From Quiet Wood

[Nala Thorhild]

Strangers saved her— not from a cruel and untimely death, but from the kind of end where you drift out to sea, never to be heard from again. Simple words, simple gestures, then the icy melancholy that had encased her heart began to thaw. To be so young, a life ago had passed since fire seeped into her bones. She’d grown to despise hope, resist it like hunger and put it squarely out of her reach. Nala Thorhild had played the fool too many times but none greater than her last voyage to Illarion. Not only had her hopes and dreams been snuffed out in mere weeks, perhaps months but the experience soured into a haunting memory. It was as if a morose unseen god cast a curse over the land, everyone she met seemed dead behind the eyes, too focused on this trade or that, or enslaving you to a never ending list of tasks. Some promised you adventure, thrill, and fame but it was all a charade, a clever mask, a clever game of surviving the dullards.

She’d play no part in a boring life with unspirited sheeple. The tales she’d heard spun about Illarion from afar were ones of legends and folklore, a place where anyone could recast their stars into the cauldron and find destiny unbound. It was a lie that crushed her. It was unfounded hope that sent her running into the woods, faroff to live out years in solitude. Then one day, the flames from the Hemp Necktie Inn drew her near. Hours later, she made acquaintances, days and weeks after that she had the makings of friendships. A whirlwind had caught her off guard and she couldn’t seem to slow it down. All the new faces had charm and wit, even the orc! They filled her days with joy and conversation.

Then there was him, the type of him that makes you write and pace. To deal with a him was nauseating; even when he wasn’t around, he pulled at invisible threads connected to her senses. She expected him around every turn, his laugh echoed in empty spaces, the scent of him teased in the breeze. The flutter between beats of her heart scared her though. She knew how to play cat and mouse, how to prolong an interlude between two attracted somebodies. Those little games were fun, like taking a sudden drop on a sleigh. All the same, each interaction felt right, felt easy, unrushed, unforced, but there were other forces far more appealing- far more spiritual in nature.

She couldn’t describe it any other way to herself. He was a force of nature, plain and evident. Godsever, was he a force, his mere presence should have made her cower like a child. Yet, he had an innate charisma, an acute mental edge that kept pace with her own. Arrogance hadn’t blinded him yet, nor lust or feral possession. He kept her at a safe distance, he did all that made a man, a man. Gloriously, he grounded her like the earth whether he was trying to or not was irrelevant.

Nala knew in her marrrow, he had purpose, he had intent. Those were not her things, her right to know, nor did she really care at all. In her eyes, he could be whatever he wanted, so long as he stood proud and unbreakable with a tiny sliver for her to nestle down and take refuge. If he didn’t want that or couldn’t make room, then fate would continue to be cruel and she’d spit in its face to wait a little longer.

[Malchus]

The wildlife scattered into the woods as a hulking figure clad in dark armour walked through the night, resting a heavy axe on one of his broad shoulders and carrying a bag over the other. A faint glimmer of light lured him to a glade, where he found a camp site. It must have been just abandoned, for no one was to be found, yet there were still smouldering embers in the fire pit. It was a good opportunity for Malchus to rest, and so he put his axe, bag and helmet aside, sat down on some fur left behind by the camp's previous occupants, and threw a dry piece of wood into the embers to rekindle the fire. Thus Malchus sat there, a lone wolf with his caught prey lying by his side. It was Malas, the Month of the Hunter, and indeed Malachin had granted Malchus fortune in his hunt.

Though the hardened sellsword was accustomed to lonely nights in the wilderness such as this one, the campfire reminded him of someone whose company he had grown fond of and would've welcomed now. She was, much like Malchus, a stranger and vagrant in Illarion, at home wherever her campfire currently was. And wherever her chosen camp site was, its crackling bonfire was sure to beckon weary travellers such as Malchus, for she had made a habit of tending to her hearth diligently, keeping the flames alive, and treating those she permitted as her guests with drink and polite company. Yet she was an elusive one, that young woman on Malchus's mind, and his encounters with her were rare and fleeting. She had a talent to find him, if she wanted to, and an even greater one to escape him, quietly vanishing when he had his eye on her just an instant ago. She was, in her own words, nothing more than the wind. And when the wind rustled through the grove, the lonesome sellsword hoped for a moment that she would, summoned by his thoughts, quietly emerge from the woods' darkness to join him at his campfire. Or, perhaps, he just really longed for a bottle of her sweet apple cider.

Dawn broke and daylight chased away the grove's darkness. The campfire was reduced to ashes, and Malchus, reinvigorated by a good night's rest, collected his kit and the bag, which had overnight soaked the dirt beneath in blood. The axe, which he had decided to put to the test, had served him well, and although he was satisfied with last night's thrilling hunt and his catch, he was also glad that his axe's work had no witnesses, for it has been a bloody and messy affair indeed.

Malchus followed the road up to Galmair, where Bre Southstar, the town's gate guard, stopped the one-eyed axeman with his blood-soaked bag, giving him a doubtful look.

"I've been huntin'. In there's my catch," Malchus explained curtly.

Bre narrowed her eyes and, evidently unconvinced by Malchus's words, ordered him to open the bag to show its content. Although she was about half his size, Malchus knew that this stalwart dwarfess wouldn't take no for an answer, and so he obliged without protest. Bre looked into the bag, and the bag's content looked back at her with wide, lifeless eyes. It was a man's head.

"Hunting?" Bre repeated Malchus's explanation in disbelief. He pulled out a parchment showing a sketch of the face which she just saw.
"Bounty huntin'. A wanted bandit chief. His gang was ambushin' travellin' merchants on the road to Galmair. Tracked him down to his hideout inna woods. That should put an end to it, for now."
"So you want the reward for his head, I suppose?"
"I didn't bring him with me just to show him off."
"You'll want to see Groktan Flintsplit, then. He handles that sort of business."

Malchus merely nodded and closed his bag again, calmly making his way to the debt collector's office.

[Nala Thorhild]

We can all be fools in the moment, a turn of phrase away from what we truly mean- want to say. In the quiet, everything harmonizes, but in the moment, nuance and emotions take on a mind of their own and steer us off course. We stare too long, we cross words with others, our bodies react symbolically.

