The False Prophecy

Part 1/3 in the "Journey of Valentine" trilogy.

This story is a Work in Progress (WIP). Below is only a draft, and subject to change without notice.

Prologue

According to all sources, Valentyne C. Devereux had disappeared. He was last seen at his workplace in Hickory, North Carolina. His coworkers and manager report that he clocked in and began work at 8:57 am on July 18th, 2017. One coworker reported that Mr. Devereux took an approved, unpaid break around 1:30pm, entering the back rooms of the building and never returning. The timecard system corroborates these reports, showing only two punches for Mr. Devereux on the day of the disappearance. The subsequent investigation revealed that a boot belonging to Mr. Devereux was left in a broom closet adjacent to the employee break room, along with a half-eaten chicken sandwich. There were no signs of a struggle; there was no blood. After a missing person report was filed by Mr. Devereux's parents, the local police force searched for two weeks to no avail. A report was forwarded to relevant parties, and the case remained open. According to all sources, Valentyne C. Devereux had disappeared...

Chapter One

The First Day. A Strange Castle.

I never open my eyes when I first wake up. It is a habit of mine that I have kept for so long that I don't even remember when it started. It gives me a chance to listen and observe my surroundings with an objective ear. If someone else is in the room, they might change their behavior once they know I am awake. I would rather get my bearings before having to engage in conversation. So instead I wait. Breathe in, slowly, letting my lungs fill for several seconds. Pause for just a moment. Breathe out just as slowly. Steadily and rhythmically I continue, maintaining deep, quiet breaths as though I were still asleep while I listen for movement around me.

I can tell immediately that I am not in my bed, or even in my own bedroom. The feeling on my back, the smell in the air, the sounds all around me, they are all wrong. I think back and try to remember what I did last night. I'm not usually one for going out on the town or crashing on a friend's couch, and honestly I can't remember the last time I woke up somewhere other than my own house. As I push through my memory in an attempt to rationalize my position, I come up with a blank.

That's unusual.

My memory is fairly good. Not exceptional by any means, but enough that I can recall the last few days with a certain amount of clarity. As it stands however, I am unable to recall any concrete short-term memories. The most recent memory I can conjure is a night out with friends, which I know was at least two weeks ago. Other than that I have just been working at my job and pursuing my own hobbies at home. There are no notable events to speak of that would land me in an unrecognizable sleeping arrangement.

I'm sure there is an explanation I have missed. After several seconds of failed recall, I instead focus my attention on my surroundings as I suddenly and uncomfortably become aware of a creeping feeling in the back of my mind. It is one that I am familiar with upon waking - the feeling of being watched. While usually I have no logical reason to feel it, and am able to purge the sensation rather unceremoniously, this time the feeling lingers.

Breathe In. Breathe Out.

I feel like someone is watching me, but whoever it is hasn't done anything to me while I was asleep, so I can only assume that they are waiting for me to awaken. As long as I can continue to feign unconsciousness, I can begin assessing my surroundings.

The room is hushed. The only sounds I hear are muffled, as though far away or behind closed doors. It is the twofold sound of ambient nature and the general clamor of a crowd. I hear birds chirping nearby, wind rustling through trees, and conversations far away at the edge of my ability to listen. All potentially useful information, but not for the immediate present. I continue to focus for several more seconds, breathing and listening, and I eventually pick up on a hushed ticking sound, almost like a clock. There is almost no echo of the sound in the space; wherever I am, it is not only very quiet, but well dampened for sound.

My back hurts. I'm currently lying on my back on a cold, hard surface, I think it's either stone or hardwood. I don't feel the weight of clothing or blankets upon me. I fight the urge to flex my fingers and feel the ground underneath me. Keep calm. Keep quiet. Breathe in. Breathe out.

As I breathe, my nose picks up on various scents, both familiar and unknown. The place smells mostly like dust mixed with the recognizable scent of old books. I distinctly smell wood, both fresh timber and old, mixed with the coppery odor of metal and the distinct, though weak, sensation of smoke and ash from a recently burnt fire. Very faintly, almost at the tip of my consciousness, I catch a whiff of something pleasant - something like perfume - but with a blend of scents completely unrecognizable by me.

I return to focusing on sounds, of which no more have presented themselves. If anyone is in the room with me, they are very good at concealing their presence. Normally people fidget, even a little, which will creak floorboards or rustle nearby loose objects. At the very least, you can hear their breathing. I hear none of that.

I snap my eyes open and, without moving my head, dart my gaze around the room as quickly as I can. I am in a small room, maybe 5 meters on either side. Gray stone ceiling and walls, both with wooden beams regularly placed against them, a desk, a chest of drawers and a window to my left, several bookshelves to my right and above me, and a fireplace below me. No people that I can see.

There is a small nook between one of the bookshelves and the far wall where I could fit if I stood up. I flex the muscles in my arms and legs to shake away any remaining stiffness and then jump to my feet, immediately darting behind the bookshelf. My body begins its protest in earnest once I stop moving, shooting white-hot static through my limbs and I shiver from the feeling of motion. It feels like I haven't used my muscles in a long time, and they are just now having to wake up.

I grit my teeth and glance around the room once more. Stone walls, but a wooden floor, with a large carpet laid at the center of the room which I had explicitly *not* been lying on. A desk is neatly organized below a bright window. There is a door to my left, beyond the bookshelves.

From this vantage point, I can now confirm that there is no one in the room - I suppose that I was wrong about that. My unease nonetheless does not fade. I still don't know where I am or how I got here. I continue to rack my brain, but continue to return with nothing to ease the rising tension. The unfortunate reality is that I do not recognize this place. Even worse, I don't even recognize this style of building. It is definitely not a house, an office building, or even a community center. The weathered gray stone and hardwood floors betray an ancient construction like one would expect in a historical building, for which I cannot possibly think of a reason why I would be sleeping in.

I try to reason through my situation. Either I arrived here of my own volition or I didn't. Since I can't remember how I got here, option one seems less and less likely, which does not bode well for me. Beginning to feel the trappings of panic set in, I force myself to focus on the present. If I can ascertain my surroundings, I may be able to figure out how I got to this point, and if necessary, how to escape.

My body shivers involuntarily, both from the rising stress and from the cool air in the room. I wrap my arms around myself and suddenly become aware of the air pressing against my skin. Not just my face and hands, but my chest and legs as well. I glance down to confirm my suspensions and am proven correct: I am not clothed.

Unfortunate.

Sweeping my gaze around the room once more, I fail to spot any piles of recognizable linen that might be my missing garments. There is precious little fabric in this room at all, save for the carpet, a single tapestry behind me, and what looks to be a folded blanket placed neatly on top of the bookshelf.

I almost instinctively reach toward the blanket but pause before I touch it. I must be careful. Until I can confirm where I am and how I got here, I need to operate under the worst-case assumptions about this location and its inhabitants. Touch as little as possible. Disturb nothing if I can help it. I don't know how they will react to my presence or my interactions with the items here.

With this in mind, I weigh the options of taking the blanket. Disadvantages: someone may accuse me of theft if I do. Advantages: someone may accuse me of indecency if I don't. Both are equally horrible in their potential. But after a moment of deliberation, I purse my lips and reach for it anyway. As I pull it from the shelf, a layer of dust falls to the floor and the cloth unfolds to reveal a much smaller sheet than I previously expected. About the size of a bath towel, it is made out of a coarse wool-like material, which is perfect for my needs. I wrap it around my waist and secure it as best I can, giving it a few tugs to confirm it is in place before returning my attention to my surroundings.

I glance toward the window, past which I can see a cool blue sky. I estimate that it is sometime in early afternoon based on the light. I move over towards it and press myself against the adjacent wall, peeking out from around the corner and straining to see outside. As my eyes adjust to the light, I see a well-kept rectangular field surrounded on all sides by the same gray stone which makes up this room, of which this room is at a corner, perhaps two stories above the ground. These walls are dotted with windows akin to this one. The only break to the pattern is a large gate and portcullis on the far wall, which is currently closed. The field is populated by various people, though I am too far away to make out any details.

A castle? Perhaps some historical reenactment site? At the very least, I can confirm that I am not alone here. I estimate there are no fewer than 50 people in the field, arranged in neat rows and columns, as though they were performing some sort of practiced choreography. Potentially useful information, but I can focus on that later.

Based on the shadows falling on this field, I estimate that it is close to midday - the sun is almost directly overhead, or perhaps a little behind me - which makes it difficult to discern which of the cardinal directions I am facing. If I had to guess, this window seems to be facing south, but I suppose global orientation will have to wait. I retreat back from the window and look over the items on the desk, making sure not to touch anything thereupon.

I see quills and bottles of ink and several stacks of paper to the side. Taking up most of the space is a partially-unrolled scroll filled with text in a language I cannot read. Looking at the paper, it is also illegible. It is definitely a language - not just the meaningless scrawls you would expect on a movie prop - and has the spacing and intentionality of actual writing, but I cannot read it. Worse, I do not even recognize the script. These are not letters, glyphs, or symbols I have ever seen before in my life.

Before I have a chance to look further, I hear movement and talking from beyond the door. I shoot back to the corner behind the bookshelf and wait, breathing quietly and listening for motion. The sound gets louder and louder - footsteps and the sounds of conversation, at least two people - as they approach, but then the sound begins to fade just as it came.

A moment passes as I steady my breathing, ensuring that I am making as little noise as possible before I creep over to the door and press my ear against the hardwood, straining to listen to the sounds from the other side. The conversation continues to fade out of earshot, with no other sounds replacing it. I examine the handle and discover a simple vertical metal bar acting as the pull handle attached to a metal plate with a large hole for a key to be inserted. The keyhole is a large one, enough for me to peer through, almost antique in its size and shape. I look through the hole and am greeted by the same gray stone on the other side, around two meters away from the door. The keyhole does not provide enough field of view to see anything further. I wait a moment more to ensure whoever was on the other side is long gone, and then try the door. I pull gently first, and when that yields no result I push, also to no avail. I softly jostle the door to see if I can ascertain if it is locked or simply jammed. It moves slightly, but is stopped before it can open fully, proving it to be locked. I am locked in this room.

This is proving to be a most undesirable predicament.

I turn around and examine the room once again from this new perspective. To my left: a desk and window. To my right: bookshelves. In front of me is a fireplace with a long-dead fire inside.

I contemplate my situation. My first objective is to escape this room. My second objective is to escape this building. My third objective is to locate my whereabouts and discover how I even got here.

But first, escape. If the door is locked then the window may be my only option. Moving as silently as I can, I creep back towards the desk. Sparing a glance at the unintelligible papers once more, I reach over the desk and touch the glass of the small window, running my fingers along the edge where it meets a wooden frame. It feels solid. A single pane of glass set into the opening and sealed with some sort of resin. Unlike windows I am used to seeing, this one has no chance of sliding or opening under normal use. I consider throwing a heavy object against it in an attempt to break it. However, I imagine that it would draw unneeded attention my way. I still do not know what sort of occupants this building has; it would be wiser to continue running under the assumption that they are not friendly.

Before I can discern the next appropriate plan of action, I hear the door rattle behind me. Unlike before, whoever is at the door now made no sound as they approached, so they almost caught me off-guard. I drop to the balls of my feet and jump backwards to tuck myself behind the bookshelf and out of sight from the door. I breathe deeply to get as much air into my lungs as I can before dropping my breath pattern to a slow, soft rhythm.

Mere moments after I squeeze behind the shelf, I hear the door open and footsteps enter the room. They are slow and unhurried, occasionally stopping and seeming to ponder before starting up again. The individual enters my view, their back turned towards me as they walk towards the desk. They are dressed ornately, with long sapphire robes with silver trim. Their slick gray-white hair is pulled back into a ponytail which then drops almost to their lower back. I catch a glimpse of their side profile. Their face is wrinkled with age, and appears androgynous with a sharp chin and long ears. I do a double take as I notice just how tall their ears are, coming to a point nearly three centimeters above where one would expect normal ears to end.

Now that's curious.

They continue to stand at the desk, facing the window, as I assess my options. I presume that upon completing their business, they will either turn towards the bookshelf and see me, or they will turn towards the door to leave, whereupon I will never enter their field of view. The best course of action will be one where I am not seen. If I stay where I am and they leave, they will not see me, but if they turn towards the shelf, they will. If I attempt to move towards the door, they will only see me if I cannot get out of the room before they are finished with whatever business they have. If I choose the wrong option, they will notice me.

Neither option guarantees success.

After a few seconds, I estimate that they will continue pouring over the desk for a long enough time for me to escape. I quickly but quietly creep my way to the open doorway, keeping my body low and walking sideways, facing the individual. Step by step I continue to creep, but I only make it halfway to the door before the individual's head shoots up, seemingly alerted by a sound I made or a motion in the air, although I didn't realize I made any of the sort. The person whips around to face me, eyes locking with mine and widening with a mix of surprise and hostility. I instinctually stop moving - a primal response in a vain attempt to keep predators from noticing my presence. This hesitation lasts for only a moment, but the individual holds no such reservations. Uttering a few curt, unintelligible words, they throw their hand out towards me, causing several bright, glowing cords of what appear to be pure light to whip out of their extended arm, passing through the sleeves of their garment as though they didn't exist, and flailing in the air around them for a few moments before surging towards me.

As adrenaline once again surges through my body, I drop to a crouch, coiling my legs like a spring before vaulting towards the door. My reaction comes not a moment too late, as the cords of light shoot through the air where my body was before and strike the bookshelf behind me. As I roll through the doorway and leap to my feet, I catch a glimpse of the cords' effect: a dozen books are extracted from the shelf and enclosed in a strange, translucent sphere only to float lazily a few metres above the floor. In the fractions of a second between my seeing this eldritch display of apparent magical power and my sprinting out of its line of sight, I frantically try to justify what I just saw. Was it a con? Sleight of hand or some other type of stage magic? Maybe I was seeing things - a weird trick of the light or a terror-borne hallucination. Whatever the figure was able to do, it is wholly outside of my realm of understanding, and for that reason alone, I do not want to stick around to find out the extent of its nature. I don't catch any more detail as I roll out of the room and spring to my feet, my shoulder slamming into the opposite wall but failing to halt my forward momentum. I focus all my attention on the hallway I am now occupying.

Stone walls. Stone floor. Stone Ceiling. I dart my eyes around as I run, trying to take in as much information as I can. Intermittent thick timber beams run along the wall and roof, presumably for support, with light being provided by strange glowing yellow spheres embedded in the walls on either side. Doors are placed to my left, windows to my right. If I recall what I saw out the room's window, I am moving south towards the building's exit. Although the hallway is currently unoccupied, I can see ahead of me where this hallway intersects another to the left, and I have no guarantee of that hall's vacancy. Behind me I can hear the robed figure exit the room and shout in my direction. Although I hear them clearly - the consonants and vowels registering perfectly - the words I don't understand. It must be another language. I can nonetheless understand their tone, and it isn't a pleasant one.

I was correct to assume the occupants here would be hostile.

I continue running down the hall with all the strength my legs can muster. My muscles have already begun to scream in protest as I am unpleasantly reminded that they only awoke a few minutes prior. They are sluggish to respond, but I press into the pain and force them to take each stride despite their cries. My vision swims faintly as I suck in the dry, dusty air and fill my lungs as best I can.

A wooden beam to my left groans and cracks, sending a shower of splinters across my shoulder and neck as another beam of light pierces it, shooting from the robed figure in pursuit. The largest of the splinters halts midair before it strikes me, enclosed in the same blue sphere I saw before. I feel the air crackle around me again and I throw myself to the right and out of the way of another beam that fires past me, dissipating harmlessly against the stone ceiling this time. I need to get out of their line of sight. I can only avoid the beams so many times before I get unlucky. I look ahead, see the adjacent hallway, and make my choice. I can just hope that I can get there in time.

I pump my legs harder and harder, trying to squeeze every last bit of speed out of them to reach the hall in time. I don't dare to waste energy by looking behind me at my pursuer, focusing entirely on my objective in front. At this moment, I am single minded.

Finally, I make it, and I throw myself into the hallway, nearly losing my footing as my angle of momentum changes so abruptly. My shoulder clips the wooden beam supporting the corner between the two hallways, and I feel the pain of a shallow cut tear into the skin. I ignore the pain as best I can and continue running forward.

