Chapter One

*

“This child, as our Lord watches from the heavens, will be tested to see if he is of pure heart or if he has been tainted by the Blasphemer!”

Why-

Why are you so loud?

My limbs stretch wide, feeling the hands that hold me up in the air press sharply on my sides. I let out a whine, knock that off.

Something feels wrong.

I’m forgetting something. Something important.

Squinting eyes let in little light, though it pains me to even try to peel away the crud sealing them closed. Everything feels slow. Weakness permeates my body. My senses are dulled. The man’s booming words are the only exception to this.

“In His faith, we anoint this child as one of us!”

Oh, oh no. Not this shit again!

Cold water washes over me as I’m submerged within a small tub, but I already know how this ends. The water clears away the gunk from my uniquely identifying orange-amber feline eyes, and I stare up into the horrified gaze of the Zealot - probably a High Priest. In the time it takes me to blink, his lips curl into a snarl; pure, unadulterated hatred bores into me, my tiny heart skipping a beat involuntarily.

I hate you too, asshole.

The Zealot pulls a sacrificial dagger from the folds of his silver scholarly robes, and its sharp blade glints in the bright cathedral’s overhanging lights - stained maroon with the blood of generations of my incarnations.

“The Blasphemer’s taint is upon this youth! O’ Lord Above, watch as your most devout fulfills your will.” Spittle flies from his leathery lips and his jowls flop wildly as he spreads the lies of The Mad God. The concerningly sharp tip of the dagger cuts through the air, and I can do nothing but close my eyes and accept my fate.

This.

Really.

Sucks.

I wait.

And I wait some more.

But the sharp, life-stealing pain never comes.

I open my eyes again, bewildered to find a man - boasting broad shoulders, a scruffy beard, and curly-blonde unkempt hair - manhandling the priest. Their struggle comes to an end when the man finally frees the knife from the priest’s grip, snatching it for himself. With a tight grip on the dagger, he sinks the maroon tip deep into the priest’s eye socket.

Yes, get me out of here!

Without hesitation, the man wraps my childish form in a soft blanket that’s beside the small dais. I curl into him, this unknown man, and thank Andromeda that I still draw breath; that my heart still beats.

Exhaustion pushes me to the brink of sleep, my eyes barely fluttering open despite my outraged protest. I need to see more!

The man strokes my head as he runs, each step carrying us forward across long swathes of land. Everything blurs. Darkness covers the sky as black storm clouds block out all traces of light and booming thunder deafens my ears.

“Artemis, my son,” he whispers. “I won’t let anything happen to you. You’re all I have left.”

*

“Art - Arty - Artemis!”

“What?” I look up from the campfire, meeting the concerned eyes of my savior, my Father.

I brush away my messy golden mane, matted with layers of gritty mud, and wipe my sweaty hands against my thin pelt, stitched together to brave the harsh landscape.

Nearly an adult, I match Father in height and strength, but he would never admit to me that I was his equal. I look like a copy of him, the only distinction being my orange-amber feline eyes and my youthful face. The campfire illuminates the telltale signs of greying hairs within his scraggly beard, displaying the strain of a life full of harsh experience. Hard eyes stare back at me, but within - deep, deep within - a kindness also shines through.

“Where’d you go, son?”

“I - I don’t remember, Father,” I answer nervously, his focus more intense than a predator when stalking prey. I wipe the sticky sweat from my arms, looking away from his all-knowing gaze.

“Was it another memory?” he asks, tossing another stick on the fire.

My memories, fragmented by the numerous times I’ve been reincarnated, can’t always be trusted as accurate. History as I know it regularly clashes with history as I once knew it. With the unreliability of my memories, it is sometimes difficult to understand who I am and why I’ve drawn this lot in life. I have one thing going for me, though - three certainties that are embedded deep into my being with absolute conviction.

First.

Andromeda, my goddess, needs me, and I am the only hope she has.

Second.

The Scholar - no. The Mad God hates me and desperately wishes to prevent my reincarnations. His efforts are fruitless; an unknown blessing acts on me, bringing me back time and time again. Sometimes, though, I wonder whether that is more curse than blessing.

Third.

His Zealots hunt me even now, long after I’ve escaped from their lands, and they will never stop.

I let out a sigh of relief, rolling out the tension in my shoulders and taking a deep breath to steady myself. “Yes, Father.”

Surprisingly, he doesn’t press for details. I’m taken aback by his lack of follow-up but decide to ignore it. I roll back onto my bundle of furs, staring at shadows as they dance across the cave ceiling. The crisp crackling of sticks in the fire is the only sound that breaks the silence. I squirm in place, trying to find comfort, but something keeps bothering me. A single thought. A persistent thought. I build my courage brick by brick, forming a bridge with which to broach the topic.

It is enough to start, though only just. I manage to force out a firm, “Father.”

“Yes?” He prods the fire several times before looking over at me with mild curiosity, the telltale traces of a smile on his face.

“What happened to my mother?” I stare at him, my eyes searching for any hint, any clue that would guide me toward some answer, some kind of clarity. This isn’t the first time I’ve asked, but so much time has passed that I think maybe I can convince him to tell me something this time around, even if it’s just her name. Some kind of description. Anything! He looks away, but I continue, “I saw the day you saved me. She wasn’t there.”

The fire dances within his eyes, bringing them to life. His attempt at hiding the struggle, the pain within, fails miserably. I can see as he withdraws into himself, the set of his jaw locking and his eyes hardening.

“I’m old enough to know now!” I stand up and take a step forward, feeling the warmth of the fire as I move closer. “I’m almost an adult, Father. Seventeen years, and I know nothing of my mother.” I step closer, resting my hand against his shoulder. “Please Father, I need to know.” I sit beside him, my heart beating with anxiety.

A searching gaze meets mine, digging deep within. I open my mouth to speak, to further press him for details, but something tells me that I won’t get a single answer if I speak now. I shut my mouth and let the words die at the tip of my tongue.

Eternity passes, caught within our unblinking stares. I start to think I should just give up, but he looks away first, finding whatever he’s searching for, and lets out a deep sigh.

“Your mother died giving birth to you, Art.” My heart sinks and I gulp back a sob, having long ago assumed that to be the case. I just - it still hurt. “A precious thing, she was.”

I listen intently, hanging onto every word, and wipe away the moisture accumulating in my eyes. This is the first time he has ever spoken of her, and his gushing love is evident in every word.

“Her favorite color was the orange of the rising sun, so the springtime would always make for the best of times. She was always ready to watch the world come to life after a long winter.” His eyes glaze over as he loses himself in a distant time - yet still, he speaks. “It always amused me how she’d frolicked like a child through meadows and climbed the wild oaks. She- she always smelled of dandelions and lavender.”

I grip his shoulder tightly and he reaches up to grip my hand in his, staring deeply into the fire.

“She had long hair dark as night, falling down to her lower back. She loved that hair. Without fail, she’d be up before the sun - her brush and mirror in hand. She would wake me to a freshly cooked meal every morning, singing her perfectly pitched melodies. I always said, ‘The angels would be jealous of such a voice’ - even when she wasn’t around to hear me say it. Her laughter… it was the most beautiful thing, like soft tinkling bells chiming under a gentle breeze. Those were the moments I cherished.”

“I wish I could’ve met her,” I whisper.

Father’s gaze hardens again, “Art, your mother was a Zealot.”

*

My mind blanks, unable to envision the Zealots as anything other than lunatics that murder children. A Zealot embodying the things he described? I can’t comprehend it, and the shock must show clearly.

He shrugs my hand off his shoulder. Bitterness creeps into his voice. “Let’s - let’s just go hunt.”

I sit there, mouth opening and closing for several more moments. No words come to mind to describe the internal struggle, the guilt of causing my mother’s death, the confusion upon learning that Zealots can be more than monstrous, and to know that there was never a life where we could’ve been happy together as a family. All this flits through my mind on repeat, distracting me from my preparations for the hunt. It takes me several attempts, but I finally push what he told me to the back of my mind, lock it tightly, and forget about it. I - I can’t deal with that right now.

Despite my convincing imitation of a flounder, my heart involuntarily races in excitement at the thought of hunting. I banish the thoughts, collecting my lightly packed hunting bag. Father is already exiting the cave’s mouth with his trusty spear in hand, but it takes little effort to catch up.

I trail behind him as we walk, the worn path taking us deep to the center of our hunting ground. On a better day, I would pick a direction and find a target. I would practice my tracking and then we would either hunt it together, in the case of a larger target, or I would be sent after it.

My steps land softly against the ground, carefully placed to reduce any sound. I can’t help but feel awed by the vibrancy of The Snarl, its violet-leaved oaks looming far overhead. Shrubbery litters the forest floor, forming a kaleidoscopic view composed of eye-catching hues.. Vibrant yellow petals on large stalks, bushes of greens, blues, and oranges - it never ended. A variety so vast lives within The Snarl that I long ago gave up on trying to remember their names. At the end of the day, I know which berries, plants, or animals will cause me to breathe my last - that will have to be enough.

Small streams run through the forest, and we reach the crossroads of our hunting path. Up ahead, I see an infant Terror Monkey, meandering about on our path and looking lost as can be. I reach forward to stop Father, wanting to warn him to go around it, but he steps forward and kicks the thing deep into the forest.

What the? That’s not normal.

“Enari sent an emergency signal, we’re returning tonight,” Father says without looking at me, continuing the trek forward.

We descend down into a valley, traveling through The Snarl in the direction of Enari, towards a supply hole we use in case of emergencies.

As the valley descends, a stream runs parallel to our path. A clearwater stream, it is a soothing presence, exuding a fresh smell and the relaxing sounds of steadily rushing water. This is one of the only sources of water on this side of The Snarl.