Then you think twice, maybe thrice, maybe too many times to keep your focus on where it ought to be. Every single muscle, thought, and quiet urge screams for something, yet she’d come from somewhere. She’d run from a past that forever haunts. Still, she deserved happiness, aye?

She deserved the way he looked at her, how any situation or comment could roll off him like duck feathers, how he could just sit or stand there like a boulder in a rushing river. The whole world could collapse and she could see him standing there resolutely like some gods awful statue.

Men like him were infuriating, their obstinate confidence, their divine purpose to see an end they’d known all along. It felt like second guessing for them was improbable, a sin against everything they were meant to be in the world. Meanwhile, there were other men, nothing like Malchus, they were spineless, serpentine creatures leeching life, prosperity, and joy from everyday people— even to those they were supposed or confessed to love and protect.

Better to be alone than a means to an end for anyone! Malchus never made her feel that way; he was respite, a quiet place away from demons lurking in their many forms and conspiring in all the hidden mortal ways. Apparently, you could make deals with them and become immortal in the lands of Illarion or so she had been told. Ha, but what of inner demons?

Were they one and the same?

Who was Nala Thorhild?

Was she the lass born and encased in ice?

Was she the one that burned for another?

Or was she a woman who was lost to an inner someone from time to time?

To the will-o’-the-wisp drawn to the fire, her episodes came upon her like dreams. When the wind blew from a strange direction, she might simply wander into the shadows or faint from exhaustion. In a way, some new part within her or someone else entirely had accompanied Nala out of the Quiet Wood.

The first episode occurred while hunting hogs, a rogue wolf had crept into the clearing where Nala cleaned a fresh kill. Next thing she knew, the wolf was dead beside the hog, she was covered in splotches of blood, and her left leather bracer looked like a hound’s chew toy. On and on similar occurrences played out in the woods and other remote locations across Illarion. Over time, Nala’s dreams unfolded like stolen memories, glimpses of a savage and cunning rogue in combat with beings tenfold her size and girth. She wanted nothing more than to write the visions off as fantasy, but she saw the sinew tightening and swelling along her curves and joints. Each morning she felt the ache from battle and saw the fresh markings on her gear. Faster, quicker, and more agile, her lost moments pushed her beyond self-defense and preservation. Within this demon she became, she honed killer instincts.

Like the wind, she traversed Illarion until one day, she struck an infuriating roadblock between the Hemp and the lands that would take her to Cadomyr. The obstacle made her feral, made her press the day-to-day Nala who made friends with Bernie and others to horde up more silver and gold to buy arms and armor to better herself, to mimic Malchus— to best the arrogant elves keeping her at bay.

Those deplorable elves, prone to look down on everyone and everything that wasn’t timeless and perfect. They weren’t all bad, but the ones in the outlands acted and carried on no better than the drows she’d recently learned about from Asphy.

The other Nala, call her Dalia, spent weeks painstakingly training and scouting the elven outpost thwarting her advance. During her training and for days after, she spied on the elves, drawn to their leader. He pushed the others, called out orders to keep the band safe from incursion and trespassers. His business was simple and to the point, survival. Dalia studied and learned from him, watched and assessed their training techniques and practiced them in private.

Then there was the mage, like any she met, what purpose did they pursue? Was knowledge all? To what end would they reach and strive to sate their hunger to learn? Was there any cost too high? Neither Nala or Dalia had any affinity toward magic. Nala kept it at a safe distance for her own curiosity— though she found anything out of the norm interesting. Dalia on the other hand, could care less. So long as a mage didn’t threaten her or Nala’s safety she didn’t waste time or effort.

The objective was to get past the band of elves by any means necessary. Once Bernie armed them, and the elven commander taught her unknowingly from her hidden vantage point in the hedges, Dalia put her plan into motion.

First, she killed the beasts lurking around the outpost to give her retreat and egress. She skinned them all for Bernie and the Chamber. Then she systematically lured the pious elven priests out with visions of her pale skin in the moonlight. Perhaps they thought of her as a fallen mortal to the demonic realm or simply a lustful thing in the dark, whatever their reasons, they both fell to her dagger and she killed them both in cold blood away from their friends.

Next came the clever hunter, a wounded bear he couldn’t pass up was his undoing. He knelt to skin the hide and found himself set upon by a berserking Nordish woman. Dalia’s blade found his cheek and mouth first so he couldn’t scream out through the blood. He put up one daring effort. In the end, he died with too many dagger lacerations to overcome and joined the two looted and naked priests in a lava pit.

Lastly, came the warrior. He caught onto her plot a little too late and had to face Dalia one on one. Where was the mage you might ask? Off doing ‘research’? Off looking at the stars and forgetting anyone other than himself? Who knows, the warrior died alone like the others, because when you are alone, the world is more ruthless, pitiless, and unforgiving than any demon or ill-fates.

Still, you can fight like the warrior elf, you can go down looking at the clear crescent moon and think you did it all to the best your blood could pump. Your last breath, your last heartbeat can pound with defiance but if you're alone, if it’s quiet— too quiet, what does it matter or mean?

Nala didn’t want to know and let Dalia rule the day and maybe more. Dalia, free to roam unbridled, found every explorer’s stone outside Cadomyr that didn’t require more scouting and advanced planning, and only then did Nala awake in a dazed sweat beneath the burning sky. Bernie's arms, armor, and cloak had all endured the wages of war and battle: scrapes, cuts, burns, and an ache so deep Nala thought she might sleep a thousand years.

Then Asphy showed up and introduced herself at the Inn, a chance encounter after paying sailors with Dalia's plunder to take her home away from the heat and misery of Cadomyr. It felt nice, Asphy was kind unlike her foolish kin in the wilderness. She proved to be another curious soul Nala needed to know. Asphy was a thinker and a chronicler, distant at times— yes but she smiled and told stories and that was well enough for Nala.

To Nala’s surprise, Asphy’s visit didn’t go unaccompanied. Malchus wandered up and the world came right. He loitered and listened as intently to Asphy’s tales about drows as Nala did. It was a great night, filled full of drink and lore and firelight. Nala wanted more but her bones and eyes screamed for rest and she left Malchus again.