And immediately slam into a wall.

This hallway, far from being my savior from the pursuing man, has proven to be an aide in my capture as its length terminates after no more than 4 meters, ending in a set of heavy metal double doors with ornate lanterns framing their form. I ignore the potential danger and press my hands against the door, pushing, then pulling, but to no avail. They are locked.

No time to think. I spin around. Perhaps I have enough time to dart back into the main hallway before–

But it is too late. The individual's tall frame blocks my escape path as they stand in the center of the hallway, their hands already having begun weaving through the air in the pattern that has become all too recognizable as the terrifying cords of blinding light wreath around him before firing towards me.

I try to dodge like before, throwing myself to the left as the fibers reach towards me. But this time I am outplayed. The cords spread apart in a cone-like pattern, covering nearly the whole hallway, and once one of them touches my arm, the rest immediately snap towards me as though they were made of rubber. They wrap around me as my momentum carries me into the wall and then to the floor. Floating about 4 centimeters away from my form, the fibers spin and whip faster and faster around me before flattening and expanding, connecting together to form a vaguely transparent enclosed sphere with me inside. As the sphere changes color from bright white to a dull blue, I feel my feet lift off of the ground as my entire body feels like it's falling, gravity seeming to switch off for me. I swing my arms and kick my legs in an attempt to regain control, but only succeed in rotating my body askew so I am looking at the world at an angle. The entire process took no longer than a few seconds.

And so I am caught. My situation continues to get worse by the moment but I attempt to keep my wits about me. The truth is that I am scared. I do not know what will happen to me next and I seem to be at the mercy of this person. I tense every muscle in my body. The moment an opportunity to escape presents itself, I will have to take it. I may not get another.

Through the sphere, I see the individual's face contort into a disdainful glare, and I hear them speak with surprising clarity.

"Duis. Nulla nec ultricies arcu," they scowl expectantly at me, seeming to await a reply. I do not answer immediately, which prompts them to repeat a portion of the phrase.

"Nulla nec ultricies arcu,"

I tilt my head. Despite only being fluent in American English, I have taken enough classes and watched enough videos to at least recognize certain other languages when I hear them. At this point in my life, I can recognize choice words from Spanish and French, and can recognize certain linguistic features of several others. Despite that, the cadence and syllables that this person speaks do not match any language I know. I lock with their gaze in an attempt to read their expression further, hoping to derive some meaning there.

I apparently take too long. As the individual reads my features in the absence of a verbal response, their face shifts from outright disdain into scornful confusion "Phasellus egestas nisl ac orci placerat?"

"Do you speak english?" I ask

They respond in the same unintelligible language, speaking a few words I can't comprehend before nodding and turning away from me.

"Where am I?" I ask, echoing the question in my head since I had awoken.

The individual turns back to me, but does not reply, instead twisting their hand in a coordinated gesture. I feel the sphere I am contained in begin to shift and move as I am helplessly held aloft within. They turn to walk back from where we came, and I can do nothing as the sphere floats gently behind them, keeping pace with the individual.

As we pass into the main hallway, I make an attempt to swing my fist at the sphere surrounding me, only succeeding in turning myself upside down as the momentum carries frictionlessly through my entire body. I kick my feet, but also to no avail. The sphere is too large, and I am being held perfectly in the center such that I cannot touch the exterior.

With no other options, I focus on my surroundings. I note the windows to my left, catching glimpses of the courtyard beyond and the individuals arranged therein, but once we pass the room that I awoke from, the intermittent windows are replaced by more doors and I lose sight of the courtyard before I can see what they would do next. The only light now being provided is by glowing spheres of yellow intermittently embedded into the walls, casting their warm glow into this otherwise cold space. I stare at them as we pass by. These are not light bulbs, though they seem to cast light in a similar manner. I cannot discern their exact nature, seeming to glow homogeneously throughout their entire form, rather than from a single filament in the center. Before I spend too much time focused on the lights, I turn my attention elsewhere to try to gain as much information while I still can.

We cross several other individuals over the next few minutes, all dressed in various states of patchwork leather and linen. The proportions of these individuals vary greatly. While some are proportioned like ordinary humans, some are tall and gaunt, barely seeming to have any musculature on them, others are short and stocky, no taller than a single meter with full beards and dark eyes. I double-take as one individual appears almost human save for the white and black fur that covers their entire body, with canine-like ears perched atop their head. Many of the people that we pass spare a glance in my direction, but seem to be more focused on the individual leading me, and none of them stop us or question my presence. I don't have time to question any of this as I continue to be forcefully dragged towards wherever the robed individual takes me. We pass more doors and one open passage which seems to lead to a stairway before twisting down two more sets of hallways and arriving at what must be our destination.

A set of double doors blocks our path at the end of a hallway, flanked on either side by two people in what appears to be full suits of armor, save for the helmet. The robed individual speaks curtly to one of them, who bows and walks past us towards the way we came. The other opens the door to let us through.

The room on the other side is large, nearly 30 meters wide and over 50 meters deep. Windows on either side betray its size as light pours in from outside. On the walls in between these windows are hung large banners displaying heraldry I don't recognise: a stylized creature with the top half of a goat and the bottom half of a fish, all encircled by what appears to be the corona of the sun. Two large unlit chandeliers hang from the arched ceiling, one of which rests just above the centerpiece of the room: a dais rising four steps above the main floor, with two thrones on the top. A single figure sits on the one of the right, the other remaining empty. Unlike many others I have seen in this castle, this one appears human. Despite this, I freeze when I see him as a wave of emotion crashes over me.

I've seen this man before... somewhere. I don't know where or when. I see this man's face in a fleeting memory, outlined by a gossamer sky. The memory brings with it images of blood and darkness. A golden scroll and a flash of brilliant, iridescent light. Images without context swim through my vision so fast that I don't have time to interpret them. And then they dissipate, making me wonder what had even happened. Who is this man? Where have I met him? I take a closer look at the man, attempting to discern his face and figure.

Despite his seated position, I can see that he is dressed regally in flowing drapes of black fabrics, occasionally dotted with silver brooches and buckles. His pale face and thin hands are the only parts of him that I can see clearly defined, the rest obscured by the heavy clothes. His eyes are dark and sunken, and his face is gaunt and almost skeletal in appearance. His dark hair is cut in a black helmet on his head, and he leers at me from beneath thick, menacing eyebrows.

As we enter, the seated man raises his hand in greeting towards the robed figure but says nothing, his face betraying no emotion.

The robed figure speaks first, "Aenean vel nisl eget tortor sollicitudin faucibus. Aliquam erat volutpat. Suspendisse auctor, felis in porta pulvinar, nisi nisi tristique velit, in laoreet arcu enim et."

The man on the throne responds, "Mauris id ligula."

"Nam eu nunc vitae nibh suscipit euismod sit amet quis purus."

"Morbi eu magna nec."

The two continue speaking for several minutes, occasionally glancing or gesturing in my direction. They do not appear to seek my input, so I resign myself to watching and waiting for an opportunity. I continue to look around the room to get a better bearing. Although my smell and hearing has been somewhat dampened by the strange prison I am held in, I am still able to see.

There are six large pillars holding up the ceiling, three on each side. The closest pillar to my current position I estimate to be less than 10 meters away. From a full stop, I can probably make that in around 4 seconds. From behind the pillar, the closest exit is the way I came, and if I recall how I got here, I could return to the hallway within a minute. I begin to form the rough skeleton of a plan. This is all assuming, of course, that I am able to get free.

As I look towards the door, it swings open, and the guard that was sent away earlier returns to the room, holding it open for a small hooded figure to enter before he shuts it behind him. The figure walks quickly towards us, carrying a bundle in their arms of what appears to be gray folded linen. Their hood and cloak is the same blue color as the robes of the individual who captured me. This new person exchanges a few words with the old robed figure before turning in my direction.

They step closer to my spherical prison and extend their arms, holding the gray linen outstretched. To my surprise, they continue forward, passing seamlessly through the barrier and reaching their arms out, apparently handing me the bundle. In this, I see an opportunity. I reach my arm out, feigning intent to catch the bundle but instead aiming for their arm. Perhaps I will be able to grasp hold of them and pull myself free. I reach forward, and in the last second, shoot my arm out to grab their wrist, but as soon as our skin makes contact, I feel a jolt of what feels like electricity and I nearly pull back in shock, but I fight through the moment and keep my grip steady. They instantly stiffen in response to my outburst, dropping the bundle at our feet, planting their feet and whipping both hands in front of them before clasping their forearms together, each hand touching the opposite elbow. Before I give them a chance to respond further, I yank myself towards them, and feel myself surge forward. But rather than exiting the sphere, or even getting any closer to its edge, the sphere moves with me as I pull. The robed figure seizes the opportunity as my hand falls from their arm, flattening their palm and shoving it against my chest, sending me and my prison reeling away from them and back, presumably, to the position I was in before.

I keel over backwards, still floating weightlessly, but as I orient myself to face them, I catch the glimpse of the figures around us. Both the old man and the one on the throne both seem unimpressed, barely moving an inch from where they stand. The guard, on the other hand, had a drawn sword and had begun to advance before stopping when the situation ended. Looking back to the figure immediately in front of me, I see that the motion of shoving me away had dropped their hood from their head, and I now see their features plainly. A sharp, angled face, similar to the old man's, is crowned with a mess of short-cropped blonde hair, with similarly long ears resting on either side of their face. Their features are that of a young woman, perhaps no older than 30. Her face is twisted in disdain, eyes narrowed and suspicions and lips pursed in a tight line. She marches back to my position, retrieving the dropped bundle and shoving them into my arms before turning towards the other two.

This time, I make no attempt to escape.

I pick through the bundle and see now that it is a set of simple clothes, undyed linen trousers and shirt, with no embellishments to speak of. Despite this, they are thick and hardy, and seem more durable than the clothes I am used to. I mutter a word of gratitude, which I am sure they can't understand, and unceremoniously put them on. Despite their mildly itchy texture, I appreciate being able to wear proper clothing. I drape the blanket I wore previously around my neck.

The three individuals talk amongst themselves for several minutes, mostly the old man and the young woman, while the seated man only makes occasional remarks. Eventually, they seem to come to a consensus, and the woman once again approaches me. The seated man holds his position, and the older man stands roughly halfway between the other two. All three are facing me intently as the woman stops within two or three meters of my cage.

Suddenly, she reaches her arms out in my direction and makes several quick, practiced motions, slicing through the air with coordinated precision. Partway through this demonstration, several thin, brightly-glowing cords seem to aparate out of thin air and lattice themselves between her outstretched fingers, much like I saw the robed man do before. I am reminded of a cat's cradle as she quickly weaves these strange threads in her hands, building some sort of intricate lattice. Upon completion of whatever movements she was performing, she throws a hand towards me. A bundle of strands is launched towards my head while a single strand, still connected to her wrist, trails behind it. The bundle passes seamlessly through the barrier and affixes itself to my forehead before fading from view.

The moment of impact does not hurt in any physical capacity, but my mind is suddenly pierced by an ice-cold stinging sensation. I grab at my temple in a vain attempt to relieve the pressure that continues to build. I become acutely aware of the woman staring at me as I open my eyes to meet her gaze, my peripheral vision fading into gray fog as her eyes seem to be the only thing I can focus on. In that moment, the pain fades as a thought rings out through the static.

It is a question. It asks what my name is. I focus back on the woman and see her face wearing an inquisitive look. I intuitively understand that she is the one who asked. What I felt just then was not speech or any sort of words or language, just a mere thought. The idea of asking someone their name.

I stare dumbly into the air in front of me, eyes barely able to focus on the face of the woman as I stammer nonsensically, unable to form words amidst the immediate shock of the situation. My mind feels numb and I feel as though I am losing sensation in the parts of my skull behind my eyes. The numbness spreads across my face and down my neck. Just before I drift into unconsciousness, I feel a sudden jolt as the question is repeated, rattling inside my mind with unflinching clarity and shocking me back to my senses.

I choke out a few words, voice rasping against a suddenly dry throat, "what is happening to me?"

The woman doesn't respond save for a furrowing of her brow and a tightening of her lips. The question pierces my brain once more. It demands to know my name, and will not accept any answers otherwise.

I reply aloud, voice shaking "Valentyne. My name is Valentyne."

The woman nods, apparently both hearing and comprehending my answer.

Another question pierces into my mind. It asks what I am doing here. Again, rather than the question entering my mind as words, it enters as an idea, loaded with meaning, including what "here" is. The moment the question enters my brain, I become aware that "here" is a castle, called the Sotherun Keep, which is currently being used as a base of operation for the man sitting on the throne before us. The man's name and position is not encoded into the thought.

I flinch at the question. It is one that I have yet to answer myself. Until now, I did not know where I was, and I still do not know how I got here.

I open my mouth to give an answer as such, but before any words can escape, the woman tilts her head with a puzzled look and sends another question. The question asks where I come from and what I was doing before I awoke.

Wait.

Is this woman able to read my thoughts?

An answer to my unvoiced question enters my mind almost immediately. It is rather jarring, as these thoughts, which clearly originate from the woman in front of me, come to mind as naturally as though I had recalled them myself. Rather than feeling like I am learning information, it feels like I am remembering information. It is very disconcerting.

In any case, the answer I receive is yes, she is able to receive all surface level thoughts that I think while we are "connected," and I also understand that the lattice of anima strands she threw upon my forehead is what began and sustains this connection. The concept of what "anima" even is isn't elaborated upon.

I wonder what her name is.

Her name is Cira.

Where was I before I woke up?

I don't remember.

Who do I work for?

I work for no one.

As the connection persists, I feel as though I am talking to myself, asking myself questions and then answering them with thoughts before I can conjure the right words. I find that whatever connection there is between us, it is meant for two people to not only share thoughts, but to truly think alike at the same time. as Cira asks me questions it feels as though I am asking myself, and - at least in theory - vice versa. It would be the case except that Cira is apparently very good at guarding her thoughts against intrusion, a skill that I do not possess. So instead of a sharing of minds, this connection acts as an extremely personal interrogation. Thoughts are transferred quickly, such that the entire exchange thus far has lasted only a few seconds, though it feels like it is taking much longer. Thankfully, my mind has already become slightly more acclimated to the effect of the connection, and the numbness in my skull has faded from a throbbing ache to a much duller tenderness.

The interrogation continues as she attempts to probe for answers of where I come from and why I am here. I answer the best that I can, but it becomes clear to both her and I that I do not have a satisfactory answer. While many of the questions seem completely ordinary, some strike me as odd, and while I still am unable to answer them, I have to pause to understand what she is even trying to ask. Questions such as asking about a "solar flare" that occurred an hour ago, or if I am allied with the "Lachovian Guard." I assume the answer is no to both and respond as such, but I am unsure exactly what she is getting at with either.

Eventually, it becomes clear that my lack of knowledge of both this location and the past few days seems to irritate her. While I catch a flicker of empathy in her demeanor as I reveal my plight, it is only a flicker, and it fades just as soon as it arrives, leaving her expression as jaded as irritated before.

Finally, I hear a final thought from her, saying that she will discuss what she has learned with Ievis and Hespestis, who will determine my fate. I feel the connection fade, and Cira turns towards the old robed man - Ievis - while I am left physically and mentally reeling in my spherical prison.

As my ears regain their use and I begin to be able to hear my surroundings once more, I catch the sounds of the unintelligible language being spoken between Cira and the old man. I turn to see them muttering between themselves, the man on the throne - Hespestis - listens intently while casting a sideways glare in my direction, locking eyes with me. They speak for several minutes, their cadence and volume rising and falling as they deliberate what they have learned.

After a few moments, The three turn back to face me and Cira begins walking purposefully in my direction. Her eyes lock onto my own before snapping down towards my arms. As she marches in my direction I begin to run through possible options.

Suddenly, before I can think to respond, a tremor shakes the room. Light dust falls from the heavy rafters above as the glass in the high windows shriek painfully in their housing. Hespestis, who had betrayed not an ounce of emotion throughout this entire encounter, suddenly stands erect from his seated position and shoots his gaze to the right, out a window and towards the courtyard of the castle. His sharp figure, previously obscured by the folds of heavy cloaks and robes as he sat, becomes immediately noticeable as he stands, the fabrics falling angrily around him as the creases accentuate every curve and angle of his chiseled, razor-sharp form.