Farther on, we hear the creaking and groaning of an oak sapling toppling over. We take shelter, kneeling behind a thicker oak for concealment, as the sapling crashes down to the forest floor with a reverberating boom. I look at Father’s back, but he’s already peeking around the trunk to identify the culprit of the sapling’s demise.

This side of The Snarl? What else could it be, Father?

“Let’s just -”

My protest is cut short by Father’s abortive gaze. He lifts his nose to the air and sniffs several times, nose wrinkling from the musty smell of wet fur that permeates the whole area. Cupping an ear low to the ground, he listens for several long moments. I can’t help but stare in disbelief.

Nodding, he rises and intently stares ahead of us. “Prepare yourself, Art.”

“Of course, Father.” I have long since recognized the ground’s rumbling as a massive Erymanthian Boar playfully sharpening its tusks. It hoots and haws, sure signs that mating spring was coming to an end. Father walks ahead of me with his spear at the ready, crouching low as he slinks through the shadows. I take the supportive role, channeling quintessence from my body into the air.

I am the Archer. Aspect of the Tiger.

Quintessence condenses in the air to my right, quickly and quietly, until it solidifies into a simple bow made of oak. I reach my hand out and grip the familiar wood as I begin to channel more quintessence into my arms - orange and black stripes, similar to tattoos, form spiraling stairs that climb the entirety of both arms. They bulge with power, and then my body shifts as I, and my bow, meld into the surrounding area. My camouflage goes so far as to obscure my body from even my vision.

This heady rush of power pumps me full of the feel-good, the surging of quintessence through my veins helping me focus. The feeling, this surpassing of the body’s natural limitations, is tricky to manage. Too much, and it wouldn’t be unreasonable to push myself into a situation I can’t handle.

Despite the danger, the quintessential rush is what I live for. My excited heart pounds like war drums in my ears.

I focus on the boar, watching Father slink closer with every second. The rowdy boar’s thick and mangy fur covers it from head to toe, hiding a deceptively durable hide; drops of water cling to its many hairs, glistening in the light of the mid-afternoon sun. That same droplet-infested fur is the source of the perpetual mustiness that clings to my nostrils, presumably from a recent venture into the nearby stream. The beast continues to stomp about with snorts of amusement, tearing up the forest floor as it grinds its two pairs of tusks against another unfortunate tree.

As I kneel, I pull back on my bowstring and appreciate the quintessence-formed arrow, its cost minute and its shaft perfectly straight, as it solidifies into the same oaken wood of the bow itself. The tip shimmers, glinting with ever-increasing penetrating power as I continue to channel further quintessence into a massive Charged Shot.

As I steady my aim, I make a choice.

Ambush.

Another rush of quintessence drains from my body and instantly empowers the tip of the arrow as I activate the Major skill of the Aspect of the Tiger. A powerful synergy forms as both Charged Shot and Ambush fuse, becoming something incredible - something more. I’ll be stuck with the Aspect of the Tiger until midnight. I really hope this doesn’t bite me in the ass.

Father makes a hand gesture, signaling me to fire, but I hesitate as I sense dozens of small presences around me. I know what they are, and I’ve felt them following us for some time, but they never followed us over the path before. I slowly look over my shoulder to confirm, staring back at the death-squad of Terror Monkeys. Oddly enough, they’re fairly cute.

That is, right until they turn into bloodthirsty demon spawns that try to rend flesh from bone and suck out the marrow.

Their bloodshot eyes bore into Father’s back as they begin their distinctly coordinated hooting. Fists bulging with muscles pound against chest and branch alike, the beat driving the death-squad into a frenzied dance. Their brows furrow with hostility as the intensity continues to crescendo into a raucous cacophony. I cringe slightly, my sensitive ears overwhelmed.

You couldn’t just leave the infant Terror Monkey alone, huh? You just had to go and piss off a whole horde...

Father is too close to the boar to warn, leaving only one choice. I release the arrow and grunt in surprise, the powerful pushback stunning me for a moment. It breaks my camouflage long enough for the child-sized monkey swarm to realize I’m here.

But I don’t hang around long enough to become familiar with their pointy bits, chasing after the arrow as fast as I can move. I let go of the bow and it dissipates back into quintessence.

I rush forward, all the while doing my best to ignore the now-angry grunts and squeals of the boar. I know I should resist the urge to look over my shoulder, but my curiosity demands to be satisfied. I immediately regret it two seconds later. They’re right on my ass!

Bloodthirsty assholes!

“Run!” I scream once I’m close enough to draw the attention of the boar, prompting Father to dash out of the underbrush and take off past it.

I skillfully cross the distance, rushing at the angry boar head on - its two pairs of massive tusks sway back and forth as it recovers from the suddenness of my attack.

My arrow, buried down to the fletching within its left eye socket, blinds the boar on one side. Its remaining eye smolders, bloodshot with rage. Father misses my beautiful shot as he flees from the death squad, leaving it without the appreciation it deserves.

The boar, realizing I have no plans to stop my charge, kicks at the ground.

My legs nearly turn to jelly, but I don’t stop.

I redouble my efforts and continue forward, my legs pumping furiously, motivated by the squeaking and yipping of the monkey horde behind me. With a dizzying snort and one final stomp, the boar digs its hooves deep into the dirt.

Its figure blurs.

The beast moves too fast for even my senses to catch. I don’t let that bother me. I leap to the side, anticipating the charge. A fluid roll-hop puts me back on my feet, and I return to chasing after Father’s back just as he slips from my sight

We’re out of danger. That -

I give the enraged boar one last backward glance, watching as it barrels into the also-enraged horde. It splatters several of the bloodthirsty monkeys in its initial charge, chomping down on bits of gore and flinging monkey bits everywhere, but then they show the reason for their namesake - the terror of the horde makes itself known with a plethora of sharp claws and teeth that tear through the boar’s flesh. In only moments, it becomes a bloody mess.

Yeah, that could’ve been bad.

With the sacrifice of the Erymanthian Boar, the horde of Terror Monkeys were satisfied enough not to pursue us any farther, completely forgetting about our presence. I make haste to the rendezvous point, yet I do it in a way that also drags the trip out longer. Plausible deniability.

I slink through The Snarl’s shadows by habit, but my camouflage keeps me fairly safe on its own. I take this time to think about what Father told me before we left.

My mother was a Zealot.

No matter how hard I try to think of literally anything else, those words continue to haunt me and force their way to the forefront of my mind. I know I should hurry up and get to the rendezvous point to meet Father and resupply, but I need to be alone. I need to breathe, to think, to really consider who - and what - I am.

My first memory, clouded over by time and all its terrors, is my goddess as she lay over my broken corpse. Tears spill from her eyes, falling upon me like a piteous rain. Her blessing, my curse, spirits me away. All the while, chains wrap around her, draining her of power.

The chains of the Mad God. That, more than anything else, is clear. Everything else just blurs and blends.

Do I -

Do I even care now? I can’t even remember her face anymore, nor her voice. All that remains is a dull yearning.

It leaves a sour taste in my mouth to consider the lives I’ve lived as meaningless; to consider that all the struggle over who-knows-how-many millennia to be nothing but a huge waste of time. If I give up on that deeply ingrained prompting - the thought alone breeds indignation that stems from deep within my chest.

I don’t know what to think anymore.

I feel as though I’ve kept Father waiting long enough. I lengthen my stride, picking up my pace with relative ease. My altered strides carry me soundlessly up the valley’s side. My camouflage makes the journey with similar results, not breaking even once.

At the mouth of the hidden enclave, Father starts. He reaches for his spear, only halting when he realizes it’s me. In a fluid motion, he tosses a heavy traveling knapsack towards me. Despite all my strength, it still manages to knock the wind from my lungs.

The shame in his gaze, and the redness that spread to his neck, confirms what I already know. He’s upset. More upset than he wants me to know.

To my surprise, Father walks up to me and places his forehead against my own, a tear dripping down onto my face. When he speaks, his voice is strained but soft, carrying a great weight, “You - you did well, Art. I’m proud of you. I - I love you, son.”

I’m left shell shocked, tongue-tied, flabbergasted to the extreme.

Father -

Complimented me?

He said -

He loves me?

I stand there staring into the empty air dumbly for several minutes. Eventually, I force myself to move and strap the knapsack to my back, following after Father.

Chapter Two

*

The familiar path leading back to Enari, worn from years of use, would take us out of The Snarl, though it really does make for a fairly boring trek. The predators stay away from the track, keeping to their familiar territory. I walk plainly here, not even attempting to keep up my camouflage, and follow after Father’s harsh pace. I allow my thoughts to wonder.

Enari, on the best of days, would take half a day of grueling travel to reach from this side of The Snarl. Realistically, we would camp within the woodline and finish the rest of the journey after a new light. It would definitely make me feel better, having access to an Aspect outside of the Tiger while we travel. The road back to Enari left little room to make use of Ambush, with flatlands as far as the eye can see every which way.

Eventually, the land does dip down into a massive crater. My theory that something enormous crash-landed there long ago always got a good chuckle from the local inns’ attendants. Father always told me not to speak nonsense, but I feel like I’m on to something there. Maybe a memory fragment, I think, but I could never confirm it for sure.

Enari’s three staircases are a work of wonder, but not the good kind. They’re massive, poorly lit, and smell like someone dumped their chamber pots and dirty water all over the stairs. They’re carved from the crater’s wall face, like, some odd century or so ago, and take nearly an hour to descend. A truly tragic experience that I’d trade for the smell of fresh rain and oak wood. The city is something truly awful.

Even if the quintessential beasts of The Snarl want to eat me, I find their company much preferable. They’ll at least stare me down when trying to rip out my throat. The thing that gets me about Enari? All the people there are refugees, renegades, or exiles from Maldus - the continent of The Mad God and his Zealots. I figure if anybody would be more appreciative of the world, these people would be. I figured they’d be different. How? I don’t know, kinder?

