From the moment I had stepped foot in it, I had recognised the Heartlands as a very unusual place. My only real experience with nature had taken place in what was undoubtedly the most barren and inhospitable region the continent had to offer, but even I was familiar with what a tree was supposed to be – even if I’d only seen three or four malformed specimens in my lifetime.

Yet the first forest I had seen was red. Varying shades of red, to be fair, but red nonetheless. The trees were a dark, burnt colour, yet peeled to reveal a fleshy pink. The grass was a bright crimson, and so strangely sharp that they would constantly sink into my bare soles, seeming to seek the crimson liquid within. Vines curled around everything, alternating colours yet always dark and ominous, like a hangman’s noose come to life. Even the dirt was red. The only exception were the speartrees – eerie things that stood even amongst the most unnatural devastation, white as bleached bone.

No one area was the same, either. At first glance, most things in the Heartlands appeared similar. Yet every new step forced me to relearn its contours: What was edible; What was safe; What was poisonous; What wanted to kill me. It was always shifting. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the ground shattered beneath me, one day.

The place was eerie. Weird; ominous; unpredictable. Clarity came in the form of birds, bugs, and the occasional skittish animal – blessedly familiar in form – yet their ranks concealed monsters. Movement was an exercise in wading through an increasingly thickening tension. It was impossible to shake the feeling that, despite its incomprehensible diversity, the place had a singular will. And it wanted me out. I had thought I would go insane, living amidst it all.

But people can get used to anything, given time. That was what I had to believe.

Gast, asleep and partially submerged in a pile of monster parts, seemed perfectly at home. The Missus, our donkey, chewed on a few clumps of lichen I’d found to be edible. Whip fed him from atop the mound of butchery, teetering precariously atop our cart. Davian inspected a lump on the ground. And Kit quietly attempted to light a cigarillo perched in her mouth with a flint and steel, each failure sending her into a fit of silent profanity. All this, despite the fact our cart was thoroughly wedged in a root.

“Do you think we can just… lift it up?” I asked Ronnie.

They tilted their hand in a ‘so-so’ gesture.

“It’s either that or we unload the cart.”

The giant walked over to the offending wheel, and mimed yanking it.

I squinted. “Is that even possible? How are we going to get it off?”

“Rotate th’ cart mebbe?” Kit contributed, having given up her efforts entirely.

Scratching my head, I hummed. Unable to find anything wrong with her idea, I quietly nodded.

“Lucky our cart’s so awful, huh?” she continued. “Hard to get the wheel off a better one.”

“Eyah,” I agreed.

Kit and I stood at opposite ends of the cart, while Ronnie braced their leg against the cart and latched onto the wheel. We waited. And waited. And waited. Until-

Kit hawked a yellowed wad onto the dirt. “Whip, Gast, get your stinkin’ behinds outta there!”

Whip tumbled head-over-heels onto the Missus, who brayed and sunk its teeth into my waist. I swore ferociously, and barely managed to catch Whip before she slid onto the ground. With a fierce scowl, I placed her beside me. Kit stared straight ahead.

Once Gast had rolled her vast bulk out of the wagon, Kit and I heaved it around, and Ronnie managed to smack the wheel off its hub. A quick pull saw the wheel extricated, and a repeat of our earlier manoeuvre had it seated back in its rightful place.

While we were working, Whip and Davian bribed the Missus back to his harness with a few choice bulbs, and we were back. It was my turn to lead the Missus and ensure he didn’t lodge the entire cart again. The Missus and I got along well. I occasionally swapped places with him, so it felt like we occupied similar rungs in the hierarchy. Whip was still the favourite – no one doted on the donkey like her – but I think the two of us were kindred spirits. The many, many times he attempted to bite me were signs of affection.

We normally wouldn’t take our cart into a forested area, however the trees here were, as Davian described them, ‘piney’, meaning the ground was relatively flat, borderline rocky, and the only real detritus in our way were the occasional brush or felled trunk. The most difficult part was finding a route wide enough for our dray. That, combined with the sizeable amount of tools we needed to deforest a small area, had had me arguing ferociously for our donkey’s presence despite the danger the monsters pose. Otherwise, I would’ve been carrying most of our supplies, and most likely Gast as well.