She left the man she never wanted to part from with only fumbled words and errant conversation. He deserved so much more, far less chaos and windswept interlude. Endless good intentions don’t bring goodness. Goodness is a shared warmth, innate and cozy- whatever Dalia brought to Nala’s life was anything but good.

[Malchus]

Malchus returned to the wilds, once more on the hunt for someone's hideout. He had left his signature dark plate armour at home in favour of light leathers and his trusty Serinjah boots, for he knew that a long track through the Northern Woods awaited him. Only this time he expected little resistance, unlike when he went there for a certain bandit's head.

On his way he came across a priest of Bragon by the name of Bathelor. He knew Malchus's target, at least he had seen them both before, when they had delivered him firewood. Just as he was about to approach and question the priest about any potential hideouts, Malchus changed his mind. The man of the cloth would surely suspect ill intentions from a profane man like Malchus, and thus lead him intentionally astray. But more importantly, Malchus wouldn't want others to know of his search. Like all his business, Malchus preferred to keep this hunt a secret. Thus the mercenary continued to wander eastwards, crushed the skulls of a few ratmen who foolishly got in his way, and crossed the Syrita Bay Canal. There, beyond the canal, lay the vast Northern Woods. These were the untamed borderlands of Illarion, one of its last corners yet untouched by civilization, a place where only wild beasts and savage orcs and trolls dwelt.

What kind of person would seek refuge in such a remote region, Malchus pondered. He smirked at the irony of his question -- after all, the former bandit was no stranger to calling hideouts in wayless wilderness home. Yet she, for whose hideout Malchus was searching, was much different from him: Not a rough, brutish thug, but a fair, young woman of delicate stature, graceful bearing, and outwardly friendly disposition and polite manners. Indeed, were she dressed in a silken or velvet dress, she would not appear out of place at a noble's court. Yet there was more to her, that Malchus could feel in his gut. Wearing leather armour was no more an inconvenience to her than wearing her bespoke, grey dress. Nor was she shy to sully her gentle hands with blood, slaying and skinning animals with as much precision and ease as she poured wine in cups. The warmth of her campfire was as inviting as her charming nature, her comely appearance as beguiling as her floral scent of night angels and flamegoblet blossoms. Yet the depths of her icy blue eyes harboured indiscernible secrets, and her aloof demeanour was akin to an opaque veil, much like snow which hides all beneath a smooth, soft, yet cold shroud of white. She had made a point of not talking much about herself, and her past was as much a mystery to Malchus as the circumstances of her arrival in Illarion, which, of course, made it all the more interesting. Simply put, Malchus was intrigued by this strange, unreadable woman.

The hideout which Malchus was looking for was in a grove, this was the only clue he had. But groves were a dime a dozen in a vast forest such as this. To search for it would be akin to searching for a needle in a haystack. Nevertheless, Malchus was resolute to find it; he had agreed to it, had accepted the challenge, and the mercenary was loath to break his word, or worse, admit defeat. With his heart steeled by resolve, Malchus entered the woods and kept his eye peeled for tracks. He knew what to look for; footprints of light fur boots, neither very deep nor large, considering their wearer's weight and size. But it was a futile endeavour. He didn't know how long it was since she had visited her grove, nor what route she would have taken. Indeed, Malchus noticed no fresh footprints whatsoever, for even huntsmen and herbalists rarely ventured that deep into the wilds.

Avoiding wolf packs, bear caves, and troll camps whenever he could, Malchus ventured deeper and deeper into the thick forest, a determined hunter guided by a single aim: to find his target. Hours passed and the sun began to set when finally, more by mere luck than anything else, Malchus stumbled upon a vacant campsite. Could this be it? It was a secluded corner, shielded from sight and wind by an impenetrably dense wall of fir trees, and furnished with a fire pit and thick furs to rest on; a perfect hideout. Only, it was not quite a grove. Exhausted from his track, Malchus slumped down on the fur, ready to set up camp and call it a day. He made himself comfortable, lying stretched out on the furs with his hands under his head, admiring the red evening sky, and musing about why he even had embarked on this journey. As much as he liked to think of it as just another "contract", a request he had agreed to as repayment of an accrued debt, it really wasn't. There was no reward promised, no coin to be gained. Thinking about it, it was all very silly, a playful challenge, like a juvenile game of hide-and-seek. There was something endearingly innocent about the whole affair, a feeling which the hardened sellsword hadn't felt since long. And yet, at the same time, he couldn't rid himself of the subtle feeling of guilt which haunted him, a feeling which was otherwise alien to him.

Lost in thought and the heavens above, Malchus returned to the here and now when he spotted a plume of smoke coming from behind the tree wall. He wasn't alone, someone else was camping dangerously close. But who? Could it be bandits, or even trolls or orcs? To go to sleep with unknown company right around the corner could be lethal, and so Malchus armed himself and moved under the cover of the trees to catch a glimpse of his neighbour. As Malchus crept closer, a smokestack came into sight, then a cottage nestled in a glade. This had to be it. Invisible and inaccessible from all but one side, could there be a safer grove to find refuge in?

Malchus was greeted, much to his relief, not by brigands or worse, but by a solitary man, who welcomed his weary visitor to the campfire by which he sat. He introduced himself as Raban, a hermit and keeper of this place, and although he shunned the world beyond his grove, he welcomed all who came in peace to be his guests. This hermit was no gossiper, Malchus soon learned, and so he spoke freely and asked Raban if he had hosted the woman which Malchus had come to know as Nala Thorhild. But Raban merely replied that names, be they Nala or any other, held no meaning to him and, due to his solitude, were prone to escape his mind with time. Even the offering of a precious gift helped not to refresh the hermit's memory, and he rebuffed Malchus's bribe, for he had abstained from bartering since long and had no use for coin or trinkets.

Nevertheless, Malchus was sure that this place had to be Nala's retreat. Having no more doubt in Raban's sincerity, who had proven to be as reticent and unbribable as his trees, Malchus asked for but one favour from his host: To direct Nala, should she come there, to the other shore of the crescent lake. There Malchus produced a letter from behind his cloak and unsheathed his dagger, revealing a gilded blade, and rammed its point firmly to the largest tree in sight, pinning the letter to its trunk. Should its recipient search there, the golden blade glistening in the sun was sure to catch her eye, Malchus figured.



