I woke up with a start and to the smell of roasting meat.

“Fire!” I thought.

“Fire.” I said more quietly.

Avice wasn’t back yet. And my arm didn’t hurt. But everything I did up until now suddenly felt so meaningless, I didn’t move an inch out of bed. I was sleeping in my armor again, what with all the new and unfamiliar people.

I got up and immediately realized that I was going to have a bad day.

Why do I even train? Why do I push myself through pain and peril? Why, when this is the reward I get?

I had talked the big talk about this being the price I paid for the lives I had saved and taken. But seeing a part of me not dead, not hurting, but just not… working. Not responding. Broken. That was sobering at best and crippling at worst.

Will I get better? Honestly, I wish I could say yes. Or no. The uncertainty is what’s eating me, in addition to looking at it, over and over, just to make sure this is real.

It was real. But just as real as the smell of roasting roast that seemed to crawl through every part of the temple. I didn’t dream it up. I could hear a clamor of voices from one of the longer sections and despite my mind weighing me down like a bag of bricks, I crawled out of bed and walked on over.

There’s no smoke. Doesn’t smell like wood burning. But there has to be a fire.

I was right and I was wrong. There was indeed no wood burning and as I passed Harris, I just had to ask what was up.

“It’s magic.” He said, clear and simple. “Someone’s got a casting, well, thing. Called it a locus I hear. Or a focus. Makes heat, clean and simple. Set up a little shop to heat people’s food. Honestly, I’m envious.”

Who wouldn’t be?

“Who’s this person?” I asked.

“The man with the wide-brimmed hat. Ya’ can’t miss him. He’s right where the entire temple is clamoring over the chance to eat food that isn’t raw. Frankly, the price he’s asking is abysmal. Still better than using wood though. Now that’d be a right catastrophe.”

So, my nose wasn’t deceiving me. I could eat food here. Honest to gods grilled food. I had subsided on nothing but raw spider, raw fish and on occasion, raw tree-croc for my entire time here. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t get somewhat used to it. But that didn’t mean it felt good going down my throat or even tasted all that swell.

Whatever it costs, I’m going to get some feel-good food. I deserve it.

I went back to where the Wolf deposited his daily quarry. The amount he brought back was enough even for the nearly five-dozen people that had made this temple their home over the past few weeks, and it was tree-croc today. I took a slice of the flank and followed the smell.

It smells sooo good.

I found the queue, or what was more like a blob of people, all with various cuts of the tree-croc and a few other, more unidentifiable pieces of meat. The three barbarians were each chewing on a juicy looking piece of rib. A look of satisfaction beyond satisfaction was written all over their faces and they were making the cutest little sounds while eating their meat.

I didn’t know guys like them could even make those kinds of indecent noises.

I tried to patiently wait my turn, but the blob of people being serviced seemed to just swell and swell before me. People weren’t cutting the line because there was no line to cut and while they did push forward with good reason, the craving for something good and satisfying was growing not just in my head, but my stomach too.

I squished myself forward, my size somehow helping me to slip in between people. I only elbowed a few of them in the side. Gently. I got a few elbows to the face in return and even a smack from a tail.

Ow! It’s like a damn whip.

The pushing took its toll and by the time I broke through the throng, I almost stumbled onto the humble looking man sitting on the floor with a slab of stone sat upon the ground. It was absolutely stacked with meats and he gently took one that was ready and gave it into the hands of a greedy customer in waiting.

That has to hurt. How doesn’t that hurt? Is it just that good that you’d burn your hands for it?

Going by the immediate satisfied moaning that came from the recipient, it was. I quickly held my meat out in front of the man.

“H-how much?” I asked. I was ready to pay anything for some good fucking food. Maybe, maybe even a bit of my soul. Yes, I was that desperate.

The man lifted his wide-brimmed hat with a pointy tip and placed it to the side. He wiped away the sweat on his brow and his dusty dark locks. With the composure of a saint, he simply said: “Nothing.”

“…nothing?”

“Nothing. Though a donation to me or the gods for their grace would be much appreciated. Regardless, thy meat shall be seared true. Dost thou prefer rare, medium rare or Xandrian?” he asked.

“Uh. Medium rare?” I had no idea what any of that meant.

He talked all fancy-like, like Glom and the frogs. But unlike them, he had a friendly and casual air about him. He also looked quite nice, in fact, bronze colored skin and a sharp face under dark hair. But most importantly? He didn’t demand a part of my soul. He made some room on his hot rock for my meat and I placed it, the sound of it almost as tantalizing as the smell, bringing up memories from long, long ago.

At that moment, I decided that I had to be his friend no matter the cost. Totally not because of his heating stone.

“So… how does that work?” I pointed at his rock of fire. It wasn’t literally burning, but I could feel the heat from a few feet away. It was so, so warm.

He flipped a piece of loin and didn’t take long to answer at all.