But, no.

The sad truth is that everyone in Enari is there for themselves in one way or another. It’s a festering pit of crime and scum, and I don’t know why Father helps them. I’d let them rot in their stinking city.

Trushal is slightly better in the way that having your throat ripped out by a Monarch or Terror Monkey is better than being stolen by the spiderkin swarms.

That -

I feel ill considering a death so atrocious, but it’s an accurate metaphor for the point I want to make. Enari sucks, seriously.

Avalia is by far my favorite city of the three, and it also happens to be - get this - the furthest one away from The Snarl! It infuriates me to no end that I’ve been to Enari for every full moon, but I’ve only seen Avalia twice. In my whole life. Twice! They’ve got the biggest port, the most trade, which in turn means they have the highest presence of security to keep the vagabonds and savages out.

I wince, remembering how ‘savage’ I must appear to others. I look down at my fur pelt and self consciously attempt to rub away layers of caked-on dirt. Futility, the name of that game. I stop and rub my fur against the bark of a tree, cheeks reddening in embarrassment. I try harder as I see dried crust falling off, staring at Father as he doesn’t notice a thing.

I have to give up. Dejectedly, I stare down at the single patch of ‘clean’ pelt, realizing just how little hope there is in ever removing the layers and layers of grime. I fondly caress the tree, It’s not your fault, it’s mine.

Jogging to close a bit of distance, I look around at the wonders that hang right over my head. A lot of smaller herbivores make the trail their home since the predators stay away from it. I see lemurs and squirrels mingling, sharing different nuts and berries they’ve scavenged from various locations within The Snarl. A dozen different types of birds. Surprisingly enough, there’s even a Golden-Striped Hawk among them. It’s given a wider berth, but it looks on regally over the rest of them, scooping up proffered food the smaller birds collect for it.

Beasts are far better than people.

I turn my head north then south.

The only good thing about Enari -

The gossip.

Last months’ rumors sung tall tales of five parties of adventurers being sent in both directions. Apparently, it was a custom to send at least one a year, but none had ever returned. A ‘tournament’ is being held for the ‘lucky winners’. Yeah, nope. Spiderkin to the north, fae-folk and elves to the south.

Father usually keeps us far from any of the nasty territories, but encounters have happened in the past. I’d seen one of the spiderkin only once, crawling around on eight long spindly legs that stuck to any surface with four more arms that extended from their strangely humanoid torsos. Super sharp, super terrifying. Their mandibles and face full of eyes -

No-no, no thanks. If I never saw another spiderkin, it would be too soon.

The fae-folk gave me the heebie-jeebies. Their whole shtick is unpleasant, tricking people into massive illusions that leave their bodies drooling dumbly until they die of starvation or dehydration. These dreamscapes get nasty-bad. The whole fae-folk territory is a no-go zone for all but the strongest quintessential beasts.

Despite all these things, people still want to push into Ainos. Its notoriety echoes worldwide as trade goods are shipped back over to Maldus and Varoth - the third continent to make up Gaia’s trifecta. Merchants wish to settle so they can pay the laymen a pittance, profiting off their hard labor and the rich vibrant lands, shipping off raw resources to fuel the world’s economy.

Money is overrated.

Wait, I really am a savage.

Ouch.

Out of all the people I’ve met from any of the cities, the adventurers are the most enjoyable, but none of them have any sanity left. Pretty sure it comes with the occupation at this point, and it would take overwhelming evidence to convince me otherwise. The last one I saw gave me great advice. “Be the one to stand in the middle of a million dead and ask them the value of honor” she said. I was maybe ten at the time, but it’s still at the top of my to-do list. Unfortunately, she had a serious case of the too-nuts-for-my-own-good. Super pretty, way too crazy. Father found her mangled shield near the northern border later that month. We prayed for her when he returned that night.

Each person comes to Ainos for some reason, but the adventurers come to discover the mysteries of The Snarl, to seek answers, to understand the truths that make the land so lively. Some live like me, coming for the sake of the hunt. I once snuck away from Father to follow one. I got to see him take down a Baby Hydra by himself. He laughed heartily as the poison spread through his veins and the venom hollowed out his eye sockets. We buried him, a grin plastered on his fest as we lay him to eternal rest.

Quintessential beasts are the reason people hunt here, and Father and I are no different from the other masses. We just don’t suck at staying alive, so I guess we’re slightly better. Some of the beasts that inhabit The Snarl can absorb quintessence. Vegetation does too, but it isn’t nearly as prominent. I’m not sure how it works entirely. All I know is that quintessential beasts are natural treasures to those that can slay them without forfeiting their life in the process, quite literally worth twice their weight in gold.

When it comes to cultivating a higher power, their flesh is the easiest way to become strong, their bones providing a powerful foundation for powerful weapons.

Before I’m 30 - no. Before I’m 25, I want to slay a cored beast. A lofty goal, taking a strong spot in second place on my to-do list.

Quintessential beasts strong enough to develop cores - cored beasts - are the true prize, hiding within their territories at the most resource-rich locations. They, themselves, become natural fonts of magic. If a cored beast decided to leave its cozy home, deep-deep in The Snarl, the combined force of Ainos’s settlers wouldn’t be enough to slay one.

Despite all of that, despite all the danger hiding within every nook and cranny of this place, it still manages to call to me. To draw me in with its promises of challenge. The seclusion from Zealots is a secondary bonus. Even now, as we travel back to Enari, it demands my attention. Something deep within screams at me, begging that I return, to continue hunting within The Snarl.

My meandering thoughts come to an end when Father puts his hands out, barring my way forward.

“Art, get down! There’s a voice chanting up ahead.”

Chapter Three

*

I sink low and become one with the shadows of a large oak, my camouflage keeping me unseen for as long as I don’t break it. I touch the ground to support me as I creep forward, trying to get a better look at what lies ahead. Soft shrubby overgrowth makes my movements silent, easing the strain on my knees as I slide forward. Indistinct muttering, barely audible, carries over to us.

Two more steps carry me forward, bringing the pointy-eared savage into view, his hands point at a bound prisoner on the forest floor and a point above their head in the air. Speaking in its otherworldly tongue, infused with magic, it completes its incantation. “Hasa ele quip.”

“An elf!” Father hisses from next to me, immediately backing away to find a new route. “We’re going around, Art.”

I feel him tugging on my furs, but I can’t help but watch.

With a loud crack, a vortex of quintessence destabilizes the air above the hooded prisoner, scattering hidden beasts in all directions. A pitchy whistling kicks up a nasty racket as the air sings its protest. A dweomer - a pocket of dense quintessence with purpose - forms, and it continues to draw in ambient quintessence to fuel the magic. It pulses in a measured rhythm, much like a beating heart.

An adventurer?

Regardless of their affiliation, their breathing is ragged and their heart barely beats with life. I struggle with indecision, all the while my instincts are screaming at me to help this person.

The dweomer’s magic distorts its surroundings, wavy ripples cast off into the air, as it further absorbs the ambient quintessence to fuel its activation. My skin itches from proximity to the dry air, the lack of quintessence stifling.

A foreign presence brushes against my consciousness, attempting to overthrow the iron-willed control I maintain over my quintessence. As soon as it realizes I won’t budge, it gives up and moves past me. I hear a gasp from Father, and he backs away.

I feel confident in saying the strange presence is the ‘purpose’ of the dweomer searching for more fuel to begin its second phase. It sucks all the plants dry, leaving them withered and decayed. The large oaks are the only exception to the insatiable hunger.

I grit my teeth, forcing myself to look away from the hooded prisoner and the offending elf. The longer I do nothing, shame and indignation rise like bile in my throat.

As awful as this is, it -

It’s not my fight.

The elves are just too dangerous, making Terror Monkey hordes look pitiful. Knowing that doesn’t make me feel any better about the situation. Shame doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel about my inaction, but I start to back away, looking over my shoulder to meet Father’s concerned gaze.

But then I hear an air piercing shriek - young and feminine. I stare at the ground as another scream cuts through the air, my hands tearing up the wilted shrubbery as I shake with rage. The scream comes to an abrupt end. I look back at Father, his mouth forming a big “no”.

Oh -

But I must.

I can’t just do nothing.

When I look back at the dweomer, it’s completed its initiation phase, spawning forward a massive deluge of thick corded vines that hoist the prisoner into the air and pull their limbs wide. The vines visibly burn their skin, filling the air with the smell of charred flesh, as its voracious appetite drains the prisoner of quintessence. By now, the spell sustains itself with their energy and will only stop once they have not a drop of quintessence left.

The elves are the true savages. This is sickening. It isn’t the first time I’ve seen this, and death is a far better alternative than any life this prisoner may attempt to create after they’re completely drained. Enari is the only city that would take them, and they’d work until they collapse, kicked into the Underdark’s gutters when their usefulness dries up.

Camouflage keeps me hidden from the elf’s senses as I re-manifest my bow, sweat dripping down my back. At any second, the elf could see through my camouflage and put the bow on its back to good use - or even just cast another one of its nefarious spells, those things are nasty. I grip the familiar wood, though it feels like scalding iron in my hand. I draw back with all my strength. My quintessence flows out of me like a font of energy as I simultaneously cast another Ambush and Charged Shot, the synergistic skills giving me confidence.

We’re all screwed if I miss. A moment of indecision flits through my chest, but it passes just as fast as it came when I see the sly grin on the elf’s face. The utter joy he takes in causing the prisoner suffering.

I release a long breath, firing the arrow. Without hesitation, another arrow forms on the bow and I fire three more in rapid succession, but no quintessence enhances these arrows. Neither of my skills can be cast for at least another hour.

With bated breath, I watch the arrows sail through the air, the first shot humming with quintessence as it sails through the air. The moment drags on, the prodigal arrow infinitesimally creeping forward. My heart skips a beat as the elf turns toward me, but my aim strikes true.