((Sadly I can't just leave the letter there for you to pick up, since items despawn after some time, so I will hand it to you some time soon, if Nala would go there and find it.))

[Nala Thorhild]

If Malchus’ hunt had been delayed a day or Nala chose the Northern Woods over her trek through the Elstree Forest that morning, Nargun might’ve laughed himself drunk. With a twist of fate, poor Malchus could’ve found himself chasing a phantom as Nala’s footprints would’ve been all over the Northern Woods!

A seasoned tracker might’ve been alarmed at first before he or she joined in on the fun with the god of chaos. At some juncture, the hunter would have come across fresh tracks, they’d see the signs of a chase. Not a stalker, not a rogue slipping through the trees waiting patiently for their moment to advance, not the warrior standing his or her ground at regular intervals to dredge forward but someone being pursued by the territorial indwellers too varied to count gathered in packs racing toward the fleeing prize.

If the tracker were to follow, they’d eventually come to a clearing where the signs of a violent quarrel from feral beasts left their mark on the forest floor, underbrush, and nearby trees. Blood, swatches of ripped and mangled fur and hide, spider webs, discarded crude clubs; bows; and lesser arms, perhaps a shaman’s staff or two, dismembered limbs from trolls; ettins; wolves; and all the other known northern savages.

The spoils of victory and carnage would’ve been drug left and right out of sight, and if you dared to advance— the little traces of Nala would too. Perhaps if this was your daughter, sister, or wife, you’d press on, otherwise you’d be a madman. After all, who in their right mind would traverse the entire expanse of the Northern Woods?

Who would risk life or limb to try and outpace titanic spiders, blood thirsty hounds and wolves, and broods of forest trolls? Who would dive into a realm where death was more certain than living? No one who is sane, that’s for sure. A knowing eye, however, might denote the pattern- recognize the significance of the hallowed ground opening up to the heavens above. He or she might notice the blotted scars marring each clearing turned battlefield. Aye, one who knew the tells would see the empty divots scattered across the terrain as if a troll was playing whack a mole with his club.

As it were, in all likelihood, Malchus would not come across any clues from Nala unless he caught signs from the days old footpaths from similar tours or he happened across her new ones on his way out.

𓆩♡𓆪𓆩♡𓆪𓆩♡𓆪𓆩♡𓆪𓆩♡𓆪𓆩♡𓆪𓆩♡𓆪


Raban had his arms melded together when Nala approached his tended fire beneath the crescent moon. Despite the ruckus her journeys caused in the Northern Woods, the sanctuary surrounding them hushed the wood that never slept. Only the crackle of embers welcomed her nearer to the sacred grove’s hearth. She cut through the feigned pretense like an ice bolt shard, too worn to the bone for Raban’s errant wisdom.

“You’re not my father, I’m no burden to you old man.” Nala’s cut sounded more like guilt than a sharp bite.

The one eyebrow going up from beneath his malformed straw hat did nothing to warm her mood as she drew nigh to the hearth fixed with three hand carved stools. Tonight, each stool was made from a varied tree stump. Raban’s bore the bear arching up on his hind legs to steal a little sweetness from a beehive. Another depicted a family of rabbits in fine clothes and Nala’s favorite was two wolves sitting across from each other at a campfire. Silence paid her favor as she lorded over him, dropping a sack from her shoulder that sounded like a cache of seashells next to the wolf stool.

He sat knees agape in his dingy fur trousers, arms still folded together underneath his preferred bearskin cloak when the northern wind blew. As she continued to stand, he was forced to crane his neck up to take her in with his beady dark eyes tasting the flames before him. Unshaven, a budding beard staved off his deep wrinkles, save the crow’s feet ravines betraying his smile lines.

She sat and openly mocked him by knitting her own arms together atop the wolf stool. Nala let the silence and her expectant stare brood, choosing to cross her legs at the knee and hold them steady with interlaced fingers.

“Odd that northly wind should come up from the plains,” he said, taking up a stick to stoke the fire and steal his attention.

The old crone, in Nala’s eyes, preferred to say things and stare into the void than carry on a civil conversation. She had no patience for his dithering and kept to the point, knowing full well he had something to say. “Must we play games? The breeze here has always blown the same and that northern breeze you gripe about always comes from the plains.”

Unless he meant the Elstree Plains—

“Nay fair one from the sea, the elf wood stirs that steely breeze but you knew that while you forgot.” Raban quietly corrected her before she could amend her error.

Nala nodded but refused to cave into pleasantries wholeheartedly, pairing terse words with his preferred language called musing. “Fine, the breeze neither one of us can feel is odd. Did it ruin the patterns painted in the leaves?” She continued before he could reply, “I doubt enough to keep your disappointment with me at bay any longer, so let your precious leaves whisper that the wind might hear.”

Her little teases were always enough to bring the ole hermit around. He unfurled his arms and she knew, to the victor go the spoils. He’d unburden himself, not out of annoyance or submission, not out of some sense of duty or adoration either. A kindred wind had swept her into the grove and time did what it does best between them.

She’d spared him enough years staring and sharing words together into the dreaming aether. Tonight, he’d get to the point and she would pass out on one of the straw beds he kept for her.

“You like to will it so, like my eyes are drawn to fire, mhh?” He asked another question, giving her time for a reply that would never come. “Well, if you won’t indulge me, I can’t help but look up to the starlit sea at the serendipitous moon.” Raban lifted his waning hand and a finger toward the crescent moon. “On the morrow, you’ll find something near the crescent shoreline or so I have been told.”

Nala’s eyelids betrayed her as she tried to cover genuine surprise and released her conjoined hands, uncrossed her legs, and leaned forward into her reply. “Now, was that so hard? Look, you didn’t even keel over!” She spared a glance to the emblematic moon before her icy stare was right back on her companion with none of the sting left to spare. “Forgive me, I’m tired,” she finally admitted, though he knew good and well she relished their verbally playful spouts.

A tug at his lips and his hands fell to his knees, “think nothing of it little sea sprite, though I’d be remiss not to wonder aloud if the sea can reach the plains and nurture the fields?”

“Tend to your flame old man, I’m not your daughter.” This time, the northern wind wasn’t the only thing that bit at the ole hermit as she swept from the warmth and company with her sack of noisy treasures sounding her way to bed.