His gaze whips around to meet mine as he speaks a word as unrecognizable as the rest, clearly directed at the other two. Cira looks to Ievis who looks about to respond when another tremor erupts from below us, causing the dark wood floor to groan in objection. For a moment, Hespestis' face twists in cold fury before settling into silent dispassion once more, the rest of his body remaining as motionless as always. He speaks another word, different than the first, and turns around to face away. As he strides away, his cloak outlining sharp, deliberate steps, he raises his left hand and makes a simple twisting motion, causing another tremor, this one much further away. He walks deeper into the room, stepping behind the throne he once sat upon and opening a small door that I hadn't noticed before. He steps through it and vanishes from view.

Meanwhile, Ievis turns to Cira and repeats the command given by Hespestis, looking coldly in my direction. He makes several of the hand gestures I saw before, making a motion almost like he were passing an object to her, as she mirrors the patterns and accepts.

As Ievis gathers his robes and makes his way to follow Hespestis out the back door, Cira turns to face me, betraying little emotion. She flexes her hand and then balls it into a fist, causing the sphere I rest inside to drop to ground level and orienting me upright within it. As she approaches me, her expression flickers between acceptance and apprehension, before settling on determination.

She pushes past the barrier, grabbing my arm and pressing a thumb deep into my wrist, not breaking skin but nearly doing so, before making a motion like she is grabbing at a splinter. I instinctively react, trying to pull my arm away from her once more but her grip remains as steadfast as before, holding me in place with vice-like precision. As she draws her pinched fingers away from my forearm, a band of pure white light is extruded, similar in appearance to the ones I've seen used before by both her and the robed old man. She continues to pull the strand out of my arm like she was pulling out an ingrown hair. The motion irritates my skin. It irritates the muscles and bone underneath. My entire arm shivers as she pulls, and I fight the urge to scratch at the skin. After pulling out nearly ten centimeters, Cira stops as the strand suddenly tightens, apparently reaching the end of its length. In one swift motion, she releases my arm and plucks the strand out of it, catching the newly-released end with her free hand. With this new strand, she makes the same set of patterns between her fingers that I've seen before, pressing it once more to my temple and speaking into my mind.

The thoughts that enter my head are less organized this time. Far from being a series of quick and pointed questions, these thoughts come in a torrent, each one overlapping the last as she pours unfiltered information directly from her mind to mine. The first thing I feel are the raw emotions mixed with the thoughts: disdain, regret, and concern. I glimpse a memory as though I were the one remembering it - I am Cira, hearing an order from Hespestis, directed at Ievis, to kill the captured boy, for it is too risky to keep him alive. I see Ievis repeat the command to me. The memory fades and I am greeted with a swirl of emotions, decisions to be made, costs and benefits to be weighed. Safety. Morality. Finally, a conclusion. My vision returns to me as Cira's face swims into view, her thoughts still pressing in.

She has drained me of power, but she will not kill me. That is the conclusion she has reached. She is Ievis's student alone, and only remains with Hespestis because Ievis does. She has no intention of following unjust orders from him or anyone else. She will continue to follow the two of them until she has learned enough to venture on her own. Once they reach the Springridge Monastery, Ievis' duty will be complete and—

Cira's expression suddenly sours and she pulls away. I feel her mental barriers return, and her errant thoughts quiet themselves. She focuses once more and presses into my mind. I am struck with the thought to either hide or flee. The crown guard from the Kingdom of Lachovia are at the gates of the keep, besieging the castle, and I ought to either hide from their view and wait for the siege to blow over, or to escape before they arrive inside. She will be following Ievis and Hespestis. I will not be following her. I must find my own way out.

Seemingly satisfied with the information she has given me, Cira nods curtly and steps away as I feel our mental connection fade. Before I can respond, Cira flexes her hand and the world topples sideways as I am flipped upside-down in the sphere just before it vanishes, freeing me to collapse helplessly onto the ground below. My vision spins as I crash unceremoniously to the ground. I am able to twist and catch myself on my shoulder before my head collides with the solid wood floor, but I am helpless to protect my elbows and knees, which slam into the ground and send fireworks of pain through my body. Despite my limb's protests, I force myself to an upright position and look back to where Cira stood moments before and am greeted with an empty room. She must have used this opportunity to make an escape before I could pursue.

I lift myself groaning up to my feet, checking myself over for wounds. A few bruises, a few scrapes, but nothing major. No broken bones and no major bleeding. I look pointedly to the spot on the inside of my wrist where she pulled the strand of light out, and am met with perfectly unblemished skin. No marks, bruises, or cuts. Confused, I try to repeat the gesture she made, pushing and pinching at the skin, but with no results. I recall she used the word "anima" to describe these strands, but I wasn't able to glean any more information pertaining to that.

I shake my head to clear my thoughts. All things considered, this is the best outcome I could hope for. My captors have retreated and, at least for now, I am free. Time to focus on objective one: escape this building.

I have no intention of running into the three who just left out the back door, so my only option out of this room is the main double door from which I came. I close my eyes for a moment and run through the rough map of the building I have laid out in my head. Through the door and past two sets of hallways will land me back at the room where I woke up, through the window of which I could see a courtyard and a south-facing exit. I am on the second floor at least, so I will need to find a stairwell. I know I passed one on my way here. Assuming Cira is correct and I should avoid a run-in with an invading force, I will need to find an exit other than the main gate. Perhaps an open window on a lower floor, or a door from a back room. In either case, I need to make it to the center of the keep.

I open my eyes and step forward towards the doors, pushing one slightly ajar and peeking my head out to survey the other side. The two guards who were here before have since vanished, and I am alone in the hallway. While I cannot see anyone else, I hear movement down the hall and around a corner - a parade of footfalls, loud voices, and jostling metal.

I squeeze around the door and shut it behind me, pressing against the far wall and behind one of the thick timber beams. My bare feet tread lightly against the cold stone and send shivers across my skin, but thankfully make no sound as I walk. The clamor from whatever group of people I heard fades from earshot as I approach the "T" in the hall. In the distance, I can barely pick up on the sounds of a commotion far away, but it is muffled by the thick stone walls, and I decide to worry about that if and when it becomes more relevant. Right now, the hall is empty, and I seize the opportunity. Breaking into as fast of a sprint as I can manage while still keeping relatively light footfalls, I fly down the passageway back towards the old study. My eyes are peeled and my ears are alert to any sight and sound of people around me.

I sprint for a few dozen meters at most, slowing my pace as I come to a corner and creeping around it to check for occupants before picking up speed once more. In the back of my mind, I am aware that wasting my energy by running is a poor choice, but a primal urge keeps me from slowing down. I feel like a caged animal and am clawing at the slim chance of escape now that it's been presented. My breath is ragged and my limbs are heavy already, what little adrenaline I had in my system having been spent mere minutes prior while trying to escape from Ievis. This isn't good. I need to think. I need to plan. Focusing only on what's in front of me might get me captured again, or worse.

As I reach another branching hallway, I recognize this one as the entrance to the stairwell I saw before. Perfect. I slow down again to listen for movement around the corner, hearing nothing. Just as I am about to step into the hallway, the sounds of another group of people startle me from behind. Several paces away and around a corner I hadn't entered, they are coming this way. I jump past the threshold and enter the staircase, which is tight and narrow, made of wood and extending both below to the ground floor and above to however many floors up the keep may have. I take a cautious step down onto the first stair, testing for creaking that might compromise my position. Thankfully, it seems solid. I sigh and begin to descend before I freeze in my tracks. More sound, this time from below. The unmistakable sound of a door handle being turned and the beginnings of the creak of old hinges. I hesitate only for a moment. People below and people behind. The only option, no matter how unfortunate, is up. I leap to action and vault up the stairs, taking them two at a time to reach the stone landing as fast as possible. Several of the stairs groan under my weight as I plant my foot heavily upon them, but the sound is the least of my worries until I can get out of sight.

By the time I reach the third floor, I can hear the sounds of speech, unrecognizable as all the rest has been. There are at least four of them below, moving quickly and speaking in rough tones. I don't take the time to listen further. The stairs continue up to a fourth floor, but I hedge my bets on staying as low as possible for as long as possible. Just in case the individuals are coming up here, I quickly step into the adjacent hallway and am met with open air.

This hallway, in contrast to the last, is filled not with windows, but instead with an open balcony railing made of stone and facing the courtyard below. Lined on either side with low tables and chairs, there is little visual protection from whomever is standing on the green. Should they look up, I would be noticed immediately. I drop to the ground in a crouch to get below line of sight and creep to the left, towards the south of the keep and towards the front entrance. I continue moving as I hear the raucous clamor of shouting voices below.

Suddenly I see it: an opening. Nearly 12 meters or so in front of me, though an open doorway leading to a small room, is a window facing out into the world beyond. It is open with no glass or anything else keeping me from moving through it.

I crouch as low as I can, even lower as I sneak closer and closer to the exit. The shouting from below only grows louder and I have to resist every urge I have to peek over the balcony and see what is going on out there. Whatever I may see, it won't be worth the risk.

10 more meters.

I push past ornate wrought-iron chairs and distinguished oaken tables, taking care to not jostle anything I pass. A fine fabric - what looks almost like silk - drapes over a select few of them and forces me to give a wider berth to prevent an unnecessary disturbance. I hear the sound of metal scraping metal, like the drawing of a sword.

6 more meters.

I catch a glimpse of a loose stone in front of me on the path I am taking, one that might have tripped me if I had not noticed. I delicately step over it. There are screams coming from over the balcony. They are the screams of angry men, not the screams of men in pain. I cannot recognise the language, but I can feel the intent: a command, likely one that is going unheeded.

3 more meters.

I can almost reach the window. Just a little longer. Keep focused.

And just like that, I have arrived. Past the door and into a small room no more than a few meters on each side. I breathe a sigh of relief to be out of sight of the courtyard, but it is not over quite yet. Just before I reach my hand up to grip the windowsill and peek through, I take one final look behind me to ensure I am not being watched. As my head turns on a swivel, I catch movement out of the corner of my eye and immediately flick my gaze towards it.

A child.

No, not a child, a man, with chainmail, heavy leather padding, and a steel breastplate emblazoned with a golden bird, A man turns the corner behind me, marching with purpose in the direction I had just come from. Standing only 4-5 heads tall - barely over a meter high - the man's otherwise bald face sports a thick gray beard and large bushy eyebrows of the same hue. His hand hovers patiently over a sword slung at his hip, his other holding a wooden buckler. I stay perfectly still. Perhaps he will move past and not notice me.

My estimation proves only partially correct. As his back is facing me, I seize my chance to jump to my feet and spring onto the thick window sill, but my movement is cut short when I clip my foot on the sill, sending me tumbling over the edge with a yelp. I immediately hear the sharp sound of metal sliding against metal and a shout of exclamation, but I don't hear anything else as I fall back-first out the window, the wind whistling in my ears and drowning everything else out. Tumbling towards the ground three stories below me, I careen past tree branches and into a slew of heavy brambles with an earthy crack. My fall is slowed as I am sent crashing through branches, leaves, roots, and vines, landing painfully on the wet soil below and knocking the wind from my lungs. I gasp for breath, but I can still feel my arms and legs, and though they have been twisted and sprained from the fall, nothing seems to be broken. I am shocked at my survival, but I am not out of danger yet. As if on cue, I hear another shout from above me, the man leaning his full torso out the window and calling out angrily in my direction.

I suck in a lungful of air, my chest finally expanding to its proper size at the breath, and spring to my feet, ignoring the screams of pain from my limbs and torso. Peeling out from underneath the thick brambles, I begin sprinting clockwise along the edge of the wall, its curve affording me some degree of visual protection against the man.

As I run, I attempt to take in my surroundings and form a plan. To my right is the wall of the keep, to my left, there is about twenty meters of open space before a forest filled with thick underbrush and trees of various sizes. There is a heavy layer of leaves between the treeline and the castle wall, which I am currently running on, complete with sporadic weed growth and a healthy amount of fallen branches and other dead plant matter. It is clearly autumn here; while some of the trees are still holding tightly to their green hue, most of them have turned fully to shades of yellow, red, and brown.

I glance behind me and see nothing but foliage. Whoever that man was, either he didn't pursue me, or he is very good at hiding his presence.

As I return my gaze to face in front of me, slightly slowing my pace, several small critters flee into the underbrush, too quickly for me to notice what kind of animal they were. One such creature, a bird of some species I don't recognise, takes to the sky, croaking in protest as I disturb its prior resting place.

I continue to circle the perimeter of the keep, eyes locked ahead of me on the lookout for people or anything else I need to avoid. After a few hundred feet, I come to a corner in the wall, around which I peek my head and see what must be the main entrance into the keep, flanked on either side with large rectangular towers and filled with no less than a hundred armed guards. There is a cobbled road leading to the keep which stretches out to the south and into the dense forest that surrounds us on all sides.

I creep back behind the corner and assess my situation.

I need to find civilization; wandering around in the woods won't do much good for my chances of survival. Following the road is a good plan, but I'd rather avoid the guards for now, at least until I am far enough away from the keep that I don't seem suspicious. Perhaps if I follow the road from within the forest, I can keep a low profile until I get a few kilometers away, and then return to the road and follow it to wherever it leads.

That strikes me as a decent enough plan, at least until I can think of a better one. I nod my head and plunge into the undergrowth, stepping carefully to make as little sound as possible. There is still a loud clamor coming from the keep, perhaps from fighting or some other conflict, but I would rather not take any chances. Despite already moving slowly, the moment I am no longer on solid ground, my pace comes to even more of a crawl, as I am forced to step over and around thick brambles and fallen logs as well as push through dense branches and young trees. My bare feet immediately soak in the moisture of the undergrowth as dew makes the hems of my pants and shirt begin to stick to my skin. I move through spiderwebs and light swarms of buzzing insects as I push deeper into the forest.

Finally, after about half a kilometer, I turn around, noticing that I can no longer see the castle walls through the underbrush. I sigh deeply and crouch down to a resting position. My feet remain flat on the ground and I wrap my arms around my legs and bury my face in my hands. I try to recover my breath, but more importantly, I try to collect my thoughts.

One objective complete: Escape the building. That in and of itself is a huge burden off my mind, and I feel a small amount of stress lift off my shoulders. One objective underway: Locate my whereabouts and discover how I got here. The only location-based names I have heard so far are the Sotherrun Keep, the Springridge Monastery, and the Kingdom of Lachovia. I contemplate for a few moments to see if I recognise any of these names from any history or geography I learned, but come up blank on all fronts. Wherever I am, it isn't somewhere I have heard about before.

Now for the question of how I got here.

I hadn't had time to seriously consider the question since I woke up, since everything had happened so fast and I had to focus on what was right in front of me, but now that I have a moment of relative quiet, the horror of my situation begins to dawn. I feel my anxiety rising and force myself to my feet. Staying still won't help my mental state.

I stand up and continue walking forward, parallel to the road that I saw from the Sotherrun Keep. I can still occasionally see it peeking through the trees when the foliage isn't so dense. As I walk, I run through my recent memory in an attempt to glean any new information.

Before I woke up in the keep, my memory is hazy. I remember only snippets of what came before - fuzzy, ethereal, dream-like memories that I can barely grasp onto. I remember my home and my family, going to work, and then... nothing? Falling. Strange iridescent colors, and a few images without context, like something out of a dream. Like I fell asleep.

My hand pushes aside a stray branch, an act which shakes the previously undisturbed morning dew onto my shoulder and deposits a handful of orange leaves into my palm. I go to shake them off when I pause, staring into my open hand. The leaves are orange. It really is autumn.

This strikes me as strange only because it was early summer last I recall. Yes, I had just started a new job, and it was going well for about a week or so. So why? How? How is it autumn already? Have I been asleep for the last three months? I am struck frozen mid-stride as I once again feel the onsets of panic. I feel my face contorting as I fruitlessly try to reconcile what I am thinking with what I am seeing.

What is going on?

I need answers. I need more information before I lose my grip. I need people. If I can find some friendly faces, hopefully ones that I can understand and speak to, maybe I can get some answers and work out what is going on here.

My hands are shaking and I can barely get my feet to obey my commands, but I finally manage to move again. One foot in front of the other, I continue walking through the thicket and toward what I hope is civilization.