My first arrow exits through the back of his skull and flies off into the distance, dissipating into quintessence as I lose control of it. The three arrows slam into the corpse’s chest, and like a sack of potatoes, it unceremoniously hits the ground.

I stare at the dead elf in a daze, remembering the suffering of the prisoner only after a loud thunderclap sends me reeling backward. My ears are oozing warm liquid, but I can’t worry about that right now. I stumble forward, watching as the completed spell begins to dissipate, its hold over the prisoner failing. Its purpose complete, the spell unraveled. The vines burn away into stinking ash, dropping the prisoner. I stumble forward, collapsing under their weight as they slam into me.

In a daze, I stare down at the hooded figure. Father rushes over and starts to shake me, speaking words my ears can’t process. The world slowly, frustratingly so, begins to make sense again, but it brings with it fifty shades of static. Eerie ringing kicks up a massive migraine, and my head becomes the plaything to an angry swarm of thought-bees.

I shake my head and reorient myself, finding comfort in the familiar soil beneath my hands. I rip off the hood from the limp prisoner, finding myself absorbed by confusion.

Zealot.

Between her eyebrows, tattooed in the center of her forehead, is The Mad God’s scholarly tome - dull and inert from the lack of power. Bile rises in my throat, but I push back the urge to vomit and finish observing her. Her black hair is pulled into a ponytail; bangs accentuate her sharp features and nearly hang over into her cream brown eyes. Her nose is small like a button, her lips a thin line. Pale skin completes the image of a damsel in distress. Panic flashes through her eyes, but the dreamscape takes her away from the brutal reality.

She’s beautiful.

Painfully, I start to understand Father, but his words are jumbled and sound like I’m underwater.

“Time - go!” He helps me stand, flipping my knapsack onto my chest and placing the girl onto my back. It makes sense. He can fight, I can’t. Good enough for me.

My pace is slow, but I keep to the shadows cast by the large oak. Camouflage works its magic as I walk at a snail’s pace but manage not to attract any attention. Father, yeah. He’s gone. Merged into the shadows, scouting ahead and staying low. The dweomer’s thundering boom will draw plenty of attention. I just keep putting one foot in front of the other, doing my best not to groan under the weight of the girl.

One thought spins on repeat in my mind, making the thought-bees excited as it increases the intensity of my migraine.

I saved a Zealot.

Ignore the fact I killed an elf. I can’t help but focus on the fact that I saved the enemy.

I wonder, would she have preferred death?

*

The Snarl is alive, buzzing with the action of its inhabitants.

I hide behind an oak, staying as still as possible, and let camouflage do what camouflage does. Critters of all kinds rush past me from the direction I came from, signaling imminent danger draws closer by the second, but I need a break. Three hours of stumbling about The Snarl with a second person in tow would leave anybody winded, and I’m not sure I can take too much more of this.

Not while the elves are onto me. It doesn’t help that I’ve long since lost track of Father, but I know where I need to go. Enari is out of the question. I just have to keep moving deeper, farther into the depths of The Snarl to our things-have-really-gone-to-shit rendezvous point.

I need to keep moving. I step away from the cover of the tree and lean forward, my back aching from the continued strain of the extra weight. The thought of trying to catch one of these elves off guard doesn’t even cross my mind, their hunting parties out in full force. I wouldn’t be able to use Ambush with them actively looking for me like this, and I highly, highly doubt that Charged Shot would pack enough oomph to keep one of those savages down.

So, I continue to trudge through The Snarl. At some point, my mind just blanks and the only thing that keeps me moving is the monotonous left-right, left-right of my steps. I can’t even find the energy to feel anxious. My furs stick to my skin, sweating through them long ago.

Every so often, I wipe away a salty offender before it has the chance to drip down into my eyes before it can leave them stinging and blurred. I adjust her weight on my back and take a look around the area, realizing that I’m only minutes from the rendezvous point. Looking over my shoulder, I look for any sign of movement. There is none.

Knowing the goal is near, it would make sense that I feel some excitement, some kind of relief. But, no. I only feel tired, ready to collapse the second I make it.

Finally, I stumble into the empty cave, traveling far to the back where a large boulder blocks the true entrance to our hidey-hole. The steps are moist, but I navigate them with practiced ease. Down below, I search for Father, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

I hope he’s okay.

Walking over to my bundle of furs where I usually sleep, I carefully sit and rearrange them so they support the unconscious girl. I stare down at her for a brief moment, but I can’t ignore The Mad God’s mark when I lay her back.

Unashamedly, I crawl to the other side of the cave, drop the knapsack full of supplies nearby, and roll into Father’s furs. I’m almost certain I’m asleep before I even close my eyes.

*

My eyes burn as I force them open, promises of sweet dreams and an escape from reality call me back to the furs, but I don’t give in to the temptation and roll off them. I rub the sleep out of my eyes, lightly slapping my cheeks to help me focus. Looking around, it’s immediately apparent Father still hasn’t come.

My heart skips a beat when I look over at the Zealot girl - well, she’s Forsaken now if I remember their terminology correctly - and see her creamy eyes glaring back at me. I really, really don’t want to deal with this right now.

She’s clearly panicking, eyes darting around the subterranean hideout and back to me frantically. Her nostrils flare and her shoulders bounce as she breathes shallowly, working herself up.

“Calm yourself, I’m not going to hurt you. Don’t you think I would’ve done it already?” I drag the heavy knapsack closer to me and reach inside until I find what I’m looking for, pulling out one of the two waterskins and some dried meat wrapped in a bundle of large leaves. “Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

I hold them both up for her to see, but she leans away from me like I might have poisoned it. “I wouldn’t poison my own food and drink. Here, I’ll even try some myself just so you can see it’s safe.”

I move closer to her and unstop the waterskin. I tear a piece off of the thick strip of boar jerky for her and chomp down on the larger piece, washing down the salty meat with a deep gulp of clearwater. With a satisfied sigh, I offer her the waterskin again. A barely perceivable nod is her only response, and I shrug, taking another bite of the jerky.

“Will you need help drinking it?” She seems weak, unable to move. If she could’ve, she probably would’ve tried to suffocate me in my sleep if her glaring is anything to go by. She looks like she wants to refuse, but I give her the most damning look of skepticism I can manage - a good-old eye roll and a single raised brow.

Another slight nod prompts me forward. The longer we interact without me doing anything to harm her or take advantage of her vulnerability, the calmer she becomes. She has an understanding of who I am, that much is obvious.

Slowly, I pour a small sip of water into her mouth, then wait for her to wet her tongue. Another nod, another small sip. This process repeats until she shakes her head slightly, nodding toward my other hand.

“Do you feel better? I can still help if you need me to.” I hand her the piece of jerky I ripped off for her, and she weakly raises a hand to take it. Tears form in her eyes as she sucks in a gasp of pain, the effort of her weakened body paining her.

I want to help her, but her defiant glare keeps me back. She takes a small nibble of the jerky, and I wait to make sure she doesn’t choke on it. It’s strange, truly surreal, that I could imagine myself forgetting she was an instrument of The Mad God if it weren’t for his tome, permanently marked upon her. She just looks so innocent, so fragile, in this moment.

Unfortunately, I know of the true cruelty of the Zealots, but a part of me hopes that I may one day be able to break free of the cycle of hate. This girl, she looks maybe a couple of years older than me at most, could be the first stepping stone to make that happen.

It’s a dangerous line of thought that I push away. I will remain vigilant around her. Speaking of, “Can you speak?”

“Y - yes,” she answers shakily. Her soft voice is hoarse, probably from having all her quintessence wrenched from her being. I’m sure that would do the trick.

Ah, her burns.

Returning to the knapsack, I rummage through it and find what I’m looking for toward the bottom. An aloe-cream for burns, rashes, and a lot of other unpleasant things. Avalia’s best alchemist had once given it to Father for some quintessential beast bones and tongues since we don’t value coin, and Father had given it to me. If I recall correctly, the alchemist named it Miracle Whipping. Pretty sure we have a dozen of the small jars full of the stuff stashed about The Snarl, but I didn’t try and keep up with all that stuff.

With the small jar in hand, I return to her side and show it to her. It’s definitely not the nicest smelling thing in the world, but it works well. “It’s for the burns.”

“What burns?” she asks, eyes widening as she sees her wrists and ankles. “Right, those burns.”

“May I?” I ask softly. She looks at it uncertainly, looking into my eyes to see the sincerity contained within, and gives me another nod.

I take the stinking cream on two fingers. There’s no preparing her for how bad this sucks, so I grab her hand in mine and just apply it as fast as I can. Immediately, I feel sharp fingernails digging into my shoulder and a deep gasping. I keep going, applying it to the entire burn ring around her wrist. Her grip never lessens for the whole time.

Once I finish, her face is streaked in tears and she’s panting heavily. An indignant glare awaits me, and I look away sheepishly. If she had access to a weapon, I’m sure she would’ve used it by now.

“You. Could’ve. Warned me!” The iron in her voice stirs the devil within me, and I give her a sly grin.

“One more wrist, two more ankles.” She catches me looking at the tome on her forehead and looks away. “You know,” I grab her second hand in mine, “I’m not the monster they make me out to be.”

She hisses as I apply the cream to her second wrist, but she doesn’t nearly take my shoulder off this time. After I finish and she catches her breath, she looks up at me. “You don’t have horns, that’s for sure. Your eyes?”

I’m happy she’s more curious than psycho-murder-cultist, but wariness stops me from giving her any trust. Nagging in the back of my mind tells me to just leave her here with supplies and tell her ‘good luck’, but in her state? That’s a death sentence, and I know it.

“What do you remember?” I change the subject, putting the focus back on her.