𓆩♡𓆪𓆩♡𓆪𓆩♡𓆪𓆩♡𓆪𓆩♡𓆪𓆩♡𓆪𓆩♡𓆪

The next day, Nala would rise earlier than the sun, bathe in the warm springs of the grove, ready herself for travel, eat her breakfast that she was always welcome to from the hermit’s larder- preserved sausages and potato bread- and leave enough silver to pay him back tenfold before he ever stopped snoring. By the time the sun rose over the crescent bay, she already had the gilded dagger and letter in hand. Malchus had taken the challenge and won, causing her chest to tighten. She found the shore for ample air that couldn’t fill her lungs properly. There she sat, staring out toward the burning sky. All the ice that had guarded her heart had thawed into an organ too alive and hot to reconcile. She dug her boots deep in the coarse sand as she wrapped her arms around her knees.

Malchus hadn’t chiseled at her heart alone, but it felt like he loosed a large piece. Beneath the sunder, she suddenly yearned for a little more night. The sun smothered her and the breeze no better. You can hope and dream all you like, what happens when you face them? What happens when you live them? No, better to temper your expectations, keep them safely at bay- least you burn like the skies above. Still, what a place to be, a time to live. She had a heartbeat once more, a feeling in her veins that came on strong with visceral. All the stories and rumors she’d heard were finally coming to life. Illarion was alive- full of striving capable somebodies, colliding and coalescing into time and effort well spent.

Better to gaze at the big picture, than the big somebody, she told herself.

[Nala Thorhild]

Ahead in the distance, a breeze whispered through the hollow, its touch yearning to caress the branches and budding leaves, but the mire had taken its toll. More trees were dead than alive, fewer still thriving. Yet, a tug pulled at her chest and mind. Amongst the dead and dying things and the muck, the allure of the sea could be snuffed out, along with the wildflowers, and sweet decaying scent of ripening apples. There in the lowlands, she could put distance between her and the enticement with an otherworldly draw threatening her willpower. The word ringing through her skull had hit like a javelin straight to the heart, and like its mark, she was powerless to the force or its undoing. Everywhere ached for escape and space, a moment to breathe and gather from the center.

Instead, she stood her ground, a survival instinct she’d never possessed until whoever she became from time to time since leaving The Quiet Wood demonstrated what shrewd ruthlessness and an indomitable spirit could achieve once freed from the chains of fear and desperation. Before that reckoning, melancholy was like an overnight frost, creeping in whenever it pleased or when life grew too stale or lonely, except the morning rays could never fully thaw her out. In fact, the frost ensnared her like a Gynknese Widow, until she became lost entirely in the bindings and a victim to a force without pity or shame. Creatures like the widow knew nothing of mercy or love, they dwelled in the black and deepest recesses for a reason- survival, safety, and to make a space where they might live on in the conspiring multitudes pouring forth from each new egg.

To live one must be willing to do all that is necessary. For some, a life well spent in the doldrums gives all the support one would ever need, but to those from the morass, well, the course often winds near the cliff’s edge. One slip and you might find the descent lasting a lifetime. Then again, if you catch the sliver of ardent light through the gorge ahead, it’s easy to wonder what may lie on the other side. She wanted to go toward the light, more than anything. Nala knew there would be warmth and adventure there, laughter and mirth too! She knew or could at least begin to imagine the endless possibilities, but the word had more risk than she was willing to entertain or consider in the moment.

In the face of unknown, racing thoughts, Nala resorted to an old mask, one with an inscrutable design and comfort. Where once it concealed angst, misery, and loneliness; she now hid foreign emotions and a nervousness teasing at the surface of her cheeks. Her head lolled, feigning shyness and quiet awkwardness with both arms loosely hanging in front of her and one hand folded over the other. The silence that followed felt nice as one of her fur boots sifted through the low-lying grass.

How could one word change everything? The signs were all there, bit by bit and day by day. A word here, a stolen glance there, perhaps a whisper, and certainly the unspoken magic innately working and woven into our bodies. We gravitate toward this person or that, meet strangers repeatedly in the oddest places. Most think nothing of it, ponder a little deeper and you might discover or get a sense of a kindred ethos destined to bring us together and share in something unwritten but well-learned.

Whatever was transpiring, Nala wouldn’t have changed a single detail. She’d never felt stronger or more attuned to her sense of destiny. Once, a cold steely ice afflicted her, made her mourn a life she couldn’t find; now, she could take that ice and shield herself from the odd wind trying to cut deeply into her marrow. He took her silence as compliance as she stood right before him- shaded by a sickly naldor tree- perhaps inclined to think they now shared in a secret game together. He was wrong. We all have a void in us, some require or are tempted to have more than one to fill it, Nala did not. Her heart, however vulnerable and callous, could and would not concede to being shared. As she walked away from the Galmair Harbor that day, she could neither blame nor change circumstances. The hurt was real, it stung in the eyes and down her cheeks.

For now, that’s all she’d let it be, a hurt, not a festering wound or the javelin she’d initially endured. Somewhere, down deep where the god of Blood and Bone must tempt, she resolved herself not to coalesce near envy, lust, or obsession. Such temptations weren’t proper amongst the snow white bunnies, open seas and sky, anyway. No, she had promised herself, she only needed a sliver of that great, enjoyable man- she again, reminded herself, the other things were not hers to hold or own. If she had to wait, so be it. If she had to do a better job guarding herself and her heart- well- that just wasn’t in her Nordish nature. Live by the sword, die by the sword. Live in love or die trying, but being the Other Woman would never be her fate.

Discretion be damned.

((https://youtu.be/W7nmB20qJv4?si=NtxetKZIGJJFJ5Xb))

[Nala Thorhild]

She found herself near Cadomyr again. This time, she sat with her fur boots dangling over the edge of a suspended rope bridge in the middle of the Kantabi Desert. She’d been told slavery had been outlawed in the lands, but the stilted stone dwellings and slatted platforms interconnected by the swinging planked bridgeworks, still stood as a vestige defying a callous past. Starlight drenched her as she closed her eyes and arched back on her palms. The bridge breathed and moaned, helping lull her into deeper thoughts.