Unfortunately, it does not take long for me to get lost.

Far from being a castle in close proximity to a city, I quickly discover that the Sotherrun Keep is, in fact, just a lone structure in the middle of a dense forest. The cobbled path that leads from the main gate quickly turns to dirt after only a few kilometers, and it is harder to track the path as the sun begins to set. As the hours of twilight begin to close in, I decide that it will be safe enough to travel on the path itself rather than trailing it from the sidelines, and I make my way through the undergrowth towards where I think the path is. To my surprise, however, the path is not so easily found.

After getting turned around in the early dark of evening and no closer to my destination, I now decide that it is as good a time as any to stop traveling. Once it is light out again, I can redouble my search with a higher chance of success. I count myself lucky that, despite being autumn, the night is relatively warm, and I won't have to worry about suffering from exposure as long as the temperature stays relatively stable throughout the night. I will have to worry about wildlife, however, since I don't know what sort of fauna calls this area home.

I decide to take my chances high, rather than low. In the absence of adequate protection such as thick clothing or a roof over my head, I'm more willing to risk the sorts of animals who dwell in trees rather than those on the ground. I locate a nearby tree with low enough branches for me to scramble on top of, and climb as high as I comfortably can before wedging myself into a crevice between a thick branch and the trunk. The bark of the tree is weathered and gnarled, and it is uncomfortable to lie against, but at least it is dry. I pull my arms out of the sleeves of the thick shirt I wear and wrap them around my body to preserve heat.

This night is going to be a long one, but I'm optimistic about my chances of survival.

Chapter Two

The Second Day. A Friendly Face.

I never open my eyes when I first wake up. It is a habit of mine that I have kept for so long that I don't even remember when it started. I almost instinctively breathe a sigh of relief. If nothing else, I am still alive. I made it through the night.

It was a long one. While not cold enough to worry about exposure, it was certainly colder than I would have liked, and the temperature alone kept me from falling asleep for several hours. The sounds of nature were also to blame, waking me up at regular intervals throughout the evening. I estimate that I only got maybe 3 hours of meaningful sleep, the rest of which were spent sitting in the tree and staring up at the night sky.

A night sky which, importantly, was completely alien. I was never much for stargazing, but even I can recognize some of the more popular constellations - the big dipper, ursa major, orion or at least his belt. As I gazed up into the night sky last night, however, there was nothing that looked familiar about it. Primarily: there was no moon and no stars. No moon isn't out of the ordinary of course, but the lack of stars was disorientating. It is something you can take for granted if you are out at night, but you certainly notice when they are gone. The sky remained perfectly monochromatic throughout the night - a deep, rich blueish-black without a hint of stars, planets, comets, or any other sort of heavenly bodies. I couldn't even chalk it up to light pollution since I was in the middle of a forest.

When I first woke up, I thought I was in a different building, or perhaps a different town. As things progressed, I thought perhaps I was in a different country. Unfortunately, no matter how much it doesn't make any sense, evidence is mounting for me currently being in a different world. Now that the sun has risen once again and the night sky returns to its recognizable cool blue hue, I can put the strange feeling out of my mind for now. I'll have to return to it eventually, but I have more pressing matters at hand. Specifically: finding civilization.

As my other senses begin to come online, they are flooded with all sorts of sounds, smells, and sensations that I am not used to receiving upon waking, and nearly cause me to jolt upright. I shockingly manage to contain myself, and instead focus on breathing slowly and taking in the sensations as they present themselves.

The recognizable sounds of wildlife enter first. The calls of morning birds and cicadas fill my ears, the latter of which are familiar if only due to hearing them throughout the evening. The feeling of my shirt, soaked with both sweat and dew presses into my back, past which I can feel the uncomfortable knots of the tree I rest upon. I woke up several times in the night due to these knots, and I am not feeling very friendly towards them. I shiver in the chill morning air as it whistles past me and fills my loose clothing with its breeze. I decide that, rather than spending too much time being still and silent, it would be wiser to begin moving and get my blood flowing. The warmth of exercise would be a welcome respite to the cold.

I snap my eyes open, dart them around me without moving my head and, when I surmise that I am not being watched or waited upon, I sit up from my half-lying position and shake the sleep out of my arms and legs. The sun beams across my face from the east to my left, and I squint to look around at my illuminated surroundings.

The motion I cause to the branch I am sitting on is enough to spook certain creatures around me. The moment I move, I hear a flurry of action beneath me, and look down to catch the final glimpses of what look like deer bolt away into the deeper thicket while birds flutter away overhead, squawking loudly and disturbing even more branches above me.

After a moment, the area immediately around me is silent once more, while the sounds of nature continue unabated in the forest beyond. I breathe deeply through my nose and exhale through my mouth, letting my lungs fill with the crisp, clean air and filling me with enough determination to begin climbing down to the floor below. As soon as I move my leg however, my stomach is pinched with the gripping, painful sensation of hunger, causing me to curl inwards as a deep rumble comes from my core. I hadn't had time to consider it before, but I still need to eat, which I haven't done since I woke up in the castle around 18 hours ago. Before then... who knows how long it's been?

I push past the pain and begin descending the tree, trying to form a plan in my head in the meantime. I need contingencies. If I can't find the path soon, I certainly won't be able to find civilization. And if I can't do that... starvation may be the first of my problems, but it won't be the last. My stomach rumbles again as I reach the ground and pull myself upright. I lean against the tree for support, taking a few breaths to psyche myself up.

First: find the path I lost. If I find it, follow it south. If I can't find it within about 30 minutes, the next best thing to find would be running water. Following a stream or river has a higher chance of running into a settlement than moving randomly through the forest.

I begin to push westward to where I think the path will be, continuously sweeping my eyes left and right in order to cover as broad a search area as I can. I push deeper into the forest for about 10 minutes before my eyes begin to sting and my breath begins to hurt my lungs. That's curious. I take a moment to unfocus from the forest floor and into the tree canopy, where I am greeted by an unexpected haze. This isn't the light haze of morning fog, but rather the slightly thicker, darker type you would expect from lingering smoke. The scent in the air confirms it: something is burning.

I squint past the canopy and into the sky beyond, and after a moment, I catch what I am looking for. The forest floor slopes slightly downward to the southwest, so I can see from a slightly more elevated vantage point than I normally would be able to. In the distance, almost directly south of me, is a thin column of smoke. It seems faint, barely clinging to life as the breeze blows it into nothing before it can rise much past the treeline, but I catch glimpses of it from my current position.

I blink my eyes to clear the haze out of them and take light, shallow breaths. The smokey scent is metallic. Whatever is burning isn't the trees, but something else. This could be good news. There could be life. And where there is life, there is survival.

I take one last sweep around my position, just to confirm that the forest path didn't appear while I wasn't looking, but to no avail. My first plan taking a turn for the worst, I pivot to plan C: follow the smoke to its source. If that results in nothing, I will return to plan B and look for water.

I glance back up at the sun to confirm my orientation, take another breath, and plunge forward.

---

As I draw nearer to the source of the smoke, the smell in the air becomes slightly stronger as the wind changes to push it in my direction. I peer into the air and notice that the already thin column has diminished to a near wisp of its former self. Whatever fire is being burned is clearly dying down. I begin to redouble my pace in an attempt to reach its location before it dies out completely, when I push through a particularly thick patch of brush and emerge into a wide clearing.

I am immediately stunned by the sight in front of me. This clearing, nearly half a kilometer in diameter, has been overtaken almost entirely by a smoldering pile of ruined machinery near its center. I can only guess it to be some crash site, as its position is intersected by a deep trench-like gouge into the earth, uprooting both plant and underlying stone in its wake. The trail of smoke that I had been pursuing is now clearly visible, emerging from the side of the craft where a large opening has been seemingly punched out of the side of a thick metal sheet. The edges of this hole are still smoldering, heavily burned from whatever occurred inside.

The structure of the machine itself is not unlike that of a small plane. Slim and teardrop-shaped, the craft sports a pair of small wings on either side, both of which have since broken off and now lie haphazardly around the main body. Made mostly out of what looks like bronze or golden metal, large parts of its shell have been torn away to reveal a skeletal framing structure underneath with all manner of complicated components that I couldn't hope to make sense of.

I quickly look around for life in the clearing. Presuming this was recent enough, whoever operated this machine is likely still in the area. I skirt around the crash site, giving it ample birth for my own safety as I circle the clearing. After a half a rotation with no people in sight, I check for any other signs of escape - footprints or otherwise. Before I am able to scour the ground, a sudden, screeching lurch from the smoking machinery causes me to jump backwards in shock, ready to drop or run if need be.

The construction groans as it seems to settle downwards, almost straining to collapse in on itself but being prevented from doing so. Just past its skeletal exterior, I catch a glimpse of some of its internal mechanisms as they jostle slightly at the movement. And then I see a hand. Large and thick around the wrist, it looks badly burned with unnatural textured patterns from the fire and an uncomfortable red coloration. I don't have time to think. The hand is alive, pushing out from deeper within the rubble and grasping at the air but finding no purchase. I rush forward, eyeing the contraption and trying to gauge where its weakest points are. I look for a hatch or some means of cleanly opening it up to the inside, but only find a large split in the side where it looks like a large dull knife carved into its fuselage.

I call out to the person inside "Hey! Can you hear me?!"

The response comes almost immediately, muffled by the layers of metal between us, "Sed ante ac massa?!"

Curses. Another language I don't recognise. The voice is faint, smothered not only by the noise of groaning metal, but also seeming weak on its own. Whoever is the source of the voice, they are probably badly injured.

"I don't know what you just said," I shout in response, "but I'm going to try to get you out of there!"

I crouch underneath a collapsed beam and toward the large split. Pushing my head inside, I am greeted with more wires, cabling and machinery. But beyond that, I see a shadowed figure lying prone in the darkness. I squint against the smokey air and push further in. I crawl fully into the craft, forced to drop to my hands and knees to avoid scraping my head against the ceiling of this space. I grab at the tangle of components between us and do my best to muscle them aside. They are brittle from the fire, and many push aside easily, others are more stubborn, and require a few strikes from the palm of my hand to budge. But after a moment, the way is clear.

My eyes adjust to the dim light and I see the figure fully now. This creature, although relatively human in shape and size, is what I can only describe as monstrous, unlike anything I've ever seen before. Almost reptilian in texture, their skin is covered in thick scales and their head is elongated, with a snout and horns on either side of their face. As they tilt their head to face me, I see burning yellow eyes flickering with intelligence as they lock onto mine. Their body relaxes slightly upon seeing me, but tightens once more as they attempt to strain themselves free from their restraints.

I immediately see their predicament: while their upper body is free, their lower body is trapped underneath a large beam that disconnected at one side and hinged down to pin them to the floor. I am struck by their sheer mass, quite possibly double my size and weight without even seeing their legs.

"Fringilla vitae," the creature says with a distinct look of relief on their face, "integer tellus lacus." Their voice is heavy, obviously weary from lack of energy. How long have they been trapped here?

"I'm here to help,"

As I speak, I check their face for recognition of the language, for which there is none. In the absence of language, I begin to gesture with my hands, pointing towards them, myself, the beam, and then making a pushing motion. The creature holds a weak, puzzled look for a moment, and then bares their teeth in a move which I interpret as a smile.

I push forward and position myself on the other side of the creature, such that the beam works as a lever against the other side, hopefully giving me a mechanical advantage. Propping my shoulder underneath it, I look over to meet their gaze as they do their best to position themselves to push as well. They look over to me and nod, and before I can respond, I see the muscles in their neck tighten as they strain under the load. Caught off guard without a countdown, I shove my feet into the ground and push as well. We strain for a few seconds, only managing to lift a few millimeters before we both release, having gained no workable ground.

Searching for something to assist, I scan the surrounding compartment and land on what looks like a broken hydraulic arm, or some other metal pipe. I reach out, grab it, and place it underneath the beam at an angle so that it will catch and hold the beam no matter how little we are able to lift it.

I look over at the creature, holding up three fingers and counting down from three before making the motion of lifting, hoping he understands. I see a glint in his eyes, and take that as confirmation.

"Alright then. Three... two... one," I once again push against the beam, keeping one hand to stabilize the pipe underneath. We gain a centimeter before dropping, but I am able to push the pipe into place so that the beam catches and remains lifted. I look over and see the creature twisting, able to maneuver themselves to get a better position under the beam to lift it, but not enough to fully escape.

As they look at me, I nod and count down again. This time, the beam immediately lifts several centimeters and the pipe falls over, out of reach. But before I can panic, I see the creature beginning to shimmy out from underneath. I feel the full weight of the beam cut into my shoulder, and just as I am no longer able to hold it, they pull free, and I let out a cry of relief and release the beam to fall to the ground, crashing heavily and causing the whole structure to shudder from the impact, throwing me prone onto the floor as I lose my balance.

Panting, the two of us lie on the cold metal floor of the machine, the cabin filled with the sound of fire and groaning steel. Before saying anything, the individual rolls onto their stomach and crawls to the other side of the space, reaching for what looks to be a heavy backpack. As they move past me, the scraping sound of metal on metal causes me to look down and notice that one of their legs has been replaced with a metal prosthetic, sparking as it carves across the metal floor. Its shape has been heavily damaged from the fallen bean, and currently, it barely resembles a leg at all.

Clutching the newly acquired bag to their chest, the individual turns to me.

"Vestibulum mauris leito! Euismos!" they call, making a hurried beckoning motion before. beginning to crawl out of the compartment themselves. I rush to follow, hearing more scraping metal behind me as I feel the entire contraption shudder. Whatever structural integrity this thing had, it was losing it fast. I quickly follow my new companion's lead.

Pushing through the tight corridor and back to the crack that leads outside, I scrape my back against the sharp metal edges in my haste, causing me to inhale sharply and nearly make the wound worse, but manage to escape without further injury. Once outside, I see the creature at their full size, though slightly harder to gauge as they hop unceremoniously on one foot in an attempt to limit the weight placed on the destroyed limb. They motion me to follow away from the crash site, which I oblige.

In the full light of day, their form is even more striking than before. Their form is distinctly reptilian in nature, resembling the rough shape of a human - with two arms, legs, and a head - but with traits seemingly borrowed from a lizard or perhaps a crocodile. What I thought before were burn marks on their arms are in fact bright pink scales covering their whole body. Some of the scales have been blackened by smoke, and a few gaping wounds tear across their heavy, muscular form. They wear what look to be thick, padded leather clothes and a pair of goggles, both of which seem to be in bad shape. As they jump towards the treeline and collapse against a fallen log, they turn back to face me, dropping their shattered goggles around their neck and squinting in my direction. I hesitate as they look me up and down for a moment, considering. But before I have a chance to say anything, their long, bearded-dragon-like snout is split with a wide smile, creasing their eyes and letting out a loud guffaw, which sounds more like the rumbling of a distant train than anything else.

As I reach the log and tentatively sit opposite them, they open their mouth to speak before seeming to consider their words. Reaching an internal conclusion, they instead point at themself, and say "Ik Riggs!" and then point to me, "je?"

"Your name is Riggs?" I respond, less a question and more a confirmation. I point to myself.

"Val," I say, "my name is Val."

The individual smiles once more, their wide grin seeming to split their face clean down the middle.

"Val," they repeat, bowing their head as much as they are able in their sitting position, "neque nisl."

I interpret this as a word of gratitude. I smile in response.

"You're welcome"

As the two of us sit for a moment in relative silence, Riggs begins to fiddle with his metal prosthetic. First, pulling out a small wrench from the bag he retrieved from the crash and using it to loosen a few bolts on the side before twisting it with a heavy click and detaching the leg from its socket below his knee. He then begins going over the warped and deformed shape and trying to manually bend certain features back into shape with his hands. I watch for a few moments as he strains against the copper-like metal. His sizable arms flex against the resistance of the leg and make short work of the smaller components, reshaping them as easily as another would re-bend a paperclip. The main tube of the leg, however, proves to be too thick and durable, and he has to eventually surrender to its might.

He eventually decides that enough is enough and goes through the process to re-attach the leg. As he draws tools from his bag, I catch a glimpse of what looks like an antique waterskin, made of some type of leather. I can immediately tell from the way it moves that it is full of liquid. My eyes go wide.