“There was -” she halted, seeming to struggle remembering the details. Her eyes widen in terror as some clarity returns. In a panic, she grabs my shoulder again - and I resist the urge to groan and shout some rather choice words - and asks, “Was there really an elf?”

I peel her hand from my shoulder before I answer, “There was an elf, yes. Is that all you remember?”

“It cast a spell, but that’s it. I don’t remember anything else.”

“What about your name?” My throat drops into my stomach. She genuinely doesn’t realize she’s a Forsaken now, otherwise, she’d be a blubbering mess for sure.

She considered it for a second then shook her head, “You first.”

I rub the back of my neck, unsure if I should keep talking to her. I don’t know what to think at this point. “Artemis.”

“So, you are him.” My confusion must show fairly obviously because she immediately continues to answer my unasked question, “The Scholar.”

I have to resist the urge to correct her, but it doesn’t stop me from thinking it, The Mad God. “You haven’t told me your name.”

“Should I?”

“I mean, I’d like to be able to think of you as something other than ‘that helpless girl I saved’, if you know what I mean?” She lets out a soft grunt, looking away from me. “Did I say something wrong? Does my breath smell bad?” I breathe into my hand, and it smells absolutely terrible. “Sure does.”

“Are you an idiot?” she scathingly asks. “You seem like the type.”

“To be honest, I think I should be asking you that,” I answer honestly, standing up with the cream in hand. “Please, don’t kick me in the face.”

I grab hold of her ankle and begin applying the cream. Her whole body tenses, but I just keep pushing through until I’m finished with both burn areas. Her sigh of relief amuses me as I close the stinking jar and put it back into the knapsack.

Sitting across from her with my arms on my knees and my head on my arms, I watch her tear into the small piece of jerky I gave her and wonder if Father will ever join us.

“Name’s Sahria,” she finally says after swallowing a piece of the jerky. “Why did you save me?”

“Sahria, that’s a nice name. As for why I saved you? That -” I take a deep breath, letting out a sigh to calm my nerves and get out the awkward-nervous energy that makes me feel nauseous. “Honestly, nobody deserved what would’ve happened to you if I didn’t.”

Her response is immediate, “I mean, why haven’t you killed me yet?”

Chapter Four

*

I look her up and down, considering my response. I don’t know why myself, so I ask, “What do you know about me?

“That’s easy.” She holds up two fingers, “Your name is Artemis, and you’re a boy.”

I stare at her blankly, gaping stupidly. The only word I can get out is a half-baked, “What?”

“You asked me what I know about you. I can see you’re a boy, and you told me your name is Artemis.” I continue to stare at her blankly. “See, you’re not doing a good job of convincing me that I’m not talking to an idiot. You asked me what I know, not what other people have told me. I don’t like to repeat myself, Artemis.”

It seems as though Sahria’s spine has returned, replacing the meak damsel from before. “Right, I suppose that’s true. I - I couldn’t stop the elf’s spell.”

Panic flashes through her eyes as she raises her hand to her forehead, touching the inert tome. Tears fall free from her eyes, and I look away to give her some privacy. I could relate to her, feeling alone and cut off from the rest of the world. I live that life every day, and in every life before. I feel the loneliness, but I know anything I say would go through one ear and out the other.

So, I just give her time to herself.

I stand and grab the knapsack, closing my eyes to check how much quintessence I have to work with. My other Aspects are available, prompting me to prepare for a hunt. Small game wouldn’t be very satisfying, but it would be far easier than hunting anything substantial by myself.

I need to find Father.

With those two goals in mind, I give Sahria a final look. She’s pulled her knees close to her chest and looks away from me, tears staining her dirty pants. I stand at the slick steps and consider whether I should let her know my plans, but decide against it.

Ascending the steps, I pull myself out of the hidey-hole and look around the cave. Its only inhabitants being a few cave crawling lizards, to my relief. I consider if I should preemptively activate an Aspect, choosing not to. It takes longer to switch Aspects than it does to activate them, so I leave options for myself. My biggest strength, between my seven Styles and five Aspects, is versatility, being able to adapt to almost any situation.

Early morning line shines in from the mouth of the cave, illuminating a majority of the cave and giving me a clear view of the immediate surroundings. It looks as though a large group of people had passed by at some point, but they were long gone. Flattened overgrowth was flattened by thin feet.

Unease rises in my chest. elves wouldn’t tread over nature like this.

The cave rested on the slope of a small mountain in the deep western boundary of The Snarl. A great Monarch claimed the peak, but it rarely came down. The mountain ranges into the boundary of both the north and south territories, so it wasn’t unusual to find elven presence to the south or spiderkin presence to the north. Neither party dared challenge the Monarch for control of the mountain, so it was usually seen as the neutral territory between The Snarl’s inhabitants.

The cave acted as Father’s resting area when he did his boundary patrols. With the increase of the elves, it made sense to turn south and head toward the border of their territory. Food would have to be second on the list of my priorities. If Father was caught, then time was of the essence. I’d already wasted enough as it is.

I step out of the safety of the cave and grab the oaken bow that materializes in front of me. The oaks are far larger in this area, dense enough that they almost create a maze. I look up towards the peak, seeing how they grow all the way to the top. I feel the Monarch’s presence, but I turn away before it detects my probing senses.

Slinking through the shadows of the forest floor, I head south. It only takes me half an hour before I start seeing telltale signs of elven presence. Markings on the trees, their way of defining the boundaries of their territory. It also acts as a map.

I touch against the cleanly cut marks, the language of the elves, and try to remember which faction this set belongs to. Four different factions inhabited the elven territory, each one splitting off based on their belief or whatever. I never cared enough to pay attention to Father’s lessons and just summarized them as “elves are dangerous savages, stay away”. It felt morbidly ironic that I would now have to venture into their territory to search for him now.

I wish I’d given those lessons more attention, but as Father says, hindsight was twenty-twenty - whatever that means. Creeping forward past the marked three, I keep my eyes above me into the branches of the trees. I could see several empty scouting nooks, wooden palisades that created a massive above-ground walkway for the elves.

Each palisade grew from the very tree it connected to, the elvish nature magic warping and manipulating the oak to fit their needs. I want to be able to appreciate their ability to defy nature, but I can only stare up at each palisade with fear.

Maybe I should activate Tiger again. The camouflage would help.

Despite how bad I want to find Father, I know I can’t go too deep into their territory. Not if I want to live to see the next day. A branch snaps behind me, and I draw my bowstring back and turn to see Sahria standing there, staring at me angrily.

“What are you doing?” I hiss, making my way to stand next to her. I pull her down behind an oak with dense shrubbery to either side. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“You thought I was just going to stay there by myself, not knowing if I was being left for dead? I barely found you, barely got out of the cave. How did you even manage those steps? I nearly slipped and died on them.”

I cringe when she speaks, her voice carrying through the forest. “Keep it down! We’re in the elve’s territory right now. They will kill us on sight if they catch us.”

“I don’t care. I’m not staying there by myself.” She folds her arms and glares back in defiance.

“You can’t be serious right now?” I let the drawstring relax and the arrow dissipates, taking her by the arm and leading her back toward the cave. Once she realizes my intent, she tries to plant her heels into the ground, grabbing onto a nearby branch.

“I’m not going back in there,” she vehemently protests.

I let go of her and she nearly stumbles over, “Do you want to die? Is that what you want?”

“I might as well already be dead. Do you think I don’t know that I’m Forsaken now? I have nowhere to go. My people would kill me themselves for losing The Scholar’s blessing,” she stares back as tears form in her eyes.

I groan, dismissing my bow, and cross my arms, “Then what now, huh?”

“I - I don’t know,” she whispers, looking away from my stern gaze.

“Fine, we can both go back to the cave and figure things out where it’s safe. We can’t just stand around here. You’re going to draw someone, or something, to us.”

She waits for me to step into the cave before following after, only crawling into the hidey-hole after I have. I help her down, making sure she doesn’t slip, and return to Father’s furs. She sits cross-legged on my furs and stares at me.

“I don’t trust you,” I say, figuring being straightforward is the easiest way to get past any confusion there may be.

“The feeling is mutual.” An awkward silence sets over us as we both take time to think. “Why were you in the elve’s territory?”

“It’s none of your business.” I wince, my words sounding far harsher than I meant. I blame her for Father’s absence, but I know the responsibility for his absence is mine to carry. I saved her and lost track of him. My reckless actions are the reason he and I aren’t at Enari right now.

Maybe he went to another hideout. It’s not like we agreed to come here.

“Get up, we’re leaving,” I say, grabbing the knapsack and slinging it over my back. I walk over to her and offer a helping hand, pulling her onto her feet. “The travel will be hard, keep low and watch your step. We may be out of the elven territory, but if yesterday was anything to go by, I don’t think that will matter much.”

Her only response is a little nod. I help her up the slippery stairs, doing my best to ignore her soft skin and red cheeks, and then jump through the hidey-hole. Again, I help her, pulling her through. She’s already breathing heavily, which does not bode well for the hours of hard traveling we have ahead of us.

“Will you be able to manage? Our destination is nearly an hour of hard travel through rough terrain.”

“Do I have a choice?” she asks with a huff. “Let’s just get this over with.”

I forego manifesting my bow. More than likely, it won’t be useful if we run into trouble and slink into the thickery of The Snarl with Sahria crouched behind me.

Chapter Five

*

The hideout used to be an elvish outpost, but they’d abandoned it long ago.

“Wait here,” I tell Sahria. I give a running start, leaping up the tree and grabbing the first branch. In moments, I’ve reached the hideout and look around. Disappointment and frustration are all that await me here.

Our supplies are untouched, and Father is nowhere to be seen. “Onto the next one,” I say as I grab one of the two knapsacks, much lighter than the one I carry, and drop it down onto a bush below.

Skillfully, I leap from branch to branch until my leather boots touch the ground again. I retrieve the knapsack, tossing it toward Sahria. “That’s yours from now on.”