Helpless— powerless— souls confined and shackled, their faces blurred, races and creeds varied. The sound of unyielding metal mixed into a throng of fervid voices overlapping one another. Blood and filth ablaze in the dizzying arid oven turned bile over in her stomach. When the crying and wailing started, she knew a mother or a father lost a child or the orcs acquired a sacrifice. Cherga’s forlorn children were all around her, whether they meant to our not, certain duress leaves behind an incorporeal impression. At its worst a malign spirit, other times, it’s the memories we find in places too quiet or in ruin.

A tear should have fallen, many if her heart hadn’t found ways to petrify where it was most vulnerable. Dalia hated this side of Nala, the pensive, thoughtful girl wondering and worrying about things beyond the present and their control. Nala was a dreamer and a traveler, seeing and looking into the world between worlds and words. Not everyone pays mind toward a traveler, some are too erratic or wayward in their thoughts— vagabonds and minstrels, riff-raff or too unpredictable.

Dalia, on the other hand, craved predictability and order, driven by an unrelenting impulse to make sense of her surroundings. She was cold and calculated, decisive and cutthroat, her spine forged from steel. Long ago, they’d both needed her concealed stiletto, her ruthless resolve, and her scheming and machinations. They’d ensured survival and above that, freedom. Dalia had bought time and wormed her way into the light with bloodshed and deceit. Nala had retreated an inch and Dalia took a mile.

When Nala wasn’t following her routines or ensuring their livelihood, Dalia was out roaming and making her own plans— unknown to Nala. Each episode ended with Nala somewhere in the vicinity of Cadomyr. Tonight she awoke at an abandoned slave market, the time before; a great works site surrounded in chiseled stone. What would tomorrow bring?

Nala should’ve been terrified of losing autonomy, but even she had to admit, Dalia deserved time to live and express herself. Without the savage inside her, she knew she could’ve been one of the deplorables in chains or some wraith in the dunes. For now, there’d be no feud between them as Nala lived her life and Dalia chose hers.

As was meant, life carries on with or without our sanity.

[Nala Thorhild]

The silvered dagger in her hand and lap bore the weight and signs that it had been used to carve the name Dalia into the palm tree now shading her from the waking sun. In her other hand, a piece of parchment bearing the Cadomyr census seal spilled onto the sand along with her white linen dress as she sat with her knees and legs curled underneath herself. Nala Thorhild was signed in jet-black ink- in her airy wispy handwriting- swearing allegiance to the crown.

It felt like her pounding heart painted the beach and sea sanguine, whilst her limbs were being pulled by the tide. She could wade out and be lost before the sunrise crested the horizon. She could be forgotten before they could call her a traitor. Galmair only needed gold to release her name when she’d inadvertently got caught up on the docks at Troll’s Haven, mistakenly corralled with a band of refugees headed to Galmair on a labor contract.

None of her closest companions knew of that embarrassing fiasco. She simply broke one of the hired hand’s noses as the labor party was ushered into the city, escaped through the underground she’d already memorized, navigated her way back up to the frenzied kitchens, and waited for her name to appear on the registry at the census office. A routine bribe and Nala bought her freedom again— no hard feelings, no brouhaha! No wonder everyone flocked to Galmair, you could get lost as easily as you could get found, and if fate dealt you a bad hand, enough hard work would land you back on your feet. Then there was always gold, the great counterpoise to grease any skid.

But what of Cadomyr? To leave would be like breaking a blood bond, an oath to the ancient ones. A saying old as time, your word is your bond her father would say. Coin, exchangeable; contracts, voidable; knowledge, transferable but your word was a mirror to your soul. To give it in Cadomyr went beyond the paper, it bled into the sand, seeped into the crypts warding over their legacy and children’s inheritance.

A different kind of weight and power accompanied ancient beliefs and ceremony, nearer to faith than magic or conceivably both. In an age kissed by chaos and blessed with opportunity, fists full of sand could scatter the reasons to forget and move on from primitive roots. Fortunes and minds change after all, who could blame another wandering soul in the cauldron for searching or loitering? They all made life worthwhile, each an ingredient to help produce something of consequence.

Nala had been careful not to give her word without recourse. Meanwhile, Dalia was a different kind of careful, using Nala’s weaknesses; strengths; and desires toward a calculated end. As before Illarion, there came a time when Nala couldn’t defend herself, and Daila stepped in— using it to her advantage to make them strong and capable. She let Nala make friends and indulge in her artful fancies.

All the while, she listened and gleaned information and feelings. Oh, the sweet little bleeding heart. She worried for so many but no one more than Sir S’rrt K’Shire. Since their first meeting, the burden he shouldered reminded her of Quiet Wood. Souls reflect far better than mirrors and paintings, even through the scales Nala was able to see traces of her own suffering.

One brick, two brick, the words between Katharina’s public retirement further laid Dalia’s foundation. Then to find out a housemaid could become a countess in Cadomyr, cemented a covetous claim. She’d already been learning their history and customs, but to hear the glass ceiling break, set her plan a flight.

The true irony lies in the duality: one half races toward an ambitious future, while the other sees a crevice where a hearthstone should beat. The latter sees Gwen, Sir S’rrt, and the other Letma worn denizens raising toasts in the tavern; roasting hogs before Malachin’s great hall; and lounging with wine or tea upon the blessed, lush fields of Sirani’s paradise without fear of otherworldly influences.

On that brilliant morning, they shared this moment and their thoughts together without a clue if it all could come to bear. Not really the point for dreamers and schemers, cause is in the action and carried on by fortitude. At least it was nice to know who she became from time to time, even if she was a dastardly, conniving wench! Nala could’ve sworn she heard an echoing laugh in her head before it was cut short—

A shared thought surfaced as the desert heat crept up and into their bones in the chosen location. The one factor that could change everything— Malchus. Nala laughed softly by herself when left alone to deal with that feeling.

“Don’t worry Dalia, I have everything we need to reward him,” she whispered to herself.

[Nala Thorhild]

If Nala’s laugh favored a lark at times, Gwen was the living embodiment of one—a melody of untamed joy. On the second market day of Naras, the pair filled the Hemp Necktie Inn’s grounds with unfettered laughter and pleasant conversation, though rumors might spread about a man named Alen in the days to come. Gwen’s energy bubbled like a sweet, sticky substance warming in a kettle, each pop a new thought, a rogue whim—or, whilst simmering, remarkably deep and nuanced. She filled span and breadth with the fire in her soul and quips at the ready, ranging from playful to impressively brazen.