"Riggs," I ask, causing him to turn to face me, "do you have... water?" I point at the skin while I speak, making a motion like I am drinking in an attempt to communicate what I am saying.

The reptilian creature's eyes follow the line of my finger where it lands in his bag, taking a moment to calculate what I am saying before lighting up in recognition.

He gives a light exclamation, speaking words in his language while retrieving both the skin and another item from the bag - a small bundle of canvas tied with twine. I keep myself from lunging towards the waterskin as he hands it over to me, instead taking it carefully from his hands and uttering a word of thanks before uncapping it.

I have the presence of mind to surreptitiously peer inside and sniff it before I drink it, but luckily nothing seems to be amiss - the sight and small are distinctly that of mineral-rich water. Satisfied enough to risk drinking it, I pour a small amount past my lips, letting it permeate into my palette and moisten the soft tissues of my mouth before swallowing. In this moment, it is the most delicious thing I have ever tasted.

I immediately go in for more, gulping down mouthfuls of water before tearing the skin away from my lips. I barely manage to do so - there is nothing I would rather do than drink its entire contents - but I am able to hold myself back after drinking only about a quarter of what remained. I tentatively hold the waterskin out to Riggs, who seems about to take it from my hands before pausing and pushing it back to me. As he nods to me, I read his face as nothing short of empathetic.

Unwrapping the canvas bundle in his lap, Riggs watches as I greedily swallow a large portion of the remaining water from the skin. After drinking close to a liter without pausing, I pull away to gasp for air, my lungs finally able to catch a breath. When I finally look back to my companion, he gives me a wide grin and says a few more words in his language, gesturing towards the items within the now-opened bundle - a wedge of cheese and a handful of strange-looking nuts. He breaks off a hunk of the cheese and hands it over to me, which I accept with open hands. The rest of the food he sets between the two of us on the log before shaking out the canvas and wiping off some crumbs with his claw. Taking the cloth, he begins to mop up some of the blood that has collected around some of the larger wounds on his torso, arms, and leg. Only a few of the wounds look fresh, the rest having already filled the spaces between his scales and hardened into a darker mass. He gently cleans away what he can before wrapping a larger, fresher wound on his arm with the cloth.

As I see him begin to struggle to tie a knot with one hand, I move to assist, setting the food he gave me aside and offering a second set of hands. He relaxes as he sees what I am doing, and utters the same word of gratitude I heard before. The cloth is large enough that making a knot is a simple task, and I peer over the rest of his upper body as I finish, noting two or three other undressed wounds along his stomach and arms. I consider for a moment before coming to a conclusion, reaching up to my own shoulder and, with a quick movement, tearing a sleeve away from the gray garment. I am able to tear the cloth into several long, thin strips to work with. Between the two of us, cleaning and patching the worst of his injuries takes less than 10 minutes.

As we reach the end of the available cloth, Riggs offers the final scraps to me, gesturing for me to turn around and allow him to dress the wound on my back. As he wraps the cloth around my stomach, I can't help but feel the pressure as he attempts to find the middle ground between too tight and too loose. He is strong, and I nearly shout in surprise when he first cinches the strip into place, making me feel like my ribs might break from the pressure. Luckily, he quickly eases up and finds an ideal tension before tying off the strip and stepping back.

The two of us face each other, both looking ragged and unkempt, with torn and missing clothing, blood, sweat, dirt, and grease covering most of our exposed skin, and a distinct look of sleeplessness in our eyes. We both nod at each other with a grin, silently coming to an agreement. For the time being, at least, we are friends.

Heaving a sigh as he rests his weight back down on the log, Riggs gestures towards the small amount of food laid out upon it, imploring me to come and eat with him one more. I make no argument, sitting beside him and following his lead to take hunks of cheese from the pile.

It isn't a large amount of food, but it is more than I have had since I woke up, so I am grateful for it. I carefully nibble at the cheese, trying to make it last and maybe trick my brain into thinking I am eating more than I actually am. The calories feel good entering my system nevertheless, and I am almost immediately given a slight feeling of rejuvenation after the combination of water and food, no matter how little.

As we eat, the two of us try to communicate as best we can - using our words in combination with a primitive version of charades, acting and gesturing with our hands as we speak. On the other side of the clearing, the once-smoldering pile of wreckage sets silently, no longer smoking with its fires now having died off.

"Crash. How long ago?" I point towards the craft and make the motion of it hitting the ground before pointing towards my wrist.

Riggs tilts his head as a puzzled response, looking first to my wrist and then to his own before looking back over to the wreck. He speaks a few words in his own language while holding his hands out in front of him, acting out what I can only assume to be him operating a steering wheel or some other set of controls before miming the motions of a crash. Based on his actions, it seems like the craft was once indeed a flying machine as I had guessed.

He continues to act out a series of scenes, speaking occasionally to punctuate his movements. Based on what I can interpret, he was able to escape the wreckage, but then went back inside to retrieve something - for which he gestures to the bag he now keeps at his side - before a large beam fell on his leg and trapped him. He then mimes the passing of time before pointing to me and smiling. If I am to understand him correctly, I gather that he crashed less than a day ago - sometime yesterday afternoon.

Riggs returns with a question of his own, speaking and motioning with his hands. I interpret it as asking where I came from, and I respond by pointing in the direction I think is north, towards the Sotherrun Keep. Speaking the name of the keep seems to register something in Riggs, and he nods in recognition, speaking a phrase that I assume is along the lines of "I know it."

We continue to speak for some time. As I finish the piece of cheese that Riggs offered to me, he hands over even more, along with some of the nuts that he hadn't eaten. I gratefully accept and continue to focus on regaining my strength as he talks. Thankfully, it seems that he is okay with me not understanding his words, and is content with me just being present as he speaks and gestures with his arms. Over the course of the twenty to thirty minutes that we are seated, I manage to pick up on some of the linguistic traits of the language he speaks, certain inflections and syllable stresses that are foreign to me.

Eventually the food and water both dry up, and Riggs lifts himself to his feet, balancing carefully to avoid putting too much weight on the ruined prosthetic. He speaks up once more, gesturing to communicate his intentions by pointing south and making the triangular shape of a roof with his hands. He points at me and raises his eyebrows in a questioning manner.

He is going home. And he is asking if I will be following.

This is just about the best outcome I could have hoped for. I need to find civilization anyway, and this is as good of a lead as any, perhaps even better. I smile and nod, flashing a thumbs up to redouble my enthusiasm. Riggs looks at my thumb for a moment before smiling and repeating the gesture.

Slinging his pack over his shoulder, Riggs turns around and begins to walk towards the treeline. I take a few deep breaths and look towards the sky. It is late morning now - creeping into early afternoon. All I can hope is that his home is nearby so we won't have to sleep in the forest again. Luckily, even if we do, it will be a lot safer with two of us, rather than alone. I think we'll be fine.

Just as I am about to turn and follow, my eyes land one last time upon the ruined heap of metal in the center of the clearing.

Hm.

Riggs seemed awfully nonchalant about the crashed vehicle. I absentmindedly wonder how often Riggs has crashed a ship like this. Is this his first time? If not, are there more crash sites out there in this forest?

Who's to say. I'll have to ask him about that later.

I turn towards my companion and march into the forest.

---

Riggs and I continue to push our way through the dense undergrowth, Riggs in the lead and I following behind. I trust he knows where he is going, and I focus instead on placing my feet carefully on the path. Despite both of us being barefoot, Riggs seems to have no trouble stepping on sharp rocks or stumbling over loose vines, his one scaled, claw-like foot making short work of the underbrush, whereas I am not accustomed to such things.

While I am slowed by forced, careful footwork, Riggs is similarly slowed by having to rest his weight on a large branch he commandeered as a makeshift crutch. Our pace is nonetheless steady, and we seem to make good time.

As we move, Riggs occasionally points out an object in the trees or on the ground, saying the word in his language and allowing me to repeat it a few times to remember it. After the first two hours of walking, I had a working vocabulary of the basic parts of the body, as well as quite a few flora and fauna in the area. Occasionally, Riggs would look at me after pointing something out, allowing me to speak the word in my own language, followed by him repeating it to himself. I learn that the language he speaks is called "Lachovian Civic" or just simply "Civic". I don't know if it is the same language I heard in the Sotherrun Keep, but it must be similar, based on a few words that sounded familiar from my limited time within.

We have been traveling for the better part of a day when we crest the top of what I initially think is a small hill and the forest breaks to reveal a deep valley beyond. The sun, settling lower in the sky as early evening approaches, floods the valley with a warm orange light and highlights the spires of a small city in its center. A river cuts through the valley, against which the city has been built, and I catch a glimpse of several vessels moving in and out of the city's port, moving downriver. A road follows the river in both directions. Besides the city, there are all manner of pastures and farmland stretched across the rolling green terrain, which are dotted with people and animals.

As we both pause to take in the scene, Riggs slams one arm around my shoulder and points at the city with his other.

"Al Dorei" he says, beaming.

"Al Dorei," I repeat, followed by a question in his language, "home?"

"Yes," he confirms, "my home."

We stand in silence, drinking in the scene before us as the sun kisses the peak of the opposite range. It truly is a beautiful sight to behold, unlike anything I have seen before. Never before have I seen such vibrant grass or smelled such clean air. Even the sounds are pleasant - a quiet ambience broken only by the wind sweeping across the plains and the distant chime of a bell in the city, rhythmically making its call against an otherwise silent backdrop. While I can't see much of the city's architecture from several kilometers away, I can see the bright white stone of the city walls and buildings paired with vibrant reds and blues of roofs and other decorative structures. Even from here, I can tell one thing: this is not the type of architecture I would see where I come from. It is a beautiful sight.

Satisfied from the short rest, Riggs and I stand back up, shoulder our bags, and begin moving once more towards the city. It takes less than an hour to arrive at the cobbled path which runs alongside the river, our pace significantly improved now that we are on relatively unhindered terrain. We pass by several people on our way to the city, mostly those that look to be of a farming profession on their way back to their homes at the end of the day. After we reach the road, we pass two horse-drawn covered wagons headed upriver away from the city whose drivers pay us no mind as they pass by, although Riggs waves at them nonetheless.

The road eventually leads to the outer wall of the city, where a large archway is built into the side. A set of heavy wooden gates and a metal portcullis, all currently open, stretch up to about a third of the height of the wall. From inside the open archway, an armored figure approaches us as we arrive and speaks, using some words I recognise, such as "you," but mostly using words I haven't learned yet. Riggs spreads his arms in an obviously practiced gesture and responds in kind. The two converse for a moment or two, the guard occasionally pointing in my direction. Their voice and body language is that of a routine procedure, with no outright hostility. After a moment, the figure nods and returns to where she was stationed, leaning against the stone wall between the two gates and talking to a similarly-armored figure who had stayed put. Riggs turns to me as she leaves, inclining his head to follow him inside.

As we move through the archway, I feel a slight change in temperature as whatever slight breeze sweeps across the valley is replaced by the calm atmosphere inside the city walls. The street we are on widens once we pass the gates, expanding to nearly 20 meters before being stopped by buildings to the right and the river to the left. The path itself, previously cobbled, turns to white stone bricks arranged in a herringbone pattern which continues forward and out of sight. The buildings to the right range from two and four stories, and while the windows of the upper floors betray residential use, the first floor of nearly every building contains wide entryways - some with doors and some without - alongside large open windows and signs with words and symbols I don't recognize. Based on the individuals moving in and around these open doors, I surmise that the lots on the ground floor are mainly for public or commercial use. In front of many of the buildings are further structures. I see small carts from which peddlers are selling spices and trinkets, several hanging gardens that reach from awnings of the buildings and stretch nearly a quarter of the way into the street, several sets of tables and chairs in which people are sitting, and at least one building that has a raised platform in front, almost like a stage for small plays.

Bright colors catch my eyes, drawing my attention to the tops of the nearby buildings where I see an array of banners, flags, and other textiles hung from the roofs and strung between buildings. The colors are almost all overwhelmingly deep, royal shades of reds and blue, but there are splashes of other colors mixed in as well. A pattern I see repeated on many of these flags is a circle of gold between equal columns of red and blue. This must be the flag of the city, or perhaps the country at large.

Before I can consider it further, Riggs reaches around my shoulder and pulls me to the left side of the street just as a horse-drawn carriage clops past from behind us. Its pace is slow as it navigates through the crowd of people in and around the street. While some from the crowd quickly make way for the vehicle and step to the side, most take their time crossing and almost seem to pay no mind to the driver. Riggs, meanwhile, seems to have forgotten about it already, his eyes fixed straight ahead to the street beyond us.

I continue to follow as he traces the left side of the street further into the city. This side is comparatively less crowded, stopped not by the sides of buildings but instead by a low, waist-high wall which drops off on the other side to a thin bank built out of the same stone bricks, slightly darkened by the spray of the river beyond. The bank only continues another four meters before dropping into the water. This lower path is significantly less crowded, occupied only by a handful of individuals who are busy carrying rope, barrels, and crates along the path and toward a docked boat up ahead. As I trace Riggs' path and see where he is leading me, I catch sight of a bridge further beyond the boat which stretches the length of the river and to the other side where the city continues. As we draw nearer, I see that, rather than a simple walking bridge, it is nearly the width of the street we are on now, and is similarly lined with simply-constructed wooden stalls, carts, and lone merchants who have spread their wares out in an attempt to catch the eyes of those who pass by.

As we draw closer to the bridge and deeper into the heart of the city, I am struck by how quiet the city is, relatively speaking. While there is a crowd around whose murmuring voices can be heard, and an occasional cry rises above the rest from a barking merchant or warning coachman, the average volume of the city is surprisingly low. There is no sound of a distant highway or honking horns or the blast of a train whistle in earshot.

The deep gong of a distant bell breaks my trance, and I turn towards the source - a towering circular pillar rising from behind the row of buildings, standing nearly two stories over the surrounding structures, whose open archways at the top reveal a large bronze bell which rings out once more as I watch. The other people around seem to pay it no mind, all going about their business as though the sound were a regular occurrence.

I turn back to Riggs and continue following his lead through the city.

We reach the bridge and cross it without incident, brushing past all manner of people in the process of purchasing goods and carrying bags of items from one place to another, and after reaching the other side and walking another 10 minutes or so, we peel away from the densest arterial streets and onto a smaller side path, similarly cobbled and lined with housing and businesses, but with significantly fewer people milling about. This street in particular is somewhere between 8 to 10 meters wide, with a row of trees extending down the center of the path, planted at regular intervals. Underneath the shade of the trees are rows of wooden benches and occasional sets of tables and chairs. About a third of which are occupied, some by families, some by single individuals who are resting or talking amongst themselves. I catch the eye of one such individual - an older-looking woman with an arched back and a hooked nose, who pauses her conversation with two others to politely wave at Riggs and me. As we both return the gesture, Riggs more enthusiastically than I, I catch sight of a small contraption resting on the woman's lap before noticing a similar apparatus being held by the two children she was speaking to. As they resume their conversation, I see the woman pick up and maneuver the machine in a particular way before the two beside her repeat the sequence. A teaching moment of some kind, one which I have no idea how to interpret. We pass by the woman and continue down the street, occasionally waving or nodding at others who seem to recognize Riggs.

Just as the row of trees ends and we are plunged once more into the light of the setting sun, Riggs stops in front of me and turns on his heel, facing towards a building to the right. As I turn to face it, I am met with a 3 story building whose lower two stories are made out of the white stone and whose top floor is constructed out of thick timber beams which extend about 2 meters deeper into the street than the floors below. The lowest floor has had its street-facing wall entirely removed, allowing unrestricted access to the relatively small room on the inside, where dark, dirty smoke belches from a giant roaring fire in a stone furnace before being drawn into a wide chimney and expelled from the top of the building. At the furnace is a short, heavyset woman with a leather apron and gloves drawing a long slab of what looks like iron from the fire with tongs before slamming it onto a nearby anvil and striking it several times with a hammer, drawing and bending the slab into a thin, curved shape before inserting it back into the flame.

I look over to Riggs, about to ask what business he has with a blacksmith, before seeing him walk forward, his attention not on the blacksmith, but on the small, unassuming door immediately to its left. Adjacent to the blacksmith's shop front, pressed between it and the next vendor in line, is a small wooden door painted bright blue with a pink flower on top. Riggs removes a key from around his neck, inserts it into the lock, and opens the door, ducking his head to pass underneath the door frame that is nearly 10 centimeters too short for his form.