I clicked my teeth. “So… What’re we thinking of doing about the annulment?” I said, resuming an earlier conversation. The topic was on everyone’s minds: the Albrights had dissolved their treaty with Heltia – which had endured for a century – a month ago, leaving the Heartlands open to invasion from other Houses.

“Staying within Heltia is the best option for us,” responded Davian, reiterating his earlier opinion.

Kit snorted. “What kind of ninny calls Spires Heltia?”

We ignored her. “Houses aren’t safe,” came my retort, “and we can’t be certain that whatever chaos their invasion inflicts won’t be deadly.”

“They might be nice…?” offered Whip.

Davian nodded. “And there’s no guarantee they will invade.”

“What’re you, stupid?” came our resident instigator’s inevitable response. “Baylar’s not gonna let such a juicy fish go. And – what was the other one, the one next to the Heartlands?”

“Esfaria,” I stated.

“Yeah, Esfaria. Doubt Esfaria’s any better. But Baylar hates Heltia, so definitely them.”

Ronnie made an inquisitive grunt.

“Uh, s’that about Baylar hatin’-“

They nodded, tapping their shoes impatiently.

Kit grinned and stuck her nose in the air. “Well, I’ve heard Heltia’s failed to deliver on most trade agreements with Baylar for the past…” She paused, crinkling her nose. “Two years? Pissed them off some, I’m sure.”

“Wow,” Whip exclaimed. “How do you know that?” I had been wondering the same thing.

The swordswoman tapped the side of her nose. “I have my sources.”

Her sources were probably some drunk with a severe case of ‘wanting-to-impress-people’, an affliction that seemed to have spread to her as well. I traced the phantom of a sad tear rolling down my cheek, mourning those poor, afflicted souls. No one paid my quiet chuckle any mind.

I snapped back to the conversation at Davian’s quiver rattling while he began walking backwards. “That doesn’t change the fact that the Albrights discourage infrastructural damage.”

Whip chimed in from atop the cart. “And, according to the Terms, civilians are infrastructure!”

I couldn’t believe my ears. Blind optimism, at best. “The Albrights made this situation. They’re the ones who annulled their treaty with House Heltia, they must’ve known this would happen. And no battle is absent of casualties.”

Ronnie nodded, and made a few gestures.

Whip translated. “’It’s probably a – political? Is that right?” Ronnie nodded. “A political move to destroy Heltia. Bloodtech has made them too strong.”

“That doesn’t mean they would encourage breaking the Terms,” Davian responded, quick as a bird.

“They don’t follow rules if they don’t have to,” came my retort. “And they never have to.”

Kit’s short hair bobbed as she made a slashing motion at her throat. “Nah, there’s too many witnesses. Need ‘em to keep bloodtech production up.”

“Come on,” I spat, “Spires is practically isolated from the rest of the continent. No one can leave – how would they eat? There’s barely any food left in the Heartlands, so any witnesses- “

Someone interrupted. “What ‘bout us?” That was Gast’s flat, smudged tone, spoken from the back of the cart.

“What about you?”

“You want us to leave.” I couldn’t see her face, buried in the cart, but I could imagine it: smooth and serene as a resting stone. “Where our food?”

Our archer pointed to the cart, his arms quivering excitedly. “Gast is absolutely correct. That is, by far, the most pressing issue with your proposition. Outside of Heltia, there is no guarantee of consistent meals – not within the Heartlands, anyway.”

Kit shrugged her shoulders. “We’d have to feed my family s’well,” she stated, then chuckled at something. “And any of yers, I guess.”

Ronnie nodded in agreement.

I failed to conceal a sneer. “That’s most people. You guys can live off the land.”

“It’s not exactly safe, Vin. And what happens when we make it to civilisation again? Who will hire Strains?”

Kit barked mirthlessly. “And whaddaya mean, ‘you guys’? Yer not comin’? You godsdamned hypocrite.”

My grip tightened on our donkey’s lead. “I might, still. I just need to get a friend out. So shut up you-” I stopped myself.

“You what? You what?” Her tone was high-pitched, mocking.

My heart thrummed.

“By the blood, I’m just trying to keep you safe!” My bellow shattered the forest’s peace. Somewhere close, wings beat against the air and birds took flight. Like always, clarity visited a second too late.

I ran a hand through the back of my hair. “Sorry. I’m…”

“Go ahead.” Gast’s flat tones had never seemed so artful. “Let them know we finish.”