Without a single word of thanks, she slings it onto her back with a groan and follows me as we continue toward the next location. Not even a half-hour passes before Sahria releases an uncomfortable groan.

“Are you okay?” I ask, turning to her.

Red tinges her cheeks, “I - I have to pee.”

“Then go pop a squat. There’re soft leaves in the bag to -” I make a circling motion toward her pelvic area. “Take care of all that.”

She grunts, glaring back at me, before going behind the closest tree. I do my best to ignore the sound of her doing her business, keeping my focus on the sound of the forest until she returns. When she does, her face is scarlet with embarrassment.

It’s not the right place or time to joke around - and we all do it, so I’m not sure what the big deal is - and continue the march at a pace that doesn’t stress her out. The worst-case scenarios keep invading my thoughts as I continue forward, but I refuse to acknowledge them.

Dad is careful, he wouldn’t go into the spiderkin territory. But -

Stopping myself from acknowledging the most likely worst-case scenario -

I am the Defender! A triangular kite shield with a pointed tip manifests, quickly followed by a longsword, and I slam forward into the elf I’ve made eye contact with. Its surprise allows me to smack it right in the face, and I hear a sharp cracking sound.

Stabbing forward, I press my attack. The only advantage I have in this fight is surprise and speed. I grunt as my sword strike is deflected by its own.

“Malane fel -”

I am the Warlord! I jump forward with a massive downward slash, gripping the war ax as it manifests.

“- ama duel!” A ball of emerald quintessence buzzes in the elve’s hand, and he throws it forward.

As his spell completes, I internally scream, Aspect of the Tortoise! My skin hardens in a split second, and I activate the Tortoise’s Minor: Withdrawal. A green pale-green barrier acts as a second layer of skin as the emerald ball slams into my gut. It singes my fur and continues its rapid spinning until the spell dissipates, leaving my skin raw but intact.

I groan, lifting the oaken haft of the war ax to block a stab and push it away, slashing out with deceptive speed. Nimbly and with a smarmy smirk, the elf dances away, but I expect this. Quintessence flies from the blade and bisects the elf at the chest.

“Fuck, this hurts,” I say, touching the wound. Sahria steps up next to me and stares in horror at the dead elf’s corpse, looking back and forth between it and me.

“I -” She clears her throat and turns away from the sight, taking a few steps in the direction we came. After a few minutes, she mutters, “I’m impressed, Artemus.”

“You’re scared, too, right?” I turn away from the dead elf and look over my shoulder. “We have to keep going.”

Rushing toward the hideout, and some hope rekindling inside me. If they’re still searching, then maybe -

But life was a cruel mistress, and Father hadn’t been here. I look around the hollow tree, staring up toward its top, to see our supplies still hanging there. Our beds, formed of parts of the oak’s skeleton, empty.

“Halla’s Maw,” I seeth, swearing violently. “Where are you?!”

Sahria’s soft hand gently rubs against my back reassuringly, “It’s - it’s okay, Artemis. We’ll find whoever you’re looking for.”

“Maybe,” I say, nearly choking on the word. “Maybe he doubled back.”

She removes her hand, and I turn to see her scared face. “That’s - It’s too far. I can’t make that trip. It’s on the other side of this stupid forest.”

I look around, scared. “Don’t speak badly of The Snarl. It hears and sees all within, and it doesn’t take kindly to those that blaspheme it.”

She furrowed her brows, “You’re serious, aren’t you?” I nod. “This stupid forest isn’t alive, Artemis. It’s just a forest.”

“Keep thinking that, and you’ll be dead by morning,” I hiss back. “Just- if you don’t have anything halfway decent to say, then don’t say anything at all.” She opens her mouth to speak, but I hold up a hand to quiet her. “You’re too weak to make the trip back, so I’ll have to go hunt. Can you climb up there?”

She leans her head in and - I shit you not - lets out a nervous fart.

I roll my eyes, not commenting, and kneel. Holding out my hands, I look at her expectantly, though she looks like she wants to have no part of it. I prompt her forward with a small tilt of my head.

“Fine!” she says as she steps none too gently onto my awaiting hands. “W - will you actually come back?”

“Not this again,” I groan. “Just, go.”

After lifting her, I manifest my bow, swap the Aspect of the Tortoise for the Tiger, and leave without looking back.

*

It takes a decent amount of time to find anything reasonable. Despite being able to eat dried meat for weeks on end, I was spending too much quintessence. If we were going to the other side of The Snarl, then we’d both need a bit more power.

My prey today would be two ferrets I’d noticed flitting about above me, quintessence propelling them from branch to branch far faster than they could otherwise. It would’ve been cute, recognizing the action as their mating ritual, if I didn’t need to eat them.

Every so often, they would stop on a branch to frolic before resuming the chase. I activate Charge Shot, blending in with camouflage, and wait. Their home must be close by since they continue circling the area. When they stop again, I fire and rush forward.

The blood would attract predators, so I move quickly. I pick up the furred creatures and shove them into my knapsack, ignoring their twitching death throes.

Returning only takes me fifteen minutes, and I’m presented with an issue. I resist the urge to slap myself, watching as the elf’s body is being munched on by a panther. Not just any panther either, no. Of course, it was another quintessential beast.

Its claws and teeth glow an ephemeral silvery-white as it bites through bone with ease, its tongue lapping up the bloody remains. Andromeda, please! I don’t want to deal with this right now.

The beast raises its nose to the air, sniffing around, and approaches the hollowed oak. Shit, shit, shit! I am the Spearman!

“Hey!” I call out, challenging it with spear in hand. It turns one-eighty in a blur, hissing in my direction. “Get out of here!”

It sniffs the air, eyes alighting with recognition, and licks its chops. It starts confidently stalking towards me, keeping its head low with its gaze on me at all times. I step forward, a high grip on the haft. It tries circling me, but I match its movements.

“Get!” I wave the spear at it. It looks at my bag with interest, and I realize that the bloody ferrets might be its true goal. “You’re not getting them, just go on with yourself.”

I lunge forward as I get in range, stabbing forward, and it dodges away. It claws towards me, sending out five silvery-white streaks of quintessence. I am the Defender!

I channel quintessence into an attack, slamming forward with the empowered shield, and grunt as my shield takes the barrage. The second portion of the skill activates, and I lunge forward to slash-stab-slash into its thick hide. Each attack contained a fair amount of quintessence, catching the beast by surprise.

Despite the successful attack, I hit nothing vital. With an angry growl, it did another quick one-eighty, and tore off into The Snarl.

“Good riddance,” I say angrily. “What a waste.”

Manifesting my weapons cost me nothing, the quintessence returning to me once I dissipate them, but each empowered that I use? That costs a fair amount. It’s the reason I didn’t want to deal with the stupid beast in the first place.

I’m almost sure that I might break even with my total quintessence after eating all of the ferret I’d gotten myself, but that’s me being optimistic. “That’s just great.”

I’m less than amused to see that Sahria only climbed up halfway before giving up, which makes it easier for me to reach her, but also meant that I’d be helping her up the rest of the way.

“Any luck?” she asks hopefully.

I grumble and ignore her, pulling her outstretched hand. After helping her to the top, I pull out the dead ferrets. “This is all I could manage. I know it won’t do much for you, but the raw quintessence should at least give your body some more strength.”

“I need to get to Avalia. They have a temple there,” she says. “I - I can relinquish my bond with The Scholar, but it’s not cheap. I - I’ve heard things…”

Avalia? I don’t ever remember hearing such a thing, but I never went looking for something like that. I doubt it comes without cost. I give her an inquisitive look as I activate the Aspect of the Wolf and use its minor - Scratch - to gut and skin the ferret, tossing the innards out of a hole in the tree. It’s the only source of light up here.

“That sounds like it has a lot of strings attached.” Too many to consider, that is unless you’re incredibly desperate. The gods didn’t like when their followers reneged on their promises, even if that follower became Forsaken.

She wipes away the moisture accumulating in her eyes, “I’ve only heard of three cases where a new bond was formed without -” She sighed. “Almost every person has gone insane, warped by the new god’s power while their old god haunted them. They went insane. Some became monsters - horrors corrupted by the Far Realm’s energy or death knights, doomed to try to redeem themselves to both gods for a chance at returning into the cycle of reincarnation - but I feel naked, useless, like a burden without my quintessence. This -” She sobs. “This is no life to live.”

I look away uncomfortably, running my blood-free hand through my hair. “Yeesh, you’re being a little overdramatic.” She glares at me. “There are so many other things to live for.”

“Coming from you, that’s pretty cheap,” she says angrily. “You, blessed by a forgotten god, dare tell me there are other things to live for?” I glare back at her, my face reddening. “How many lives have you lived in the pursuit of your goal to free Andromeda? Your dream - your ambition - all focuses on that, yet you sit here and lecture me about having something else to live for.” She scoffs. “Hypocrite.”

“You don’t know me,” I refute.

“Please,” she grunts, “Artemis, we all know you. They have records for every incarnation they kill, how far you make it on your path to recovery…” I suck in a breath, eyes widening in shock.

I never knew. I didn’t realize his obsession ran this deep.

“Halla’s Maw,” I whisper. “The Mad God, truly a fitting name for someone so vile.”

She points at me, eyes hostile. “You da -”

“Yes, I dare!” I shout back. “If you know how long I’ve chased this goal, then you know the depths of my suffering. You think I pity you?” I throw the gutted-and-skinned ferret towards her. “I’m not helping you anymore. If you die, it’s not my problem.”

In a single bound, I leap down to the bottom of the tree. I stare up at her, disgusted that I ever thought she could’ve been any different. Father’s stories of mother gave me hope, but I can’t stomach her presence any longer, and at this point, I hope she -

What? What do I hope happens, really?