Everyone needs a Gwen, a little songbird enraptured by the present, free to dart about and sing a new tune here or there. Her way of thinking struck like flint and steel, spark after spark burning like the sunlit autumn reds melded into her maroon locks. Minds like hers were rare, even amongst the mages Nala had met. No sooner had your words escaped your lips than her reply fired back, or she put you to some kind of test you were doomed to fail. Fortunately, no matter your answer, you’d be rewarded with a giggle, her infectious laugh, and her oft-marked habit of pressing one hand upon her hip.

Paint it and frame it, Nala thought—a spring day stolen from winter, Findari’s breeze smoldering with the colors of fall, tumbling from the little sprite standing there, full of cheek and wit. No matter where their lives might lead, Zhambra had to keep them together. Nala couldn’t allow herself to think of any alternative. As the gods cared for birds and meek woodland critters, Gwen had managed to survive along with them for two blood months—all on her own! Fortune favors, Nala supposed, but she also knew that a single misstep or twist of fate could send one into the shrouds of Cherga’s shawl.

Nala would do all in her power to keep Gwen safe, which made Sir S’rrt’s arrival quite fortuitous when Gwen and Nala’s chirping lingered into the evening near the onion ball field at the Inn. If Gwen was Nala’s lark, then Sir S’rrt had to be akin to a dragon—scales notwithstanding. He carried himself with the quiet weight of something vast yet contained, like a storm curled within a still sky. His wisdom ran deep; he carefully sought to see through the illusions people wove around themselves. Unlike many knights, his confidence and authority manifested as an aura rather than high-handedness. Yet time and shared stories suggested more: the quiet rustle of power kept in check, a beast slumbering beneath his finery, amid cloisters of magical gems and dormant weapons.

One could only imagine the horrors and losses the knight had endured to remain vigilant and faithful to the causes he championed openly and in earnest. How hot could his flames burn? Nala knew the lengths he would go to just by the silence and look he’d given her one night. How far could he push and take her if she fought alongside him? These were the questions that ran through her mind as Gwen left them to rest and his full attention fell on her. Between them, even from their first meeting, conversations always descended into serious matters. Nala never minded—a captivating distraction from her own tumultuous past and ceaseless musings.

Tonight, he checked on her well-being and the goings-on in Cadomyr. Much like the fabled winged beast, Nala couldn’t have predicted his reaction when she mentioned an unimaginable task she’d been given by a wounded Cadomyrian crusader. The writ, wedged in her personal journal, gave sanction and command to slay an abomination of blood magic defying moral and divine order. A call to arms, a day or two to plan, perhaps a messenger sent to another member of the Knight Court—but not a we’ll take care of this right now attitude. Nala had been clear: she told him a tainted and corrupted elder night dragon lurked in the Salavesh-guarded lair. He simply asked if she was ready, and when she didn’t back down, he got up. As if he were going to check the sentry posts, every movement looked and felt trained, honed to the point that it was all second nature—uncannily casual. Like any worthy commander, he shared only acute information—boiled down to what would keep her alive and accomplish the mission.

Although Nala had never been part of a war clan or shield wall, she’d read enough books and lived alongside enough men-at-arms to know her place and fall in line. Once he confirmed her readiness, they marched, with him in the lead and her in tow at his flank. The trek from the Inn to the mountain hideout where the occult concealed themselves would live on in Nala’s memories and dreams. She’d taken order after order to secure this moment—using everything she’d ever learned to succeed and survive. Whether the wounded crusader ever spread word about her deeds and service remained to be seen, but she had always raced to the next mission to avoid overthinking the deadly undertakings and unspeakable atrocities committed by the cultists. Dalia handled situations this way to keep Nala’s anxiety at bay—strike hard and fast once enough scouting and probing had been done.

That night, you could’ve cut the thick uneasiness in the air with a knife. Claws on stone, armor rustling, the idle undulation of the hushed shoreline, the dull thud of her own fur boots underfoot, and the stir of predatory raptors in the distance culminated in the sounds of their auspicious battle march. When they reached the cave opening beneath the mountain, Sir S’rrt gave his final words of advice, which went largely unheard over the pounding in Nala’s chest and ears.

She’d fought her way through the narrow pass several times now, but this time, a message and an example had to be made of these godless evildoers. Defying the gods could and would not be tolerated. Still, despite the blessed cause, every possible pitfall nagged at the back of her mind and rotted in her stomach. The knight advanced, his shield arm at the ready, the lick of enchanted flames from his ornate dagger illuminating them both and a little ways ahead. Bones rattled and creaked from the dark orifice, accompanied by the shuffle of loose rocks and lingering echoes. With the ease and confidence of passing Horatio, Sir S’rrt entered the cave, facing a blood-curdling scourge bearing down on him. Though it smoldered and flickered like flames, the energy crackling and holding the skeletal figure together had no earthly likeness. The unworldly fiend they called a demon skeleton defied natural order and reason: charred bones burned scarlet, cleansed of all flesh, jittering from the intensity of the demonic sorcery sustaining it.

What infernal power could tear the mortal fabric and rouse all-consuming hate into a carnal husk bent on destruction? It looked like a war between worlds as the magic radiating from the demon skeleton faltered and fluctuated. The air reeked of blood and decay. Had this been Nala’s first encounter, she might’ve lost her stomach, but she had been hardened. Dalia had exposed her, bit by bit, to endure life’s atrocities—not as isolated halves, but together as a whole. Nala could've sworn she heard echoing screams emitting from the grotesque animated threat—or was it only in her head?

A jagged, blackened flamberge scraped along the cave rubble as the skeleton advanced on Sir S’rrt. As it neared, its arm and torso twisted, hoisting the massive weapon into a wide, arcing swing aimed at the knight. Mid-motion, runes on the blade flared to life with the same otherworldly scarlet hues and sickly blood-red flames. Higher the blade rose into a two-handed grip, accelerating the speed and force of its downward slash. The battle should’ve tested their resolve, made them question their gods’ providence and strength. Instead, the knight feinted, sidestepped, and raised his shield at the exact moment and angle to deflect the skeleton’s blade, sending it veering off course and slamming into the cave wall. The resounding crack and eruption of magic and force behind Sir S’rrt’s counterattack burst into the foe’s rib cage and spine.

