The world lurched like a drunk man and Tristan’s body flipped inside out and unfurled like the sail of a ship. The scenery shifted. Crimson Guards and glowing runes were replaced with sand and the ocean. The air was foul with the stench of fish guts splattered on the sand. Something wriggled in Tristan’s hand.

He looked down, blinking at two stormcrows that were struggling to free themselves from his hand. Draconian scales covered Tristan’s whole arm and a vicious looking mouth emerged from his palm. The mouth swallowed one bird and was in the process of swallowing the second. The bird’s black eyes flashed nervously as it tried to yank its head free.

Tristan touched the scales on his arm. They shimmered and drew back from his finger. The bird broke free, releasing a shower of tiny sparks as it flapped in annoyance. It landed a short distance from Tristan and cried out indignantly but it did not fly away. The stormcrows eyes had turned electric blue. It cocked its head and stared at Tristan.

Fannen cursed and retched, pulling Tristan out of his daze.

“You ok?” he asked.

Fannen rolled onto her side and waved a hand at him.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“Help me up,” she moaned.

Tristan knelt and inspected her for any new wounds. Her skin was crisscrossed with scars and over the scars were new cuts. The tattered rags she wore had a mixture of crusty blood and fresh blood which caused the clothes to cling to her body.

“Don't worry about that,” she said. “Just give me a hand.”

Tristan helped her to her feet. “Who were those people,” he asked.

“The Crimson Guard,” she said. “The king’s personal thugs.”

“Are they the bad guys?” he asked.

Fannen shook her head. “Can a person be bad for following orders?”

Tristan didn't have an answer to that. He looked back at the town and saw smoke rising from the battle ground. It wasn't that far away. If the Crimson Guard knew which direction they’d gone they’d be on them in a few minutes.

“What’s the plan?” Tristan asked.

Fannen gestured a short way down the beach at a fishing boat tied to a wooden pole.

With Fannen’s arms around Tristan’s shoulders and the bird hopping along behind them they slowly made their way down to the boat.

“Son of biscuit,” cursed Fannen, as Tristan helped her into the boat.

“Slow down man, you want to kill me.”

With enough cursing to make a sailor blush Fannen settled into the front of the boat.

Tristan pushed the boat into the water and then dragged himself up into it. He collapsed on his back, breathing heavily. His wounds had closed but he had lost a lot of blood. He was weak and his body ached from exhaustion and hunger.

“There’s no paddles,” he said. “Do you have any magic left in you?”

The Master’s eyes began to close. “What?” she mumbled.

“There’s no wind and no paddles,” Tristan said. “Can you summon the wind or push the water or something?”

Fannen swung her wary gaze to the sail and nodded slowly as if it was taking everything she had just to nod her head. Fannen had been running on sheer adrenaline for the last hour and Tristan didn't want to think what would happen when the adrenaline finally ran out.

The blue-eyed stormcrow squawked and landed on the boat. It tilted its head and watched the Master as she prepared to summon the magic.

Fannen closed her eyes and whispered. A faint halo appeared around her. Her eyes opened and breathed on the sail. A cool breeze blew gently against Tristan’s skin, sending a shiver down his spine.

Fannen concentrated the breeze on the sails and the boat began to drift out into the black waters of the Great Divide.

“Before you fall asleep,” Tristan said. “Let's treat those wounds.”

He opened up the backpack and began rummaging through it.

“Those symbols that appeared on your arm,” asked Fannen. “Where did you get them?”

Tristan handed her a cloth and a bottle of water. “Had them when I arrived in this world,” he said.

She took a sip of water and then lifted her shirt exposing a bleeding wound.

“Bloody hell,” muttered Tristan.

The wound had turned a sickly green.

Ignoring Tristan, Fannen dipped the cloth into the seawater and cleaned her wound.

“That's not Aressean magic on your arm,” she said. “It looks like a spell of binding.”

When Tristan gave no reaction she continued. “Someone, a Sage, most likely has bound Malice to you intentionally.”

“Why?” Tristan asked.

Fannen winced as she rolled her shirt back down.

“They may have planned to use your body to imprison the dragon,” she said.

“Is that even possible?”

“Who can say what is possible,” she said. “There are many forms of magic and magical beasts in this world.”

“Like your fairy,” Tristan said.

Her lip curled in a smile. “You saw her?”

He nodded.

“What does she look like?” Fannen asked.

“Like a grumpy librarian with wings and spectacles.”

Fannen laughed and then winced in pain.