I checked my sword was seated on my hip and snatched my halberd from its holster on the side of the cart, then broke into a jog. Techniques to curb anger ran through my mind, but I dismissed them. Less than a minute later, footsteps began to rapidly pursue. Perhaps I could’ve outdistanced them, but part of me had been waiting to have this talk for weeks.

Kit caught up far more quickly than I would’ve liked. I slowed to a walk, and she followed suit.

She was barely out of breath. “What’s yer problem with me, Vin?” the young woman inquired. Out of the corner of my eye she peered at me.

I kept my gaze fixed ahead. “No problem.”

“Owl pellets, Vin.” Her tone was flat; her gaze ambivalent. “You’ve taken offense to everythin’ I do.”

“There’s a lot to take offense to,” I snapped. Immediately afterwards, I sighed and hung my head.

“There he is,” Kit chuckled. “Yer a ragin’ arsehole to me, Vin. You got a problem.”

“I know,” I said, “I know. I am sorry.” The simple truth was that even if she deserved my attitude, I shouldn’t have let her get to me. “It’s not…” I searched for the right words. “You just rub me the wrong way, is all.”

The swordswoman shot me a toothy grin. “Well-“

“I’ll try to be better,” I concluded. Part of me craved for my words to be authentic. The rest smelled dishonesty.

“Well,” she continued with a pointed glare, “as I was sayin’, the feeling’s mutual.”

I stopped walking. “What?”

Her grin returned as her eyes took on a rabid, familiar light. “I think yer a coward, Vin.” She gestured towards me. “Look at you: my height an’ a half, built like a brick wall, but usin’ none of it. How much more could you be doin’?” Her features feigned a condescending humour, but there was something furious behind her gaze. I felt my hackles rise in response. “Yet you whine and moan about blood of all things – what do you think we’re here to do? Why’re you huntin’ monsters? You do nothing. You are nothing. All that power, and for what?”

Leaves shook and rustled as a burst of wind swept through the forest. Yet, though the breeze should have stolen it, an echo remained. ‘For what?’ ‘for what?’ ‘for what?’ it asked. The blackened trees twisted through one another, forming an indomitable canopy. I imagined their branches snaking downwards, piercing my skin, flesh, bone and then carrying me downwards, letting my blood drain and be consumed by the earth.

They loomed.

I shook myself from my stupor. “What in the blood are you prattling about?” I whispered. A weak response. I rallied my anger. “I culled as many as anyone, even you.”

Though Kit shook her head, her eyes remained fixed on mine. Their sclera were shockingly white against her black skin. “Doesn’t change that yer a pathetic little man. You want perfection from everyone, but you don’t try nothin’ for yourself.”

I flinched, and a slow smile began stretching across her face. It provoked something in me. I looked at her, and I knew her.

“Fine. Do you want to know why I hate you, Kit? It’s because you’re a godsdamned killer,” I stated. Her brows flattened, while her pupils dilated fractionally. “I don’t know who, and I don’t know why. And maybe I could forgive that, but it’s not just that. You’ve got the soul of a murderer, too. You look at everyone around you like they’re pieces of meat.” My lips curled. “You treat us like garbage – or, or like we’re something you scraped off your boot. Like we’re a…” I paused, searching for the right word. “Like we’re a game or something. You think I’m nothing?” I glared down at her. “You think everyone’s nothing.”

Kit swallowed. A short huff of air emerged from her nostrils. “I can’t help it if the world’s incompetent.”

“Gods, Kit; you’re so alone,” I mocked. Something pricked at my eyes. “All alone, in a sea of nothing people.” Carried by momentum, my face twisted into a sneer. “I hope you drown.”

I turned away.

“At least I’m not a failure of a person.”

I whirled, growling, and opened my mouth to speak, only for my eyes to fall onto her right hand. White-knuckled, it wrapped around the hilt of the longsword buckled to her waist. With unnatural clarity, I heard the wheels of the cart trundle closer.

Kit waited, tense. I squinted at her.

“Really?” I said, the word slipping from my mouth like rotten meat. I didn’t know if I was addressing myself or her. A moment later I left, and continued jogging ahead.

My journey into the distance was accompanied by too many eyes.