It’s a question I don’t have an answer to, because in my heart of hearts, I don’t want her to die. I just - I can’t be around her anymore. I have more pressing matters than babysitting a former Zealot. I’ve given her supplies and showed her the southern boundary to the elve’s territory - I doubt that still holds true due to their presence in neutral land - and warned her about…

“Halla’s Maw,” I spit as I turn around, leaning my head into the hollow tree. I ignore her tear stained face, and shout up to her, “Just, head east and you’ll eventually get out of The Snarl. Don’t go north, don’t go south.”

“Are - are you really leaving me here?”

I ignore her question, leaving the tree behind as I make haste toward our cave hideout. “I hope he’s there.”

Chapter Six

*

Death.

The air stinks of rotten flesh left to bake in the sun.

Numbness pervades my body, my mind blanking as I step into the mouth of the cave. Cold waves pass through me, my heart slowing to a crawl as my suspicions - my deepest fears - are confirmed.

“Father,” I reach out. “What have they done to you?”

His naked body is emaciated, rope burns on his wrists and ankles where they tied him to overhanging branches in front of the cave. Mutilation doesn’t even begin to describe what they did to him - the pain and suffering he must have endured.

Pulling my hand back, I turn away. A heavy anxiety I’ve carried since we were separated dissipates, but a storm cloud of absolute rage and indignation forces my most recent meal to make a reappearance.

I wipe my mouth, steeling myself for what I must do. I am the Archer!

Four arrows cut through the rope binding Father, and his body slumps to the ground like a ragdoll. Aspect of the Dragon! My heart clenches as scales cover my arms, chest, and legs, draconic wings of Wraith Fire flare into existence. I know what must be done. Dragon’s Breath!

Roaring fire spews from my mouth, consuming my quintessence greedily. When the skill ends, Father is all but ash, but the image of his desiccated corpse is seared into my mind. His pained face, the Elvish inscriptions carved into his flesh-

Numbly, I walk away. I have no destination in mind. I just walk, my bloodlust billowing out. Memories flash through my mind, memories of past incarnations. Their rage empowers me, crimson blurs my vision.

My mind is blank as I cross the southern border. I ignore the inscriptions, I ignore the elf scout’s warnings, my rage pushing me forward. My fingers ripple with Wraith Fire, my draconic transformation lifting me into the air. With casual ease, the scout is no more, but I feel nothing.

Letting the draconic instincts carry me forward, I stab my hand into the elf’s chest and rip out its heart. I stare at it, tears of blood streaking down my impassive face.

I failed again. If I was stronger -

“Artemis!”

Spinning in place, the Wraith Fire covering my wings propels me forward, and then Sahria’s throat is in my free hand. “What?”

“I - I’m sorry for your loss, but don’t -”

I tighten my grip around her neck, my voice reverberating, “I don’t care.”

“You -” She can barely speak. “Do.”

“I’ll kill them all,” I whisper out, dropping her. “Don’t try to stop me.”

“You’re going to get yourself killed!” she screams.

I turn away, “Isn’t that what you want?”

“Don’t be an idiot. I - come with me to Avalia,” she pleads. “Come with me. Don’t become the monster The Scholar is so afraid of.”

I look at the Wraith Fire spreading deeper into the Elven territory. I hope they all die, but - but Father would want me to live. Father, I’m so sorry.

Dropping the elf’s bloody heart and falling to my knees, the Wraith Fire dissipates as I release the Aspect. Fresh, salty tears stream down my face as I fall forward onto my hands. My fist slams against the ground until it's bloody and raw. My entire body tenses as I’m wracked with waves of grief, the throbbing pain in my hand grounding me to reality.

“It’s - it’s all my fault,” I whisper, grinding my teeth. “I -”

Sahria kneels before me, “Hey, don’t blame yourself.”

“If I didn’t attack the elves,” I glare up at her, snot and tears caking my face. “If I didn’t save you, he would be alive. We’d be in Enari, and he’d be alive.”

She grimaces. “You don’t know that.”

Her response is too confident. I have a sinking suspicion. My face numbs, no tears left to shed. Forcefully, voice full of iron, I ask, “What do you know?”

Her gaze flits to the charred elf, then back at me. “There’s -” She gulps. “There’s a group waiting for you back at Enari.” She steps back when I rise. “There was talk of an amber-eyed youth - blabbering traders that returned to Maldus - and we were sent to find you. I - I didn’t want to come. I didn’t want to hurt you, I promise.”

“But, you’re here.” My bloodlust focuses on her, and she falls to her knees, unable to bear the stifling focused assault. “You’re the reason we were going to Enari.” I walk around her, my mind running in circles. “If you knew we’d be there, why were you looking for us in The Snarl?”

I see her gasping for breath, unable to answer. I kneel before her and release the pressure ever so slightly, brow raising in expectation.

“Our leader, he commanded several of us to partake in the lottery. Things went wrong so fast. We entered the southern border at our leader’s behest, and Jairek died to scouts in minutes after stepping into their territory. We didn’t even know they were there until they were on us.”

She looks up at me, “Please, if we go to Avalia, I can leave, and you never have to see me again.”

My bittersweet laughter fills the air. I double over, gripping at my gut.

“You think that’s funny?!” she roars.

I hold up a finger, silencing her. It takes a moment to recollect myself, but once I do, my lips tremble as I stare down at her. “You really are the reason Father died. You drew the elves north when you made your escape, and by saving you, I drew them to Father.”

This whole situation sucked, and I really didn’t find it amusing, but laughter was the only thing stopping me from killing her and then taking out as many elves as I could before they finally sent a core-capable fighter to put me down - much like a wild animal.

I hate this.

I hate them all.

Why?

Why can’t they just leave me alone?

I stare down at her, considering what she said last time she asked me to take her to Avalia. If I could get her to a temple, she could undergo whatever magic could remove a god’s bond and reforge a new one.

“So, you want me to take you to Avalia so that you can go through a ritual to relinquish the bond between you and The Mad God. A ritual that may warp your mind and leave you lesser than you were before?”

She nods. I release my bloodlust, and she breathes in deep. I offer her my hand, and she takes it. She’s clearly confused, but I don’t explain myself.

My motives aren’t some change of heart, no. I want to see her ritual - or whatever it was she would have to do - fail miserably. I want to see her suffer. After that, I would make sure to pay her leader a visit.

Then -

One step at a time, Artemis. One step at a time.

*

Sahria’s physical capability has greatly increased from the supply of quintessence. With significantly less struggle, she follows behind as we close in on the border between The Snarl’s boundary and the plains leading toward Enari.

Of course, we won’t be stopping there. Our goal is Avalia, and I make sure we have enough dried rations and freshwater to make the journey. On foot, the trek to Avalia - nearly four times the distance from Enari - would take us three days at Father’s pace.

I look back at Sahria. The quintessence infusing her body will run its course by then, passively absorbed by then. More than likely, the journey will take a week.

Chapter Seven

*

We cross The Snarl’s boundary, and a whole new world comes to life in front of us. Green grass sways from the subtle windy breeze. Gone are the vibrant foliage and violet oaks that I’m so familiar with, replaced by the never-changing landscape. Here and there, Bitusk Bison wander in their packs - large herbivorous beasts with shaggy brown fur, round horned faces, and a hulking size that far exceeds that of the Erymanthian Boar.

Bitusk Bison are the beast of burden in Ainos, domesticated and shipped from Maldus to till the fields and haul merchants carts between the cities. These free-ranging Bison are full of life, unlike their counterparts. The Bison in the cities lack life. They are treated poorly by their handlers, despite how much they do for the merchants.

They have no respect.

The Bison are living creatures. The ferrets’ mating ritual is a perfect example of how different each and every creature is, but the merchants from Maldus couldn’t care less. I’d personally seen more than a couple Bison go lame from exertion and maltreatment.

If they knew what I thought of them, they’d probably scorn me for my hunting, but it’s not the same thing. I don’t hunt for sport.

Everything we -

Father’s mangled body flashes through my mind. My nostrils flare as the rage and grief returns. Turning away from Sahria, I wipe away a tear.

Trying to think of random things while we travel - it fails as a distraction. Father is tied into every part of my life, and his absence brings me back to the mouth cave. Despite being exhausted, I can’t sleep.

When I last tried, Sahria woke me up with wide eyes, shaking me from my panicked slumber. More quintessence than normal fuels my pace, but I know it won’t last. I suck in a deep breath and then turn to Sahria.

“How do you feel?” I ask.

She takes a moment to realize I said anything, her cream-brown eyes focusing on me after several moments.“I’m tired.”

“I’m sorry.” I look in the direction of Enari. “Do you think we should stop?”

“Ah, no. If we stop anywhere, it should be Trushal. It’s only half a day’s trek further than Enari, but I know my people aren’t there.” She sees my doubtful look and sucks in a breath, parting her bangs and readjusting her beautiful locks behind her ears. “Our presence isn’t appreciated in any of the cities, and Enari was the only one that would house us since we offered support in their tournament.”

“We make for Trushal then. The tavern keeper owes Father,” I mutter, adjusting our course slightly. It will take us nearly four days to reach Trushal, so I take out some dried rations and chew the tough meat, slight amounts of salt doing little to add flavor to the aged meat.

Together, we walk side by side, and my thoughts turn to Andromeda. “What do you know of my goddess?”

“Oddly enough, almost nothing. It seems like someone -” I glare at her and she clears her throat. “Almost all records of her have been cleansed. The only records are your own testimonies from your incarnations. I am -” she stops, staring in the distance as she bites her lip. “I was a traditional practitioner, learning The Scholar’s old teachings from the time before Andromeda - a time before your records begin. I’ve dedicated my life to understanding the principles of magic, the workings of Gaia -”

I raise a questioning brow, “Gaia?”

Her eye roll bothers me, but she continues. “Gaia is the planet we live on, a spirit of nature akin to a god but different.”