I follow Riggs inside, passing him as he stays to re-lock the door behind us, and am greeted by a steep wooden staircase leading up to the second floor. Riggs gestures for me to go up as he peels off his torn jacket and knocks dirt off his foot at the base of the stairs. The stairs feel closer to climbing a ladder than ascending a staircase, but I reach the top without issue, and am met with a wide room, nearly 6 meters across, filled with chairs, tables, and nearly a dozen shelves, all of which are overflowing with things. Books, mugs, small figurines, and strange clockwork contraptions spill over every flat surface in sight, interspersed with plants both large and small - some that look like bushes and others with flowering bodies. I even spot a large pot in the corner with what looks to be a tomato plant growing inside. The only light in this room comes from an open window facing the street we came from, through which the fading sunlight illuminates the dust on the table and in the air.

As I enter further into the space, and just as Riggs begins to ascend the staircase behind me, I hear a crash from my left, turning to see another figure in the room with me. Bearing a striking resemblance to Riggs but with blue scales instead of pink, this figure is no less tall or muscular than my companion, the only difference being a slightly different shape to the snout and horns that curve to the side rather than straight up. We stare at one another for half a second, the tin plate that they must have been carrying previously, now crashed to the ground and spinning wildly, comes to a halt as Riggs reaches the top and shouts with delight.

"Taz!" he cries, "Het is good om you te zien!" I only manage to catch a few words as he speaks. I pick up that these two know one another, and at the very least, Riggs is friendly with them.

"Riggs, het is ook good om you te zien." The other individual returns the phrase and follows it with a question of some sort, gesturing with their head in my direction, "Wie is dit?" . Their voice is lighter than Riggs, but betrays a very similar cadence, though more guarded and less free-spirited.

Riggs is eager to respond, "This is Valentyne! Hij is een friend."

He then turns to face me, gesturing towards his friend "This is Taz! My zus!" the sentence ends with a word I don't recognize, but I understand that she is clearly a friend of his. I bow slightly towards Taz.

"I am Val," I say in civic. I am about to follow up with a "thank you for having me," but I realize that I only know how to say "thank you" and not the rest of the sentence. I decide to leave my introduction at that.

Taz' face brightens slightly, and they begin to speak to me in the civic language. I pick out a few of their words, but not enough to derive any meaning based on context. I hold my hands up in front of me in apology and speak a phrase Riggs taught me specifically, just in case of these sorts of interactions.

"Sorry," I say, "I know little civic."

Taz pauses, looking over to Riggs to ask a question, who has since cleared a nearby chair of debris before sitting down and throwing his broken prosthetic leg onto a nearby coffee table, scattering what looks like a stack of newspapers onto the floor. Seeming to notice the mangled wreck of a leg for the first time, Taz stiffens, their eyes going wide as they stare at the foot. They turn back to me without breaking eye contact with Riggs, uttering a short, calm "excuse me al enige tijd," before moving towards him with determination.

Riggs' casual demeanor suddenly shifts, his body language turning inward as he seems to brace for an impact. He begins to speak but is instantly cut off by a barrage of heated words from Taz as they march over and grab the busted leg. The torrent of what I can only presume to be insults continue as they lift the leg off the table and bring it up to their face, throwing Riggs off balance as he slides from the chair and lands upside-down with his back on the floor. Riggs tries again to get a word in but is unable to resist. Taz grabs a pair of complex spectacles off of the table and dons them, wrestling with the leg as Riggs attempts to regain control of his appendage. With a practice flourish, Taz reaches into a pouch on their hip, pulls out a heavy wrench, and quickly cranks three separate bolts on Riggs' leg before twisting it at the knee, causing it to pop out of a socket. His prosthetic disconnected from his thigh, Riggs crashes to the floor, his full weight impacting the wooden boards and sending vibrations through the entire room. Without giving him a chance to respond, Taz turns around to face me, leg in hand. They say a few words which I don't recognize while gesturing towards Riggs before sighing and heading through a door on the other side of the room, continuing to mutter to themselves.

Riggs turns to sheepishly look at me, rubbing the back of his head where it impacted the ground. Grasping onto whatever furniture he can reach, he pulls himself back up to stand on his one remaining leg. He gestures to the other side of the room and, following his direction, I see a dusty pair of metal crutches leaning against the opposite wall. I walk over to grab them.

On the way back, I ask, "Taz is... friend?"

Taking the crutches from me and slotting his forearms into the padded semicircles near the top, Riggs closes a latch on either side, securing them to his arms and allowing him free use of his hands while the crutches bear his weight. He leans into the metal poles a few times to test them while answering my question.

"Friend? No, Taz is my zus." he ends with a word I haven't learned yet. I repeat it back with a questioning tone. He catches my puzzled expression and inclines his head to a nearby worktable, moving there with surprising speed while gesturing to me to follow. Once there, I see the table strewn with dozens of sheets of paper, all covered in sketches of various contraptions, one of which looks very much like a pristine version of the craft I found Riggs in. He shuffles some paper aside before finding a blank page. Grabbing a piece of what looks like charcoal from the desk, he begins to draw simple lines and circles as he speaks.

"This is Riggs," he points to a circle, and then points to another, "This is Taz."

He then draws several circles above and connects them all with lines in particular arrangements. It doesn't take long before I recognise the pattern: this is a family tree. Based on the arrangement, Taz is a sibling of his. He points to the line connecting them, and as he speaks, I understand what he means.

"I am Taz' brother," he says, "Taz is my sister."

I nod and repeat the words back as I have become accustomed to doing. I point to other lines in the diagram, asking what the word for other relationships are. I learn the words for father, mother, grandparents, cousins, and others. Within a short period of time, I have learned enough words to describe simple relationship structures.

Riggs then asks me, "Do you have any siblings?"

I shake my head in response, "No. Only... parents and me."

Saying the words aloud shakes me. In the frantic experience of the last two days, I did not have the time to reflect on my parents. I still live in their house, and now that I've been gone for two days, I cannot help but assume that they are worried about me. My memory of the time before waking up in the Sotherrun Keep is still hazy, and since I cannot remember what I was doing beforehand, I cannot extrapolate what I would have told them or how long I was expected to be gone. I didn't have any extended holidays or overnight plans coming up, and I'm not exactly one for impromptu outings. Two or more days out of the house is sure to cause my parents to worry - or at the very least, cause my father to worry.

I can already see it now. He is sitting in his giant blue recliner pretending to read some paperback but secretly just watching the clock. If I were to walk in the house, he would wait a few seconds to "finish the chapter" and then put the book down and ask about my day before declaring that he is getting tired and turning in. It doesn't matter how late it is, whether midnight or three, he never goes to sleep until he knows everyone is safely in the house. I wonder if he's gotten any rest at all since I went missing.

I glance back at Riggs, who has since expanded his drawing of a family tree with several more names and relationship lines. He has stopped speaking, and seems to now just be finishing out the tree for his own enjoyment, humming softly to himself as he pulls the charcoal across the parchment.

I hesitate before I ask a question that has been on my mind. It seems almost pointless to ask, but it would be foolish to not at least try. I open my mouth a few times before saying, "Riggs... you know... where America is?"

He pauses and looks over at me with a puzzled look. I repeat the question now that his attention is on me, and he tilts his head as he replies.

"I have never heard of America," he says, "Is it something you lost?"

I shake my head, "No. it... my home. I... am from America."

At this, Riggs shuts his eyes and ponders for a moment, folding his arms and leading back against the wall.

"Mmmm, no," he finally mumbles, "I have never heard of it."

I nod at this; it isn't surprising. I am loath to admit it, but wherever I currently am, it clearly isn't anywhere near my own home. I have to rule out simply being in a different state or country, since the existence of Riggs and... whatever species he and his sister are isn't something found on Earth. Am I on a different planet? A different universe - or dimension - entirely? Or was I taken to the distant future, and this is just the planet Earth a few thousand years from now? None of these options are good for me, and in all cases, the chance of me returning home easily is pitifully small. In either case, wherever - or WHENever - I am, I can only assume that someone took me and put me here, although I cannot understand who would do that or why. And why they haven't made themselves known to me since. I woke up with no one around and have not yet met a single person who seems to understand why I am here.

I clutch my head as my thoughts begin to spiral once again. I can feel the panic rising as my heartbeat grows stronger in my ears. It is only a moment before I feel a heavy hand land upon my shoulder. I look up to see Riggs, his eyes locked on mine, trying to read my expression. I am struck by the shape and color of his eyes, piercing yellow and bright despite being deep-set into his skull. They don't have a white part or a circular iris like I am used to seeing, instead being distinctly reptilian in texture - with a long vertical slit breaking the ruddy yellow and revealing a deep black behind. His gaze softens after a moment as he seems to come to some conclusion.

"Do not worry Val," he says, "I will get you home."

He says the line with such conviction that for a moment I fully believe him. Even if he can't do it, even if he doesn't know what that could mean or what it might entail, I feel that he will try. The sentence shocks me out of my spiral and allows me to regain control of my mind. I force the muscles in my face and shoulders to relax, and a wave of lethargy sweeps over me, draining any energy I had left from my body, causing me to step backwards and collapse into one of the chairs placed against the table. Riggs watches me as I go down and then makes a gesture with one of his hands that I do not recognise.

"You have not eaten, yes?" He asks, almost rhetorically, "I make you food."

Without waiting for a response, he turns a corner and limps past a half-wall and into what looks like the only other room in this house apart from wherever Taz withdrew to. From my vantage point at the table, I cannot see much of it aside from a small counter and what looks like the brickwork of a chimney. Based on my estimation, this is the same chimney used by the blacksmith working below us. Two small notches in the chimney appear to be used as an oven, the lower filled with unlit kindling and the upper dusted with the remnants of previous meals.

Riggs places his hand in the upper chamber and nods to himself, seemingly satisfied with the heat already present from the fire burning in the forge below. Riggs begins opening cabinets and draws from all around the room, all built directly into the wall, retrieving various glass bottles, wooden and metal implements, and at least one burlap sack of dry goods. I barely recognize any of the ingredients that he is using save for a few obvious staples like rice and eggs, although both are slightly different colors and sizes than I am used to seeing. The egg, for example, is almost pill-shaped - twice as tall as a regular chicken egg despite not being any wider at its center.

Almost immediately after Riggs begins working a fragrant scent wafts out of the small kitchenette, smelling like fresh herbs and honey. Despite working from the most meager of workstations, Riggs seems to be producing something quite extensive, spreading at least half a dozen bowls across the counter, some going into the brick oven and some being set aside for later. After 10 minutes, another scent joins the chorus of smells drifting out into the main living area - a hearty, umami-filled blend of roasted meat and warm broth.

Another 5 minutes go by and Taz emerges from the back room, her sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms covered in a dark oil or grease, carrying the limb she tore from her brother. While not in pristine condition, I see that it seems to be actually functional now, the broken components replaced and the damaged parts buffed out.. She acknowledges me with a nod through her thick goggles, and then turns to the kitchen. I hear Riggs cry with delight as she enters. They exchange a few words before she returns to the room I am in, carrying a small wooden bucket of water. Crashing into a chair opposite me and pulling the goggles from her eyes, she draws a rag out of the bucket and begins to wipe the grime from her arms.

"My craft crashed." she states matter-of-factly.

"Yes," I reply, unsure of what else to say.

She continues with a question, "Did it look good?"

I hesitate. Does she mean to ask whether I liked the craft aesthetically? I wasn't able to see it when it was in working order, but I certainly bore witness to its construction while I was moving around and inside of it. It certainly was able to take some damage, and it is frankly shocking that Riggs survived at all, given how bad the crash appeared to be. It must have been incredibly well-built.

"Yes."

Taz smiles at this, dropping the rag onto the table and beginning to clear it of dust and debris, shoving various knicknacks to the opposite side of the table.

"Nice."

Riggs enters the room and immediately draws attention to himself, balancing two platters on either hand and he walks confidently to the table, his mobility again unhindered with the return of his leg. As he slides the trays into the newly-cleared surfaces that Taz cleaned, he beams.

"Food is served!" He says triumphantly.

I gaze at the manifold spread before us. On one plate, a pile of leafy greens with several other colored vegetables tossed within and glazed with a bright yellow dressing. On another, thin slices of some sort of loaf - like tofu or cheese - are arranged in overlapping circles like the petals of a flower. On the third platter is a wooden serving bowl filled with some sort of purple short-grain rice tossed with chunks of meat. And on the fourth, three small rolls of bread laid out on a cloth. On the fourth platter are also three gloves, seemingly made out of some sort of tough, chitinous material.

The moment Riggs sets the platters on the table, both he and Taz grab a glove and place it on one of their hands. Immediately, they begin to dig into the food, Taz grabbing a roll and Riggs scooping into the rice mixture with his gloved hand, palming it in front of his face while using his free hand to pick and place portions into his mouth. Without stopping, Taz takes the third glove and tosses it in my direction. Grabbing it out of the air, I turn it over in my hands to examine it before putting it on.

It appears to be made out of two separate materials, one thin and cloth-like and the other hard like porcelain. The main body of the glove is made out of the cloth-like material, which is extremely fine and nearly see-through, with a subtle slippery texture to it. The fingertips, however, are capped with the hard porcelain-like material, which is extremely rigid and fairly heavy relative to the rest of the glove. The tips come to a point, almost like claws, and while not terribly sharp, could probably slice tender meat if used properly. As I don the glove, it becomes obvious that it is made for a much larger hand than mine. The fingertips flop uselessly off the end of my digits and the entire glove slides around my hand. There is a drawstring at the wrist, which I use to fasten the glove tighter against my hand, which helps a little. It is not perfect, but I eventually get it to a workable position on my palm.

Following the lead of the two siblings, I begin to serve myself from the platters. In the absence of plates or cutlery, one's portion is taken and held in the gloved hand and you eat with your free hand from there. It only takes a few minutes for the act to become comfortable, and I find there to be a certain pleasure in eating with the hands. The slippery texture of the glove lends itself to simply be wiped off between different dishes, and the sharp tips offer an easy way to both grasp small portions as well as slice through larger chunks of meat or vegetables.

For the next hour, the three of us eat heartily. Riggs takes the time to point out each dish as I eat it and tell me its name and what is inside it. The food itself is savory, and while many of the ingredients I recognise upon sight or taste, many of the vegetables, and the salad leaves, as well as the meat in the rice - is an entirely new flavor for me. The meat is tough and gamey but seasoned well, which encourages me to chew on it for longer than normal and allow the flavors to permeate my palate before swallowing. Likewise the vegetables, while superficially analogous to ones I have seen, betray their true nature upon closer inspection, many having radically different tastes and textures.

Three handfuls in and Riggs begins speaking.

"Val," he says between bites, "you are from America, yes? What is it like?"

"America?" Taz repeats with a question.

"His home," Riggs responds before biting a roll in half, "from beyond the borders of Lachovia!"

A frill on the side of Taz' face - close to where her ear would be if she had one - twitches, and she turns to me expectedly, "beyond the border? Yes, what is it like out there?"

Swallowing a mouthful of rice, I try to remember the different words I know in civic to describe my home. I think of the beautiful mountain ranges and the thousands of crystal clear streams and creeks. I think of the beaches and the forests and even the cities and villages that are tucked between them all.

"It is... beautiful," I begin, "many mountains and... lots of trees."

I continue, "I... my home is... next to a..." I realize I don't know the word for a lake, "next to a place of lots of water."

I glance between the two of them. Both are splitting their attention between me and the food in front of them. They both seem to be waiting for me to continue, so I try my best to do so, stumbling through his words for a few more moments.

Eventually, I give in, "Sorry," I finally sigh, "I know little civic."

This phrase seems to snap the siblings out of a trance. Taz refocuses on the food in her hand, while Riggs immediately begins making reassuring gestures.

"No no, it is okay," he says, "your home sounds wonderful. Thank you for sharing."

I am about to say "no problem" or "of course" or something of that nature, but instead of trying to find the right words, I simply nod in return. At this, Riggs leans back in his chair, tipping it back on two legs. His eyes close in contemplation for a moment before opening back up.

"Too much language. Not enough komicad." he says, "I know of one who can speak to you."