“So she hasn't changed in all this time. I saw her once long ago in the orphanage. She was sitting on the foot of my bed like it was the most natural thing in the world.”

“Is that when the magic came to you?” Tristan asked.

She nodded. “So you know?” she asked.

“What?”

“The magic is not our own,” she said. “It belongs to the jinns that have possessed us.”

“Is Malice my jinn?” Tristan asked.

She smiled sadly. “Malice is not a jinn. The dragon is the primal incarnation of hatred and rage. Jinns make bargains with their hosts. There is no bargaining with a Primal. If he knew you were bound to each other, he would destroy you.” She closed her eyes for a moment revealing dark rings. “Maybe those symbols keep him from reaching out to you.”

Fannen laid back.

“Enough talk for now,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’ll need your strength for tomorrow.”

Tristan nodded and laid back and stared up at the stars. It had been one hell of a day.

***

Tristan dreamt of Luna that night. She was sitting on a swing in a playground. She had flowers braided in her hair and she wore a long flowing dress that swished as she swung higher and higher.

Tristan caught her swing and she laughed. She brushed a lock of hair out of her face and smiled at him. She bent forward to whisper something in his ear but he couldn't make out her words over the sound of crashing waves. Her hands touched his face. Then fingers ran down his neck. Her fingers curled around his neck and began to squeeze.

Tristan’s eyes flashed open. He gasped for breath but no air came.

Fingers dug into his throat. He struggled to push the hands away but the grip did not budge. He kicked out, missing his assailant and knocking over his sword instead. He stretched for the sword, his fingertips skimming the handle, just out of reach.

Tristan tried to scream.

The stormcrow was suddenly there, its blue eyes flashing in the dark. It pecked at Tristan’s attacker. Its wings flapped. Tiny sparks of light burst around it as magic was released from the bird. The momentary flash of light revealed the attackers snow white eyes and a scarred face inches from Tristan’s own.

The crows’ distraction was enough to loosen the revenant’s grip on Tristan’s throat. He pushed away its arms and kicked at the revenant. It fell back in a heap.

“Fannen,” he shouted.

Her white eyes stared back at him with no recognition in them.

“It's me,” he said.

Fannen stood up and Tristan reached for his sword. Before he could raise it Fannen leapt into the air. Tristan rolled back and lifted his legs. She landed on top of him and Tristan kicked with all his strength, launching Fannen over the side of the boat.

Tristan jumped to his feet and held his sword in front of him. He pivoted on the spot, his eyes studying the water for any signs of movement.

Moments passed and nothing stirred. The dark water's had swallowed the Master leaving nothing but her backpack and an emptiness in Tristan.

Tristan realized that in the last few hours, he had killed two Crimson Guard without a second thought. He had killed Master Fannen as well. She may have been a revenant but he thought maybe she would still be alive if she didn't have to protect him.

For the first time in many years, out in the middle of the ocean with no one to see him, Tristan wept.

***

The sun rose and still land was nowhere in sight. Fannen’s spell had lost its power the moment she had died and the boat had drifted aimlessly for some time.

Tristan adjusted the sails, kept the sun on his left and kept sailing straight ahead hoping he would reach land. Tristan kept busy to take his mind off of his loneliness.

He took an inventory of Fannen’s backpack. It held two bottles of water. One cloth. A loaf of bread and a coin purse with seven silver coins. He fed breadcrumbs to the stormcrow and sat on the edge of the boat and counted the fish that swam by.

He thought about Fannen’s transformation. She had been burnt by Malice’s fire but she hadn't been killed by it. He wondered if that meant that Malice’s fire cast a spell that marked a person so when they died they would be resurrected as a revenant. If that was the case then he understood why the Crimson Guard had been sent to eradicate everyone on the island. They couldn't risk people leaving the island and dying somewhere else only to be raised as zombies. Whatever the case was, Tristan knew that he needed to reach the academy and let the people know what had happened.

***

The boat drifted in the ocean for three night's and two days. He ran out of food on the first night. The water ran out on the second night and the stormcrow left him. On the third night he woke when the boat rammed into something hard. It was took dark to see what the boat had hit but Tristan felt water running into the boat. Waves crashed over the sides. Tristan fumbled around and gathered his sword and backpack and ran to the front of the boat. The boat was sinking quickly. The boat slammed into another rock. Tristan steadied himself, took a deep breath and jumped.