“The locus is engrafted with a sign. A sigil. Call it rune, call it symbol, the stone cares not. For through its channels, the strength of the soul can be made to trace the sign and thus beget fire. To give precision its dues, it creates heat, yet does not burn.”

“You’re burning your own soul?” I asked out loud.

Some people around me started murmuring. Attention was turned from the food to the man who could heat rock with a soul. Everybody here wanted to know how and most likely if they could imitate him as well. Even if that was the price.

“It is much simpler than that.” He said, calmly and without a hint on his face that he was the center of attention for pretty much the entire temple populace. “I use my own to push and pull. To cut it off would be a waste, for the soul is akin to a muscle. While a Grug or a Torpoise may be eaten for their meat, their muscle, it is more efficient to put these creatures to work in place of butchery.”

The murmurs all around grew more energetic.

“You’re saying you can use your soul to exert a force.” Said a man, stepping out from the group. His hair looked well-kept, but the rest of his face betrayed a wilder nature. His tusks and fangs revealed their full length as his mouth turned into a smile. “Say, what would it cost me to learn this feat?”

The man on the floor looked up at him. “Ten years of faithful study at the faculty for magitechnics in Old Yorivale. Finish thusly and after you may call yourself caster and castrated.” He had the sincerest of smiles on his face.

They stared off for another few moments. The well-kept wildman broke his gaze first, mumbling something about still having need of his manhood as he walked away. I didn’t care much for the conversation he had with a few others afterwards, because my slab of meat was ready and oh my.

This is better than… stuff. It’s better than stuff! I feel alive. I’m so glad I got out of bed today.

I ate it up, greedily scarfing the first one down before going back and getting another one. That one I tried to savor, but it too disappeared way too quickly. I soon had a third, then a fourth and while everyone else seemed to have had the same idea, I was one of the last to arrive.

And so, it came that I was sat opposite of him, finishing the last of my croc-leg as he started cleaning his rock and packing up for the night. Or day, technically, but it didn’t really matter. Everyone seemed to be going by their own personal time anyways.

“So.” I said between licking the juice off my fingers. “Was it true what you said to him? Ten years?”

He looked at me and beneath his perfectly crafted smile, I saw a grin pop up that I thought looked more natural on his face.

“I would never tell a lie. But perhaps some inaccuracies may have slipped into my recounting.”

I smiled back at him. “The castration?”

He scratched the back of his head and turned his head away. “…well, some inaccuracies.”

Oh. OH. Oh…

“So that means…?”

He looked me in the eye and the smile turned forced. “I can do the deed, but not spread my seed.” It was as if he was reciting it from a textbook.

I sat in silence for a moment.

Should I say I’m sorry? Should I say thank you for the meat? No, that’s just weird. Double weird. Very super weird.

“Was there anything else thou required of me?” he asked.

“Your name. I’m Rye. Elia Rye. But you can call me just Rye.” I said.

Smooth.

“Just Rye then. You’re the first to ask.” He said.

He stretched his limbs and let out a tired yawn. He looked exhausted.

“People call me caster. Of the caste that casts. But before a caster, I am a person still. Lohan of Nowhere is mine name.”

Lohan of… Nowhere? Was that another stupid city name, like Drama, which I remembered was the name for a city, a play, a type of play and for behavior that could be described as ‘dramatic’?

“Why ‘Nowhere’?” I asked.

“Well” he said. “Because I know I come from nowhere and my journey always leads me back again.”

Ah. So, he was a poet. Or it was a riddle. Or I wasn’t quite picking up what he was putting down. I didn’t have anything against poets. I could appreciate art. Even if I often didn’t understand it. Music was nice. Dancing too. Especially dancing.

“Nice to meet you.” I said, extending a hand. He looked at it with a mild sense of discomfort, but shook it, nonetheless.

“Yes. It is my pleasure.” He said before wiping off his now greasy hand.

Oops. Out of first impressions, I’d guess his of me an eight out of twelve, with room for negotiation.

And that was how I made yet another provisional friend. In spite of my arm and everything around, I went to sleep soundly that night. No forgotten nightmares, no worries. Just the warm glow of a full belly and satisfaction that spoke of a better future to come.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

“C’mon. Show it to me. You promised.” Says a girl named Rye by the riverside. Her laundry lies by the wayside, washed and done. Her legs splish and splash in the relatively cool river water. The air is much too hot. What little distant clouds there are, they remain forgotten.

The tall black-haired girl looks to the side. Her pile is much diminished. She still has much to do.

“Oh? And why exactly do you want to see it?” she asks with a wry smile. “Again?”

The girl named Rye shines, a sun for a smile. “Why shouldn’t I?”

However, the black-haired girl is apprehensive still. It is a rare face; one she rarely shows in place of unflappable confidence. “Your parents don’t like to see me do it. To dance. Outside of holy days and even then, they don’t allow this kind. My kind.”

