonsense, newcomer. My Soto should have at the very least come to me for counsel when you arrived, not get wound up in ‘gauging’ you,” She turned around, pinching Soto’s cheek firmly and dragging his upper body down, closer to her face, “And I would’ve told you, my Disciple, that we could take him in as my second Disciple.”

Both men were taken aback, Joran stumbling back as he stammered, “U-uh, well I don’t want to work around a... any rules or p-policies! If I need to, then I need to!”

Corun let go of her Disciple’s cheek, and twirled around again, tilting her head a bit aloofly, now bringing up her staff and poking Rulm with it, “You know, you’re not entirely wrong... After all, you just happened to come here after that caravan attack was reported by Yamatsumi a few days ago...”

Color drained from Joran’s face as his original warm demeanor shifted to an empty one. The change was even more sharp and drastic than Soto’s turn to hostility, and the two Mizore members shuddered slightly as they watched Joran’s eyes harden, flitting back to Corun as he became deathly serious.

“What was the report.”

Corun frowned, but obliged the answer, “They said they had been escorting the Crowned Prince, Drekor and the Joker before they were attacked and robbed by presumably Dune Runners. There was a detail of a Dune Runner camp not too far from the attack being covered in ice...” She narrowed her eyes, as she continued on, “Are you...?”

Joran shook his head, “Tell me, what of the news of survivors?”

Corun glanced to her side, looking at Soto before she moved closer, in a more serious, hushed voice, “There were none.”