"What?!" I respond quickly, too shocked to translate to Civic. Does someone here speak English? And how does he know of them?

Ricks locks eyes with me and makes a gesture, pressing two fingers into his chest as he continues, "They can speak to your idos, no language required."

His gesturing continues, moving his hands between pointing at his head and pointing at mine.

"Then you can tell us about your home. You can tell us how to get you back."

There is only one word I don't recognize.

"My idos?" I ask, repeating the word.

"Yes!" he replies, continuing to gesture at his chest, just below his sternum, "It connects the mind."

Riggs' gesturing continues, and suddenly the motions seem familiar. While not as coordinated or precise as I saw from the woman yesterday afternoon, the general forms are there. Riggs makes a pyramid-like shape with his right hand and pushes it out towards me, much like Cira did before touching my forehead.

"Like that," he concludes, "and we can speak!"

(conversation eventually turns and Riggs insists Val stays the night)

(chapter two ends)

Chapter Three

The Third Day. Questions and Answers.

(wake up, discuss plans, exit the house)

(transition scene)

Taking the lead, Riggs pushes into the busy street as Taz and I follow in his wake. The early morning sun reflects off the white stone buildings and off the metal banding of windows and gables, brightening the thoroughfare enough to cause one to squint despite technically being in the shade of awnings and walls. The road is bright and it is busy.

Hundreds of individuals are packed into this tight 10 meter wide corridor, filling the space with the sounds of chattering, haggling, hawking wares, and, in the case of the blacksmith behind us, striking iron. We are only in the alley for a moment before we press on into one of the main streets of the city. While not as densely packed, this street is no less lively. Drawn carriages and rickety wooden carts ponder down the street lined with tall trees on either side. Pedestrians move back and forth, weaving not only between themselves, but between the carts as well. On one corner, standing atop a wooden crate, a minstrel juggles various wooden objects, shouting something I can't hear to the crowd surrounding them. A dozen or so children suddenly sprint by underfoot, seemingly chasing the one in the lead, who squeals with delight as the others get temporarily caught by our legs before ducking and weaving through. I notice one of the children looks vaguely like the two siblings, with a reptilian form, lime green scales, and a short tail pushing out from beneath their cotton shirt. The two siblings seem to pay them no mind besides Riggs' ever-present smile, and move on into the street.

I begin to notice others that bear the same reptilian form among the crowd, and indeed, even more diversity within the city's population beyond that. There are shorter folk, some stocky and some thin, much taller individuals with sharp features and the long ears I saw before on Cira and Ievis, some with fur and animalistic features, and some who almost seem to be made out of pure stone or crystal. One shorter woman passes by between Taz and I who wouldn't have otherwise caught my notice were it not for the four additional arms that protruded from her torso, each carrying a burlap sack as she rushed by.

Suddenly, a loud sound like the blasting of a trumpet rings through the street. The sound is flat with no hint of melody, sounding more like an alarm than any attempt at music. Clearly, the crowd agrees, as one by one the citizens move out of the center of the street and bunch towards the edges and the carts slow to a halt, some of them veering off to the side or into an alley when possible. The process is slow and unhurried, as many citizens continue to chatter as it happens and some finish whatever task they were performing before shuffling off to the side. Riggs and Taz likewise pause before pushing forward to the other side of the street and into the shade of a nearby tree. I follow suit.

I peer down the street to see what caused the noise and subsequent parting of the crowd, and am met with the sight of a procession of armed individuals, each wearing a similar suit of chainmail and a breastplate. Some ride atop horses while most walk on foot. As they get closer, I can make out a symbol emblazoned on the chest of the breastplate, that of a golden bird. I have seen the symbol before. The militant force that besieged Sotherrun Keep wore the same uniform. Based on what Cira told me, this must be the crown guard of Lachovia.

I slowly push myself behind the tree, attempting to remain out of sight without looking suspicious. By comparison, Riggs seems intent on watching the procession through the city, smiling and waving at the passing guards. Some of them take his notice and wave back while others keep to themselves. Looking to Taz, I see she holds the same standoffishness as me, seeming to just be waiting patiently for Riggs to be satisfied and continue on.

I walk back to Riggs and tap him on the shoulder, when he looks back, I ask, "We go now?"

"Yes yes," he responds, throwing a final limp salute towards the guard before turning my way. Looking past his shoulder, I catch a glimpse of one of the guards staring intently at Riggs' back. Through the helmet they wear, I can't see their expression, but their body language is that of intense consideration, almost on the verge of action. As Riggs walks past me to lead the way forward, the guard's gaze doesn't follow him. Instead, it seems to land on me. They have stopped in the middle of the street, turning their whole body to face our direction as their compatriots march on around them.

I quickly turn and follow Riggs, pretending not to notice the distinct feeling of their stare following me. The feeling lingers even after we turn onto another street and around a corner.

(somehow, val is separated from riggs and taz)

(the following needs to be reworked with val's lack of language)

Suddenly, I am pulled off balance by a swift tug from behind me. This isn't the light pull you would expect from someone trying to get my attention; it is far stronger, like an intentional attack. I stumble backwards, trying to regain my balance. Looking around, I barely have time to register the face of my assailant before they kick the back of my knees and spin me around them, slamming my back against the wall and crumpling me to the ground. The individual now looms over me, shoving their hand into my shoulder and pinning me against the wall with surprising strength. Now facing my attacker head-on, I scan my eyes over their form.

Partially bald but with a full gray beard beneath thick eyebrows and a menacing glare, the individual is dressed in the same militant uniform I saw before. Despite being half my size in height, this man has an intimidating presence about him as he looms over my collapsed form with cold, laser-focused eyes. I recognize this person. This is the same individual who saw me exit the Sotherun Keep yesterday. Clearly, they remember me just as well.

"Don't scream," the voice sounds like sandpaper, and has a slight break that betrays a life of shouting, "I'm going to ask you some questions, and you're not going to speak except to answer them."

His face is barely half a meter away from mine. Up close, I can smell his breath and see his skin, scarred and liver-spotted from age and a life of conflict.

"What-" my question is cut off by a rough shove into my shoulder, painfully scraping it against the stone behind me. He continues speaking.

"Tell me your name," His eyes flick over my entire body as he says it, seeming to notice my every faintest move.

"Val," I sputter out, "Valentyne. My name is Valentyne."

"Val," he repeats, voice as low as ever "tell me your business in Sotherun Keep."

"It's... hard to explain."

He leans in closer, speaking slowly "try again."

I dart my vision to my left and right without moving my head. I don't see Riggs or Taz, or anyone else for that matter. There are no other people in this alley, no one to call out for help. Doubtful that they would respond in any case, since the crown guard seem, at the very least, moderately respected here. Perhaps this sort of interrogation is par for the course in this city. I would have no way of knowing.

I take a breath before responding, "I have no business in the keep. I was there against my will."

The man's expression remains perfectly still, considering my response and reading my face.

He continues, "Explain your relationship to Hespestis Duran."

Hespestis is a name I've heard before - the man on the throne. Although I didn't know his family name until now.

"None," I respond, "he interrogated me and then left me behind when you all arrived. Do you-"

He cuts me off, "Recount the exchange."

I stumble for a moment, "What? Uh... he only asked where I came from and what I was doing there. I don't know the answer, and I told him as such."

I find the words spilling out of my mouth before I can consider them. I just want to answer the man's questions quickly so he will let me go. Despite this, the man continues his barrage.

"Tell me the final question he asked."

"I... I don't know. I can't remember"

"Try again."

"It might have been about my hometown"

"Hm. Tell me his final words to you before he left."

"I think he ordered me to be killed."

The man pauses. His stiff hand on my shoulder loosening, granting me some relief from the pins and needles that accosted me until now. He considers my response for a moment before finally stepping back and allowing me to stand up. I rub my knees and elbows, still stinging from the initial impact.

"I seem to have been mistaken," he says, "I took you to be under Hespestis' employ."

It isn't an apology, but at least he admitted his mistake. I let out a groan as I stretch my shoulder, "Glad we could clear that up."

"My name is Grey," The man introduces himself matter-of-factly, neither reaching his hand out nor expecting any such expression from me. He removes a pair of thick leather gloves from his pocket, inspecting them as he continues "With the Sotherrun Keep now re-taken from Hespestis' control, I have been tasked with locating where he spirited away to. I was hoping you might have more information, thinking you were allied with him."

I pause. This is actually information I have. I think back to my final connection with Cira. Before she let me go, she mentioned her and Ievis going to the Springridge Monastary. Presumably with Hespestis as well. I didn't know why or where that location even is, but it might be useful.

Before I answer, however, I return to another question I have.

"He wasn't there when you arrived?"

"No," he says, donning the gloves and flexing his hands, "The guard searched the whole keep, but couldn't find the man himself. We assume he snuck out while his militia held us back. We were expecting a fight, so we were unprepared for the likelihood of him fleeing."

I seize the chance to get more information. A chance for an exchange.

"I might have information that can help you, but before I give it, I'd like to know more about this Hespestis character. Who is he? Why are you chasing him? Why did you attack the castle?"

Grey regards me, still half-turned away, "It depends on what information you have."

"I might know where he is headed next."

Grey's eyes snap to mine, sharp clarity returning to them once more. He begins to surge forward again, closing the distance between us in an instant.

"Then you will tell me."

I put my hands up in a weak defense, "There was an errant word spoken that I overheard. But I really would like to know who I am betraying before I reveal it. I have never heard of Hespestis before yesterday."

His cold eyes once more scan me, snapping between my eyes, face, and hands, reading for signs of intent and seeming to come away satisfied after a moment.

"I don't know how you couldn't, since you were in his domain," he begins, "but until one month ago, Hespestis Duran was nothing more than an advisor to Domonic Ming, the previous baron of the Sotherrun Keep. When Ming died unexpectedly, Duran took over the operations of the keep until the crown was able to plant another figure of nobility in his place. However, when we arrived to secure the new baron's position, Duran had locked down the fortress and refused to cede control, and so the crown's guard besieged the fort until the opportunity presented itself to invade properly."

"Which was yesterday"

"Correct. Now with the new baron in place, my duties are to track him down and bring him to justice. So if you truly do have information on his whereabouts, I will take them and be on my way."

"But if he was just going to flee anyway, why keep control of the fortress at all? Is there some advantage he gained from holding it?"

"It does not—" Grey sighs, "The Sotherrun Keep is built upon a rather mineral-rich cave system, from which the previous baron had been mining and exporting cold iron. He merely wanted to keep control for as long as possible to extract as much value as he could before leaving."

"Cold iron?"

"An expensive metal, useful for several applications," Grey replied, "We don't know exactly how much Duran made off with, or how he made off with it, but their entire stores were empty when we arrived."

I consider this information for a moment, standing silently for a few seconds until I begin to feel the impatient stare from the man in front of me. I eventually come to a decision.

"I heard them mention the Springridge Monastery," I say, "I don't know where that is or what the timetable is for their arriving there, but I imagine they will be headed in that direction."

Grey's eyes lock into mine, peering even deeper than they have before as I sense his continued attempts to deduce the validity of my claims. I meet his gaze for a long, uncomfortable moment. Finally, his eyebrows furrow in determination as he finally pulls away, nodding. I can guess that he finally is satisfied with what he hears.

"Very well," he rumbles, "I will pass that along, unless there is anything else you wish to divulge."

I hesitate before replying, "No there is not."

"Then I will be off,"

The man pulls back fully out of my space, and I let out a breath, my lungs no longer feeling the invisible pressure from his forceful presence so close to me. As I catch my breath, the man turns around and begins to walk back toward the crowd from which he came. Before he even breaches into the crowd, his presence seems to invisibly part the sea, and the people closest to him as he approaches veer out of his way without a second thought. Before long, I can no longer see him.

It is only then that I hear Riggs' voice calling from down the street. I turn to see his head poking from a window nearly 15 meters down the path, his giant arm waving in exaggeration and beckoning me to notice and come to him.

(transition scene)

(at the cleric)

...the creature then begins to move their hands through the air in a pattern that I distinctly remember. Seeming to grasp at invisible threads in the air and weave them into a pattern between their fingers, I wait expectantly for the glowing strands I saw Cira produce to show themselves, but they never do. Instead, as the cleric finishes their performance, I notice a barely-visible line weaving in between their fingers, like a spider's silk catching the light, only visible from certain angles.

Nevertheless, as they grasp the pattern in their hands and reach their hands out towards my forehead, I brace myself for the painful, icy chill of the connection. They tenderly touch the sides of my face and, in a gentle motion, lightly press both thumbs into the center of my forehead. The cool sensation comes, but it is not like ice. Instead, like a faint mist of rain lighting upon the folds of my brain, I feel this strange, pleasantly cool energy enter into my head. And then I hear a voice. Faint at first, but growing louder until it reaches the volume of a normal speaking tone.

"...can you hear me?"

I blink my eyes open, unaware that they were closed, and meet the gaze of the individual in front of me, ocean-blue eyes peering deeply into mine. My eyes go wide in response.

"Yes," I respond, "I can!"

"Can you understand me?"

"Yes!"

An actual conversation, not a melding of minds. The cleric speaks aloud and I can understand what they say. They are not beaming words into my brain or extracting my thoughts wholecloth. They are just... talking. At first, something seems off, and I quickly catch that as I watch their lips, their mouth movements don't match the words I hear. Or rather, my ears are hearing one set of syllables, but my brain is somehow able to rearrange them into a sequence that I recognize as a language I know. So the words entering my brain don't match the words actually being spoken. But even so, I am able to ignore the vague discomfort and focus on the relief. It is so good to just hear someone speak and to understand them.

The cleric seems to catch my expression, their own softening in response as they pull their hands from my head.

"So," they speak again, their voice soft and direct, "what brings you here today"

(the cleric's name is Alorus. at some point Val explains how Cira used the spell)

"I am not sure exactly what the difference was, but I was able to communicate with someone else in this way, but it was much more... direct."

"Direct?" Alorus asks, tilting their head

"Yes. rather than speaking in words, the woman was able to... make me think things. She asked me questions by... pushing the questions into my head and then reading how I reacted to them. She was able to read my thoughts and understand what I was thinking"

Alorus' face twists in horror as I speak, growing more and more grotesque with every additional word. By the end, they are nearly doubled over and nearly falling out of their seat.

"That is-" they choke the words out, straightening themselves out in indignation, "a wretched way to use this spell! Not only is it despicable to force yourself into someone's thoughts, but it is incredibly dangerous as well!"

"I didn't realize. I thought you were about to do the same thing,"

"And you were going to let me?! No, that is unacceptable. Whoever did that to you needs to be reprimanded by the [figure of authority in the clerical order]! That is a blatant misuse of their power."

(I don't know about the above exchange, I just want to suggest that the mindmeld - as Cira performed it - is unconventional and not seen as okay)

Alorus gingerly takes my hand and brings it close to their face, knocking a pair of spectacles from their forehead to in front of their eyes with their other hand. They massage the back of my hand with their thumbs, muttering to themselves as they seem to peer into my pores with how close they are looking.

They turn my hand over and examine my wrist. They push and pull at the skin where the ulna bone pokes up, and makes pinching motions at the veins in my inner wrist.

After a few moments, I speak up, "What are you looking for?"

They respond hesitantly, their words broken by long pauses, "I... started by looking for your Tes and any lingering anima in your Potential...but I was distracted..."

That word again. I've heard Cira describe the glowing strands she wove as "anima." Perhaps Alorus knows more about it. But first, I ask about the present situation.

"Distracted? By what?"

"Well... your body is unique..." they catch themselves and quickly continue, "Inasmuch as I have never seen a body so... undamaged. There is usually wear and tear to the body. Scars, minor blemishes, creases where the skin folds over long periods of time. But yours is... almost like a newborn. Your skin and muscles and bones are new, barely a week old. You're not an infant, are you?"

I respond cautiously, "No? I am not."

"I thought so," Alorus continues, "That is what is so strange. Your mind is old - or at least mature for your species. But your body is brand new."

I am taken aback. Whatever I had expected them to say, this wasn't it.

"What... what could that possibly mean?"

"I am not sure, but I have some guesses," Alorus drops my hand and reaches up towards my left eye. I allow them to carefully spread my eyelid and peer into the space between the lid and eyeball.