The waves tossed him into sharp rocks that pierced his sides. He went under. He struggled to reach the surface and then another wave crashed down on him pushing him under again. He fought the waves for half an hour and when he thought he could fight no more the waves died down. He floated in the dark water. The sun rose on the third day and Tristan saw land.

He dragged himself onto the beach and kissed the ground.

The stormcrow appeared again. I hopped nearer to Tristan as he lay on the ground. It pecked his finger which sent a jolt of electricity down Tristan’s spine. The bird spread its wings again and took to the sky. It circled Tristan and then flew west along the shoreline.

Tristan followed. He was too tired to think properly. He put one foot in front of the next and kept moving. Occasionally he would glance up at the sky and see the bird circling as it waited for him. The day passed quickly and as the sun set over the horizon a small town appeared.

The sounds and smells of civilization stopped Tristan in his tracks. A small part of his mind told him to be cautious but his hunger and thirst ignored the warning.

Above the town’s gate was a sign that read, ‘Seacliff.’ The words were faded and covered in seagull droppings.

A guard raised his hand to stop Tristan from entering the town.

“You new around here?” he asked.

Tristan nodded.

The guard smiled and said. “Weapons tax.”

“What?”

“Two coppers to bring that sword into town.”

Tristan fumbled in his coin pouch and drew out two dull coins. He tossed them to the guard who caught them with deft hands.

“Welcome to Seacliff,” said the guard.

Tristan walked down the main road and read the signs above the closed shops as he passed by. Tailor, Apothecary, Ruslamere Trading House, We Cutting Trees, the letters on the last sign looked like they’d been scrawled on by a two year old. The sounds of laughter and golden light drew Tristan's footsteps to an Inn called The Rusty Flagon.

***

The door to the Rusty Flagon creaked, a bell rang shrilly, as Tristan stepped into the inn.

Conversation stopped and all eyes turned to watch Tristan with deep seeded small town suspicion.

The barmaid who’d been painting her nails a lurid shade of pink, looked up at Tristan and flashed him a well practiced smile. “Welcome to the Rusty Flagon,” she said. The words rolled off her tongue in a thick accent.

She gestured lazily at an empty table.

“You eating or drinking?” she asked.

Her words broke the silence of the room and soon the room buzzed again with light chatter and occasional laughter.

The barmaid led Tristan past a group of miners who were leaning out of their chairs to watch the barmaid walk by. Apart from a small grin in the corner of her mouth she seemed not to notice her admirers.

She stopped at a small table beside the fireplace and Tristan took a seat and put his backpack and sword on the table.

“Do you have any dinner left?” he asked.

“Two coppers for the stew. Pork chops are one copper each. Bed and dinner’s five coppers, that don't include the chops though.”

The barmaid tapped her nails as she waited for Tristan’s response.

“Bed and dinner,” he said. He pushed five coppers onto the table and she slid the coins off the table and deposited them in her apron.

“Drink?” she asked.

“Juice if you have any,” he said.

The barmaid frowned. “I’ll talk to Cookie and see what she's got.”

Tristan glanced at the group of miners that were speaking over their drinks in hushed tones.

“I heard the mayor’s eldest daughter disappeared as well,” said the oldest miner. He had a thick oiled mustache which compensated for the bald head he kept covered with a tattered bowler's cap.

“They say she was a witch,” said a female miner. “I saw her a few days ago. She was standing on the pier in the rain, she looked like she didn't know where she was, she just stood there.”

“All these missing reports and a supposed war in Shalegos,” said another miner. “It’s enough to turn a man to drink.”

“Like you need a reason for drink,” said the woman, and the three miners snorted in laughter.

The barmaid arrived a few minutes later with a bowl of stew and a glass of red liquid.

“What’s the drink?” he asked.

“Hawthorn,” she said.

“And the stew?” he asked.

She shrugged. “A bit of everything.”

The barmaid narrowed her eyes. “You're not from around here, are you?”

“Just sailed into town,” he said.

She nodded. “Watch yourself with that sword of yours,” she said. “Folks don't take too kindly to strangers around these parts. Especially when they carry weapons.”

“Is that why there's a weapons tax at the gate?” he asked.

The barmaid chuckled. “Nah that's just Ol’ Cobb taking advantage of calfed eyed travelers.”

Tristan frowned. “How far is Aressea from these parts?” he asked.

The barmaid tilted her head as she did the mental math.

“A few hours along the Northern road by foot,” she said. “You can't miss it. Big stinkin city, got the magi’s academy squatting above it like a slimy toad on a mushroom.”