Scouting was an important duty. I wasn’t half the hunter Davian was – I had too much self-respect to sit in a bush or chase a goat for hours – but all scouting required were good ears and keen eyes. Upon encountering anything of note, there were three options: leave it, scare it, or kill it. Usually, such a decision was made after consulting with the group.

I hadn’t been sent out to scout. Even so, I was seriously considering the third option.

“Boy, there’s more work to do,” the foreman of the harvesters stated, looking up at me.

His thick frame spoke of a lifetime of labour, yet his clothes hung loose on his body. The several dozen workers loitering around were worse off – starvation darkening the shadows of their faces. I must’ve looked gluttonous to him – a tall young man covered in thick muscle. The truth of the matter was, I ate as little as everyone else – Dure’s power allowed me to subsist on less, and Enn’s maintained my strength.

I liked to think I understood them, at least a little. Everyone in the Heartlands contended with the same problem. For over half a decade, the land had been stripped clean in anticipation for the renewal that accompanied the Aching.

The Aching never came. But neither my team nor myself were responsible for that.

“We’ve exterminated all monsters in our assigned area,” I retorted, barely able to keep the tension from my voice, “at significant personal risk. That’s our job done – that’s what we’re paid for.”

The foreman massaged the arch of his nose. The landscape around us was a wasteland of red grass and felled trees, half-empty carts containing axes, saws, scythes, cleavers, and ropes scattered semi-randomly throughout. One was stuck in mud. It wasn’t Frost season – though we were in Bite, so it wasn’t far off – so snarling scrubs and tangled bushes remained, alongside the heartwood stumps, their fleshy cross-sections smeared with dried sap. The harvesting crew milled about, playing cards, talking, or impromptu games of Web, pretending not to be looking. They’d done good work.

The sharp tips of the Spires peeked at us from over the horizon.

He spat on the ground. “Teams 1 and 2 haven’t returned. We need you-”

I immediately interrupted. “We didn’t agree to do the work of three teams.”

“If their areas aren’t cleared, then people will starve.“ His words were a matter of fact. Everyone present was aware of that.

“Sorry,” I said, though I couldn’t manage to inject an apologetic note in, “let me correct myself. We can’t do the work of three teams. We’ve spent three days clearing our zone. My group is wounded. They’re tired.”

He snorted derisively. “Have some compassion, boy. You look fine.”

“I’m a Lizardblood.”

“Ah.” The foreman looked me up and down. “Could you tell your leader to talk with me?”

A groan burst out of me. I should’ve pretended to be unblooded. “We don’t have a leader, but I am the negotiator.”

“Strains,” he spat, as if the word was an affront. “I didn’t want to do this, but if you’re insisting on allowing hundreds to go without food, I’m withholding your stamp.”

If he didn’t stamp our team’s register, then we wouldn’t receive any chits. A memory flashed – executing a soldier for a lesser offence – then receded into the back of my mind. My grip around my halberd tightened. The foreman flinched as I silently stabbed it into the ground, leaving it quivering in the red earth. Its point had seemed far too seductive. The harvesters stilled, discarding their nonchalant pretence.

My hands fell to my sides, involuntarily flexing. “What about Team 3?”

The man’s sunken eyes wavered. “They finished early,” he said, licking his lips. “We… hadn’t learned about the other teams.”

“And they got stamped?”

He paused, then slowly nodded.

“And we’re not getting stamped?”

The foreman’s gaze gravitated towards the ground.

“I’ll tell you what, foreman,” I spoke blandly. “Either you can stamp me, and I can inform the Reclamation Committee that they need to send more monster hunters.” I leaned downwards. “Or, you can take your little axe- ” I prodded a finger into his chest, “-and go kill some monsters yourself.”

His eyes remained fixed at his feet.

I gripped his head between my hands, forcing his eyes to meet mine. They quivered in their sockets, brown pools that belonged in the skull of a frightened animal. I loomed within them. “People are starving, foreman. Have some compassion.”

At that moment, the worker’s gazes were tactile. They pressed against my skin at a low murmur. My performance was impeccable. Rendered as perfectly as any Divinity I had ever performed; a work of art coincidentally written in the language of intimidation. They feared me. I exalted in it. And I noticed my exaltation.

I needed it to be an act.

Something dark and empty settled in my gut. Whose feelings they were remained a mystery.

I let the man go, and uprooted my halberd. Moments later, when my team rolled past the tree-line, the roster was stamped.