“Strange, I never knew. As you were saying.” I continue to listen. I may be able to learn a thing or two.

“Where was I?” She taps her temples a couple of times until she remembers, looking back at me. “Right, I never partook in the radical movement to hunt you down, but I still studied texts and the archives to understand why The Scholar changed so much. I -” She stops.

I turn and look at her, “Speak plainly, Sahria.”

“I know what he did. I know what you’ve been through, and I understand why you call him what you do.” She plays with her uncooperative locks, repeatedly tucking them behind her ears while avoiding my prodding gaze. “Artemis,” she locks her creamy brown eyes on me, “do you want me to die?”

“I-” Taking a deep breath, I run my hand through my dirty unkempt hair. “I don’t know.”

She takes a moment to contemplate what I said, then continues walking. “Fair enough.”

“Does that upset you?” I wonder aloud.

“I understand your reasoning. I’m sure if you truly wanted me dead, you’d have no qualms in killing me yourself.”

I wouldn’t be so sure about that.

We walk in silence for some time, the sun blaring down on us from directly overhead. By the time we stop to rest, the sun is sinking beyond the horizon. We wouldn’t travel at night, no. As close to Enari as we are, I don’t want to be fatigued if we come across some unfriendly folk.

There definitely isn’t a shortage of those out here.

Bandits set up within a few miles of Enari and harassed Father and me on more than one occasion, much to their demise. I doubt I’d have a problem dealing with them now. It’s more of a nuisance than anything else, but one that I really didn’t want to deal with. They’re usually a stubborn lot that requires a show of force. My heart just isn’t in it.

The cool night’s breeze and the constant ruffling of grass helps calm the turmoil in my heart as I lay down on a bundle of furs, Sahria laying close by. We stare up at the stars in the sky.

“I never answered your question,” Sahria says.

“Which one?” I prop myself up on an elbow to look at her.

“If it upset me that you didn’t know if you want me dead,” she responds softly, meeting my gaze. The starry night sky illuminates her pale skin and cream-brown eyes. She shifts a lock of hair behind her ears habitually, finding the courage to continue. “It does bother me.”

I raise my brows, “Why’s that?”

“I -” she rubs her temples, letting out a huff. “I don’t know if I just don’t like being not liked or if it’s something else entirely, but I just feel empty, hollow. We may have our differences, but like I first said, I don’t know who you are. Just because I know what you’re capable of doesn’t mean that’s who you are.”

I tilt my head, looking high into the sky. “I’ve lived so many lives, sometimes they bleed through into my current reality. My memories are -” I pause, looking back toward Sahria. “I don’t even remember who I was at the start of all of this. These days, I barely remember Andromeda or the reason I fight. It’s just some profoundly ingrained feeling. It’s like breathing, really. You don’t have to think about it, but you still do it because you have to.”

“It sounds like she really meant something to you for it to be carved into your soul so deeply, surviving the cleansing rapids of reincarnation.” She looks at me wistfully, “I always contemplated the idea of reincarnation outside of conventional means. The results were -” She shudders.

“That unpleasant?” I deadpan.

“Well,” she shrugs. “Yeah. The fact that your memories carry over at all is amazing, but it horrifies me. I couldn’t imagine living a life - a life full of attachments to family, friends, a lover - and then carrying those memories into a new life without them. Have you ever -” She looks away.

“What?” I ask, intrigued.

“Have you ever tried to settle down, create a family, and truly experience life outside of hunting and the gods’ disputes?” she asks.

My stomach drops like a stone in a pond as a tear trickles down my face, a feeling of heartbreak and loss so intense that I can’t breathe sends waves roiling down my spine, numbing my body. I try to suck in a breathe - I really do - but I can’t.

Because I have lived several lives, and many of those only ended in the worst outcome. The Zealots found me and did horrible things to those I loved.

A loving mother - flayed alive while I watched.

A proud father - tortured until he hated me, being driven so far as to torture me himself.

Sisters and a brother - enslaved.

A wife - no.

My daughters - No!

Clenching my teeth, my nails digging into my palms, I struggle to control myself as my bloodlust erupts in a storm of blood and fire, demanding the deaths of all involved. Anguish unlike anything I’ve ever felt in this life makes my mind blank, clouding with an unbridled fury.

“Artemis?” she trembles, my bloodlust focusing on her. Even though she’s Forsaken now, she was a follower of The Mad God. He is the reason I suffer and have always suffered. “Artemis!”

Blinking away the tears blurring my vision, I realize I’m saddling Sahria’s chest and my hands are wrapped around her neck. Eyes wide with fear, she slowly moves my hands from her neck.

What-

I suck in a deep breath, my whole body shaking like a leaf.

What the fuck was that?

Getting up and off of Sahria, clamber back to my fur and sit in a daze. Sahria rubs touches her quickly-purpling neck, staring at me in shock looking like she can’t decide on whether she wants to lay down or say something.

I make the decision for her, slowly laying down and turning my back towards her.

It’ll be a sleepless night.

*

The next day passes with little conversation, though I notice that Sahria walks farther from me and habitually rubs her neck while stealing glances in my direction. I’m glad she doesn’t try and talk about it, because I wouldn’t know what to tell her.

I’m still trying to wrap my head around things. I knew what happened, but not why. As far as I could recall, memories are clouded by a strange haze that prevents me from truly reliving from past lives. Like, I know something has happened, but I can’t really tell the emotions I felt.

Last night, I could.

And it still leaves my heart aching.

Actually, before yesterday, I didn’t have those memories.

But, it made sense. My soul is battered and broken.

The next day as we walk, I turn to Sahria open my mouth to speak, then close it. Believe it or not, I feel guilty for attacking her like that. She’s looking at me with a questioning brow, so I decide to just ask away.

“Out of curiosity, what is involved in the ritual in Avalia?”

She scoffs, “You can’t think that I’m just going to let you ignore what happened last night.”

I shake my head, “Not exactly, but this and that may be more related than you think if my suspicions are correct about your ritual.”

She huffs, folding her arms, though she starts explaining things after moping for a few minutes. “The process requires a holy practitioner, a soul manipulator, and a ritualist.”

I nod, “That makes sense.”

“What do you know of magic?” she condescendingly asks.

I ignore the barb, knowing I wouldn’t be so calm had positions been reversed. “Believe it or not, I theoretically know more than you.” Cringing back from her scathing gaze, I put my hands up in a passive gesture. “I know souls are the cumulative experiences of lives. A soul is judged, and Halla’s Maw waits for the worst of the worst.”

She nods along, raising a finger to interject. “Right, despite what the common populace believe, gods don’t really mediate where you go in the afterlife. Gaia witnesses all, testifying in the Courts of Jaul which acts as a judiciary system bound by karmic ties.”

I stare down at the grass underfoot, “Interesting. Now, a holy practitioner is some kind of mediating gods’ representative, and a ritualist is fairly self explanatory. Now, my point for asking-”

“I’m not done,” she interrupts. “You asked for the process, so I’ll tell you since - you know - you want to see it fail.” Looking away, I refuse to let the guilt-tripping get to me. “The ritualist works two-fold, setting up a ceremonial chamber and then dressing the client in quintessential channels. Then, the holy practitioner and soul manipulator cooperate to remove the divine bonding of the prior god for one’s soul, and then set up a newer, healthier bond with a new god.”

I wince now that I know the direness of her desperation. It’s strange, but I thought magic used to be far more precise than what she described.“Sloppy work, no wonder it’s so dangerous. It sounds like they’re scooping away the god’s presence out with a spoon, and that just seems wrong.”

The way she scowls makes it very clear that the conversation is now over, but talking to her did give me some interesting ideas. I really doubt that if The Mad God had yet to remove the blessing, then no mortal ever would.

What if the soul manipulator can put me back together? It’s worth asking about.

*

Later in the day, the quintessence from the ferret runs its course, and I have to carry Sahria the last stretch to Trushal. It’ll take her some time to recover.

A single Watcher on duty recognizes me at one of the city’s four small gates. I can see he wants to ask where Father is, but I give him a short shake of the head and turn away. His face falls, and he waves me through and into the depths of the city.

I examine the city, an intermixing of stone and wood stores layered vertically with small alleyways in between, leading into the city’s depths of scummery. Each building’s display boasts their finest goods - ranging from finely crafted swords to simple yet elegant tunics to a gentleman’s shop - with a staircase leading to the store proper.

Dozens of shops frame the dirt roads and lead to a quaint town center with a simply carved central statue. I walk around the circular town center, stopping to read the posted street signs.

These are new. To be fair, I look around and notice the subtle changes all the way up and down the street, things look far better than I remember.

I walk up the solid steps of the four-story tavern located directly across from the conference hall, noting the fresh paint on the sign hanging above the door. The Happy Hen. Pushing the door open with my foot, I enter. I find a table and set Sahria down, waving down the first worker I see - Tiran, if I recall correctly.

It’s been so long since I’ve been here, so I wait for him to speak first. “Artemis, it’s been so long. Where’s your dad?” My hollow gaze prompts him to change the topic. “Nevermind me, sorry for asking. What can I do for you today?”

“I need a room. I remember Mrs. Darla owes Father a favor, and I’d like to cash-in that favor.” Tiran turns to walk away, “It’s good to see you healthy again, Tiran.”

A simple nod and a smile are his only response, rushing into the back of the tavern.

“Is he a friend of yours?” Sahria asks, opening her eyes. “You seem friendly with him.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore.” I feel antsy now that I’m not moving, and hunger begins to really make itself known, my stomach growling loudly. The smell of fresh food makes my mouth water in anticipation. Chowing down on salted meat could only do so much. I’ve had to eat it for longer stretches of time, but it didn’t do much to satiate the desire for flavor.

It’s no replacement for a cooked meal.