“Honestly? They can shove that attitude where the sun doesn’t shine.” Rye says with a tinge of anger and a dismissive wave of her hand. It goes unsaid that her friend inherited the dance from her parents, both deceased. One of the few things they left her.

A line of unease and injustice runs through Rye’s heart but disappears as swiftly as it came. Sam is loyal. She has always been good and worked hard. Why wouldn’t her parents allow this little bit of fun? They aren’t unjust. They aren’t cruel. They should. They would.

“…I shouldn’t.” says the girl.

“That’s not for them to decide. It isn’t right. And you look lovely when you dance.” Rye retorts. “Here. I’ll do your portion of the laundry. And in exchange, you do your thing for a bit.”

A moment passes. A smirk on the black-haired girls face. “Well then. If you offer such a worthy sacrifice, who am I to object?”

She hitches her skirt and walks into the river. Sandy ground and round polished rocks underneath. No branches. A few Gettys between her legs.

Rye takes up the laundry and waits with bated breath. Two bands at the side of her skirt are undone. Three. The girl sets one foot in front of the other. A leg exposed up above the thigh. Water flows to the sound of hot summer air.

And then it begins. The Riverdance from far, far away.

A kick. A short movement of the legs, curt and controlled at first.

Another kick. The foot makes a small loop before it returns back. The water lingers at her knees. Another kick.

Rye watches her feet move and hop and spring and kick the air. She doesn’t miss the small adjustments beneath the water. The small half-circles and the setups for the twirl. The lively twitch of her knee and all the leg above.

Another jump.

The splash of water turns into a song and the dance becomes more wild. Less controlled are the feet now. The water starts to soak her skirt, drops small, drops larger.

It flows freely. Ahead and forward, around, and right, left, left and up.

And all the while, the girl in black is smiling like she never does.

Her face is red. Her hair clammy, sticking to it front and side. Her movements falter, but she catches herself. The dance isn’t over yet.

And Rye watches it all, taking in how it flows, how her friend moves, how she hops and twists and never seems to fall. Every stumble is caught and turned; every faltering step subverted to the dance’s end.

It’s chaotic. It’s unpredictable. It’s lovely.

Longer! Longer! Longer!

However, every revel must come to an end. One step, the girl is fine. The next, she stumbles and tips too far.

Splash!

Water flies everywhere. But the girl is more than fine.

“And what are you grinning at?” she pants mischievously.

Even lying in the water, soaked head to toe, clothes loosely weighing her down, she looks so unchained, looks lovely, looks free. As it ought to be.

Rye can’t help herself. “Oh, nothing. Just thinking how you’re going to explain all your wetness to Mum.”

A smattering of water is kicked her way and she yelps.

“Ack! I get it, I get it. Mine too!” She says and jumps in with her friend.

She slips on the last step and instead falls right into her arms.

“Oof!” says the black-haired girl. “…you did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

Rye just keeps on grinning. “Oh, my savior in shining armor.” She says. “So brave was thee, thou spiest a lone lady in the rapids and nary a second did thee tarry afore thou leapt to her rescue.”

She is answered with the raise of an eyebrow. “Is that the story we’re going with today?”

“For mum? Nah, she’ll get the short version. But you still did save me from the rapid, dangerous river. We can leave that part in.” She leans in for a peck. “You were awesome, Sam. Your dance was so cool, like, like…”

“Do you want me to teach you?” Sam asks.

Rye’s face lights up. “Of course! But oh, I am but a poor lady, bereft of all wages and wealth. How am I to pay for such an extravagant thing?”

Sam entirely feigns ignorance. “Oh, I would never demand recompense from such a pretty lady.”

“But I am entirely in debt to you, my knight. Would you not accept anything I can offer? Not even if I were to… work it off?” Rye’s face is full of mischief and her hand wanders down into perilous waters.

For a short moment, they share a spark, a revel, a soul.

But a distant call reminds them that there is still too much work to do.

Sam sighs and smiles sadly. She gives her a peck on the cheek. “I’ve still got laundry to do, bean. And more after that.”

Rye is disappointed. But she understands. Obligations must. And they always must when it’s most inconvenient. Together-time becomes especially hard to find when you have to evade the entire estate’s household.

Not that nobody knows. But there’s always an undertone of undeserved disapproval. What are the other servants to think when the firstborn mingles with one of theirs? Not that they truly act like Sam ever belonged. Even if Rye’s mother parades her around as the second greatest thing on the continent, they never treat her with much kindness. She has no one.

Rye has always wanted to make her part of the family. The inner family, the real one. But her parents wouldn’t accept it. And starting that conversation always leads to awkward dinners.

“I promised I’ll help. But you gotta teach me your dance sometime.” She says and stands up.

Her friend follows and as they reach the river’s edge, something gives her a squeeze from behind and tickles her ear.

“Later, bean.” Is all she hears.

Yet a heavy air looms, portending the coming storm.