They continue, "The only time I've seen or heard about an old mind in a new body is with species utilizing host-type reproduction, or with magical revivification. You don't seem to be a host, so I can only assume the latter, unless it is something else entirely."

"What?"

My question is ignored as they continue, "if someone were to lose an arm and have it magically regenerated, the tissues in that arm would be brand new and unblemished. That wouldn't be too much cause for concern. But you... you have a new body in its entirety. I see no presence of wear in your limbs, torso, or head. The only conclusion that I can reach is that your body was generated entirely fresh within the past week or so."

I pause as they return their hands to their sides and look me over from a distance once more. I speak up with a shaky voice.

"If that were to have happened, what is the likelihood of having missing memories? Because I can't remember much from before a week ago."

(the topic eventually comes to anima and Alorus confesses that they don't know *too* much about it - only some basic spells, but very little of the theory. Val is reminded that Cira seems to have studied it, and concludes that she might have the answer to what's going on with him.)

(some other things happen idk)

Chapter Four(ish)

The Eighth Day. Taking to the Skies.

(several days later.)

(I wanted to describe the siblings' aircraft, so I jumped ahead. A lot happens before this but suffice to say they board an aircraft to fly to the Springridge Monastery. At this point, Val can communicate simple sentences in Civic.)

Weaving through the crowd, my eyes land on a structure I had only seen at a distance in the days since arriving here. It is a tall, skeletal structure - made entirely out of metal beams arranged in a lattice-like structure with no exterior cladding - the structure rises nearly a hundred feet into the air, getting narrower as it rises. Throughout the structure are walkable platforms all connected by hundreds and hundreds of stairs, leading all the way from the ground level to the top. Perched near the top is a large balloon of an airship, floating lazily in the air and tethered to the metal tower by a series of thick cables. There are people presently climbing the staircase and climbing aboard the ship, and I see some propellers start to wind up as the pilots make preflight checks. From my present vantage point, passing so close to the base of the structure, its imposing height and mass weight heavily upon the surrounding area, casting sharp shadows across the other buildings and people around me.

Taz leads Riggs and I through the square, bobbing and weaving past both families and lone individuals, many of whom are dressed in the familiar garb that the siblings wear of thick leather outerwear, scarves, boots, and goggles.

Finally, we arrive at a comparatively small structure, built out of simple corrugated metal and pressed between other buildingings, each with their own large bay doors. Some are already open with people milling about inside, working on airships of all shapes and sizes. The hangar that Taz pulls us toward is labeled with the large numeral for 26, and as we approach, Taz pulls a key from around her neck, unlocks the door, and throws it open. Light spills in from the street, immediately reflecting off of the polished metal fuselage of the aircraft within and illuminating the entire bay. My vision is filled not only with the aircraft itself, but by the mess of tools and equipment strewn around the bay floor, reminding me very much of the interior of the siblings' apartment.

The ship itself, however, is in pristine condition. Far from the mangled wreck that I found Riggs in, this craft is smooth and sleek. Nearly 10 meters from tip to tail and constructed out of a brass-colored metal, its shape is that of an elongated teardrop with four insect-like wings - two on either side. It is currently lifted off the ground by heavy cloth straps nearly half a meter wide each suspended from a crane-like armature that stretches across the entire room.

The three of us enter the hanger at the same time, Riggs and I circling the craft to admire it while Taz moves towards the back and begins turning a crank to lower the ship onto the ground. As it descends, Riggs reaches up to various points on the underside of the ship and pulls out several large wheels from their housing within, positioning them so that when the craft reaches the floor, it will land on the wheels instead of on the main fuselage. As I'm watching, I catch a glimpse of a small hatch on the underside towards the rear, which I assume is the main point of egress. I catch Riggs looking at it as well, and when our eyes meet, he smirks and winks at me before reaching up and pulling the release lever, dropping the hatch and allowing us to view inside.

"Hey!" I hear Taz call from the corner, "Wait for it to be grounded!"

"What was that? I couldn't hear you!" Riggs feigns ignorance as he reaches into the opening to grasp at a handle before vaulting himself inside.

I lean over to look at Taz, still lowering the ship to the floor. As our eyes meet, she gestures towards the ship, "If he's going inside anyway, tell him to work on installing the solar sphere."

I nod before ducking back under the fuselage and poking my head into the opening, where I am greeted by a surprisingly spacious interior. Shaped vaguely like an octagonal prism turned on its side, the cockpit is about 2 meters across and 6 meters deep. Two simple chairs sit at the far end facing a glass window that spans nearly the whole front face. Behind the chairs is mostly empty space, save for a single metal panel to my right that has been hinged down from the side, acting like a table that can be folded away, on top of which are stacks of paper and several esoteric tools and contraptions. As I glance around the space, I notice that there are more handles and hatches dotting the sides, floor, and ceiling where I imagine various workstations and drawers can be pulled out from. My eyes land on one of these to the left where Riggs is currently crouched at. Inside looks to be a jumble of copper pipes with pressure gauges and valve handles. Humming to himself, he makes a quarter turn to one of the valves before nodding to himself and closing the panel.

"Taz says that if you're in here anyway," I repeat back to him, climbing inside, "you should work on installing the solar sphere."

Riggs snaps a finger in my direction, "Right! I was just about to get to that. Thank you."

Standing up and maneuvering toward the front of the craft, Riggs pulls his side bag around in front of him and rummages around inside, eventually extracting a small wooden box. Setting the bag and box on the table, he then pops a latch on the box and opens it, revealing the strange glowing object kept within.

Geometric in shape, the object could almost be mistaken for a loose bolt or nut upon first glance. It is what appears to be a metal dodecahedron with a small, circular hole punched out of each flat face. Through the holes, bright yellow light shines out as though an extremely powerful bulb were kept inside.

Riggs is about to pull the object out of the box when he glances over at me, his expression hard to read. Still wearing his usual smile, it is nonetheless tinged with an expression I can only clock as apprehension. Perhaps even a small amount of fear.

"This is dangerous," he says matter-of-factly, voice bereft of his usual mirth, "stand back while I install it."

"Sure,"

I nod and reverse the steps I took to enter the craft, landing on the stone floor of the hanger, only my upper chest and head visible from Riggs' perspective.

"What is dangerous about it?"

As he gently pulls the shape from its wooden housing, Riggs holds his breath, only daring to release it once he has it grasped firmly between his two claws. He sighs and responds as he turns towards the front console.

"I do not know how or why, but it has flared before. It releases an excessive amount of energy when it does, and overloads the systems. That is what caused me to crash when you found me."

"And you don't know what causes it to... ‘flare'? Does it have anything to do with a solar flare?"

"It could... I guess. All I know is that it is somehow connected to the sun" Riggs begins opening panels in the front of the ship while calling back to me to keep the conversation going, pointing up in the air to accentuate his point, "So as long as the sun is still shining, we'll have power. I've never heard of a solar flare, but it wouldn't be too much of a stretch to assume they're connected."

I recall Cira mentioning a solar flare while we were connected. It seems that she has a lot of answers to questions that I didn't know to ask while I was with her.

"What's the likelihood of it flaring again, would you guess?"

Riggs shrugs his massive shoulders, "Dunno. It's only happened once."

As if on queue, the ship suddenly lurches as it lands on the ground, bouncing slightly as shock absorbers strain to reach an equilibrium between their tension and the weight of the craft. Riggs, who had frozen stiff when the impact happened, now loosens himself with a loud guffaw, wiping his forehead with his free hand.

"Megora!" he laughed out a word I didn't recognize, "I nearly jumped out of my skin"

I duck underneath to see Taz, ignorant to the commotion inside, beginning to loosen the straps from around the craft and roll them up in thick bales before setting them to the side. I crouch out of the open entryway and walk up beside her, grabbing one of the loose straps tossed behind her and begin rolling it in the same way she had done previously.

"Appreciate it," she says, pulling the last strap from underneath the front of the ship, "if you want to finish this, I'll go clear our takeoff with the command."

I nod in response, focusing on rolling the thick textiles as Taz exits out of the hanger and walks across the square to a building on the other side. As she leaves, Riggs exits the vehicle and comes over to help me finish.

After a few minutes of rolling and stacking, the front of the hanger is free and clear, and the ship is ready to depart. Taz returns with a small booklet under her arm as she begins to wind the loose end of her scarf around her neck. She flashes a thumbs-up in our direction, which Riggs reciprocates before tapping me on my back and gesturing towards the entrance of the ship.

"We're cleared. Let's go."

The three of us climb aboard the steel craft. Toward the front, Taz sits down in the right-side seat and begins opening a series of valves, causing a flow of what sounds like water rushing through various pipes overhead and inside the walls next to me.

"Movement" Taz calls not a moment before the ship lurches forward, jostling Riggs and I who are still standing. I nearly collapse to the floor, but manage to maintain my footing as our forward velocity reaches an even, slow pace. I can catch glimpses out of the front window and see us exit from the hangar and into the open square beyond. Sunlight pours into the cabin, reflecting off of the metal interior and brightening it considerably.

After we are fully extracted from the small building, Riggs jumps down through the open hatch and I watch as he sprints to close and lock the hangar door behind us. The process takes a few seconds, and by the time he is done, the ship has moved several dozen meters away and he is forced to jog to catch up. Luckily we are not moving very fast, and he is able to swing himself aboard without trouble.

Once he enters, Riggs calls to Taz "Seal!" and closes the entrance behind him. The pressure change in the cabin immediately makes my ears pop and almost makes me woozy for a moment before I can get my bearings. The edges of my vision clear and a catch Riggs waving me over towards an open panel near the back of the ship. As I move over and crouch down to look at it, Riggs begins instructing me on my responsibility.

"This is the primary pressure gauge," he says, indicating a large dial that currently reads "23" but is climbing quickly.

He continues, "During takeoff, it is important that we keep the pressure between 30 and 55. Your job will be to control that while Taz and I take care of the rest."

"Okay. How do I control it?"

Riggs points towards a circular handle and a large lever.

"These two will help with that. During takeoff, the pressure is going to naturally rise very quickly, so your main task will be to keep it from going over 50"

He points at the circular handle, "this is the release valve. That will release steam to the outside of the vehicle and reduce the pressure. It will happen very quickly, so you don't need to turn it a lot to drop pressure."

"System failure will happen if the pressure drops below 20. In the unlikely event that the pressure drops too low - maybe around 30-35 - you can add it back quickly with this," he points to the large lever, "which will flood the lines with additional liquid. We only have so much in reserves, so try not to use this if you can help it."

He looks to me to see if I am comprehending, and I nod in response.

"High pressure is more likely than low, so that's your main concern. System failure happens around 60. Mechanical failure happens at 200, but that's unlikely. As long as you drop it when it gets close to 55, we should have no problem. The most ideal working pressure is close to 50 exactly. The longer you can keep it there without too much variation, the easier it will be for Taz and I to get this thing off the ground"

"You'll only need to handle it for a few minutes while we take off. Once we're in the air, Taz will take over for you. Do you think you got it?"

I look over the controls. They are simple and sturdy. I don't think there will be any problems.

"Got it," I respond, "Let's do this."

Riggs beams at me, dropping his goggles in front of his eyes and moving towards the front of the cabin,

"Alright!"

(transition scene)

"I didn't ask before," I lean against the wall, facing Taz who is monitoring the pressure gauge, "but does your ship have a name?"

Taz glances over to me, "It depends on who you ask. I call her by the model number I gave when I designed her: TTS-17.2"

"TTS?"

She smirks, "for ‘To The Sky!' it's a phrase Riggs would repeat when we were young. She is the 17th model that was actually able to get off the ground."

"So what does he call it?"

"Something silly," she raises her voice to call towards the cockpit, "Riggs, what do you call 17.2?"

From behind, I see Riggs raise his right arm and circle it around his head with a flourish. He calls back, "Her name is Klariosuu!" he pinches his fingers when he reaches the name, accenting it with a flick of the wrist. The word itself is a proper noun that I haven't heard before, but I repeat it under my breath.

Taz sighs, "I like to think she prefers a more professional name. She's a wonderful flier, anyway. We don't get to take her out very often, but I always appreciate hearing her fly."

At this, Taz leans against the side of the cabin, pressing her ear against the warm metal. With the back of my skull against the same wall, I can hear what she hears: the low rumble of moving machinery and pressurized liquid giving life to the craft we inhabit.

(transition scene)

Chapter Five(ish)

The Eleventh Day. The Monastery.

(after flying for maybe two days or so, the three land at the Springridge Monastery and enter, hoping to find Cira and talk to her. They run into Grey at the entrance who arrived a few hours before and is planning on sneaking in. When he is unable to convince them to leave, he tells them to follow his lead and he will enter carefully. He tells them to be quiet - a stealth mission. The following scene takes place after they enter and have been sneaking through the monastery for a bit)

(I haven't decided yet, but either the monastery has been abandoned for many decades, and the only ones using it are Hespestis and his men, OR the resident monks are being held captive and the party will have to navigate around that fact.)

The silence is suddenly broken as a heavy wooden door ahead of us begins to open and the sound of conversation slips out through the crack. I barely have time to react. Caught off guard, I think only to drop to the balls of my feet and to look around for a place to hide. I don't know what the siblings are doing behind me, but Grey takes no time to react.

Firing like a bullet, he has already cleared the distance to the door before I even blink, drawing his sword with one hand and grabbing the door handle with the other. In a swift motion, he yanks it towards him before slamming it back into position, causing the individual behind it to first be pulled off balance - their hand still on the interior handle - and yanked in between the open door and its molding, only to be crushed between the two as Grey slams the heavy wood into their ribcage. They crumple immediately. Grey immediately throws open the door a second time, revealing a second individual staring dumbly at their incapacitated comrade. Before they get a chance to react, Grey kicks their left knee and reaches up to grab their belt. As they fall, he yanks to the side, causing their head to collide with the stone wall and slam their full weight into the hard surface, rendering them unconscious before they can even scream.

It is over in a moment. Silence falls as Grey points his sword into the open doorway and scans for any other sign of life within. Seemingly satisfied, he pushes the two bodies back into the room with his foot and closes the door behind them. It is only then that I am able to move again. I glance behind me to see the two siblings staring, just as shocked as I am.

Seemingly unaware of our surprise, Grey sheaths his sword and, without even looking back to us, gestures curtly to continue forward. He hasn't uttered a single word since we entered, still intent on working silently. And so I remain silent as well, shaking myself into motion and following behind as he rounds the next corner.

(transition scene)

(They make their way through the monastery, maybe run into an encounter along the way. In the centre of the complex, they find Hespestis, Ievis, and Cira, and a conflict breaks out. Either before or during this conflict, Hespestis reveals a small part of his plan. We learn of the Titan, of the gods, of the prophecy, and of Hespestis's disinterest in it. somehow Ievis needs to die at Hespestis' hand. Don't know how or why. This will give Cira a means and motive to join the party later. during a climactic moment, Val is killed by Hespestis and this part of the story immediately ends)

(cliffhanger to lead into book 2)

Epilogue

While the boot was not the only piece of evidence on file for the disappearance of Valentyne C. Deveroux, it was most certainly a prime element of the case. When it was discovered in the broom closet by Gabriel Harvey, one of the investigators brought on for the case, it was found 6 inches from the corner of the northern wall underneath a set of wire shelving units.

The boot was determined to belong to Mr. Devereux after being extracted from the scene. Familial witnesses confirmed his owning of such a pair and DNA testing on skin cells within the boot's interior lining matched Mr. Devereux within allowable tolerances.

The strangest aspect of the boot's discovery was its location. The boot was found to be partially buried in the concrete floor, the sole facing upwards and tilted at a 30 degree angle towards the northwest corner of the room. In the associated report, the building was noted to have been built nearly 30 years prior to the disappearance. The concrete slab upon which the structure rested was poured near the beginning phases of construction, and there have been no significant modifications to the slab since. To suppose that such a boot would have been set in the concrete during construction was deemed unlikely. The janitors were able to corroborate this fact, confirming that the boot was not present prior to the disappearance. And yet, despite no blemishes in the surrounding stonework, the boot was found to be sunk 4.2 inches into the concrete, buried as though it was inserted while the concrete was curing.

After careful extraction, the boot and a portion of the surrounding stone were photographed and filed with the rest of the case's evidence. The building owner was compensated for the damages.

The case remains open.