Bone splintered, exploding into chunks at the combined ferocity of Sir S’rrt’s prowess and the awakening of his weapon’s latent magic. One blow, and it was clear: one magic, one will, was bound to triumph over the other. Like the rush of a healing potion, confidence surged through Nala, propelling her attack. They were the aggressors, the righteous upholders of order and balance, the counterweight to blasphemers who chose discord over harmony, destruction over creation, death over life. Dalia let Nala’s virtue fuel their racing steps, marveling as Nala’s shield collided with the skeleton’s left knee—roaring with her as they struck the fiend’s back with righteous fury.

Their rapier pierced pockets of energy pulsing along the fiend’s spine while Sir S’rrt hammered powerful, bone-shattering blows until nothing remained but a heap of defused bones and fragments. One down, and anything in their path followed suit. The knight marched, and Nala obeyed silently, flanking his targets as soon as he engaged them. On and on they went, carving a direct path to the inner chambers of Salavesh, until they arrived at a marked stone gateway. Runes, eerily similar to those on the flamberge, burned white-hot across the arch’s expanse. In the center, the same unnatural magic that had sustained the demon skeleton burned before her. She had encountered similar portals in her travels, but never this close.

More unnatural, twisted flames coiled into a roaring vortex—hungry, hollow, burning without warmth. If she lingered too long, she had no doubt the portal would pull her in, willing or not. Were those screams again? The echoes sent a chill through her, but Sir S’rrt’s steady voice anchored her to the present. The night dragon awaited them on the other side, he said. How could anyone step into that? How many of Cadomyr’s aspiring knights and heroes had stood where she now stood? In spite of all her efforts, she found herself once again at the mercy of magic—or at risk of looking like a coward. The latter was not an option. Steeling herself, Nala turned to Sir S’rrt. “You first,” she said.

When she followed, nothing could have prepared her for facing a dragon. Nothing.

Not fire, but a roar—one that carried no heat, only the unholy chill of nightshade-tinged flames, writhing and seeking trespassers. Nala braced herself behind her shield, waiting for the day when magic would no longer make her head spin. That day had yet to come. The once-enigmatic dark titan loomed before her, a corrupted monstrosity towering at least two stories tall. Its obsidian scales, once pristine, were now marred, pulsing with searing veins of blood magic, glowing like molten cracks in ancient stone. It reared, coiling its massive body, and with a sickening crunch, its bludgeoned tail slammed into the ground, splitting stone and sending tremors through Nala’s inert legs.

Sir S’rrt had already charged into the fray, a blur of steel and precision before the behemoth, his fiery dagger muted amid blood-soaked shadows. The dragon’s maw gaped, tendrils of burning ichor dripping from its fangs, each breath fueling the corrupted, ghastly mist. Nala forced herself to move, to act—hesitation meant certain death. With a tight grip on her rapier, she lunged, aiming for the vulnerable gaps between its corrupted armor, praying that steel and resolve would be enough against the writhing nightmare before her.

To her surprise, the battlefield was a confined, squared sanctum—an unexpected advantage. The space was so narrow that the dragon could barely turn without its tail or snout scraping the walls. At its heart loomed a dark obelisk, wreathed in infernal flames that clawed toward an endless void, its surface etched with emblazoned runes. The way the dragon guarded the corrupted monolith left little doubt—this was the source of its enslavement, the tether binding it in servitude. Whether it was their overwhelming onslaught, a waning soul seeking release, or a violent mixture of both, the fight was short-lived. They evaded its lethal arsenal, striking true to sever and gouge out the blood-forged bonds. At last, with graceless exhaustion, the once-hallowed beast slumped. From Sir S’rrt’s fatal blow, a hiss of shadowy, blood-spored vapors coalesced and rose into the void.

Did Cherga’s gates open to dragonkind, or could their souls only find eternal rest with Bragon? The deed was done. As she sank to a knee, she dimly registered movement—Sir S’rrt exploring the chamber—but her thoughts dwelled on the felled dragon. Its tail and oddly bent wings enveloped her in a familiar dark paradise. She had done so much, come so far, yet Quiet Wood still felt half a step away. The line between love and despair was as close as night and day. One always stood ready to overtake the other when least expected. For so long, it felt like day would never come. Darkness had held and pinned her, robbed her of people, of shared thoughts.

She had been a slave, cornered by a world where deviants could choke you out, take your pride, siphon your light—pull you down, drown you into oblivion. No more. Her light was good, free to share and hold with tenderness and care. There were good people, fine people—lovely, imperfect somebodies to share joy and victory with in this world. She was not alone, and neither were they. Today, Sir S’rrt had helped her find victory. Tomorrow, perhaps, she could help another. And one day—some long time from now—no matter the strife, Nala and Dalia Thorhild could help Sir S’rrt K’Shire, Elderknight and former lord of Cadomyr, claim his victory for whatever dawn of paradise he sought.

“Long live Cadomyr,” she whispered before another corrupted night dragon descended from the void, sending shockwaves through the sanctum. Dalia must’ve taken over—everything after that became a blur. Through the looking glass, Nala knew she still had a long way to go, many parts to play—many people to help and save, if need be.

[Nala Thorhild]

How could he not love her? Of course, he loved her. Nala didn’t need to know their history—love had no formula, no obligation to reason or fairness. It simply was. Some pieces fit together effortlessly. Others might connect, but the right one completed the soul entirely—if you were lucky, if you were blessed. When enough pieces come together, you could be whole.

But for a woman like Nala, even if you counted the stars in the sky, there weren’t enough pieces to fit her back together.

And now, as she collapsed to her knees, then onto her side, her own pieces scattered—farther than the heavens, beyond anyone’s reach. This was not Quiet Wood, her morose paradise, where she could drift away like a whisper on the wind. This was something else. This pain—however self-inflicted—reached into a place she had never known before. Agony hammered at her senses: the scent of him still lingering, the touch of his gifted charm pressed against her heart, the echo of his fading footsteps, the taste of salt on her lips, the void swallowing her behind closed eyes.

A familiar chorus screamed inside her mind. Panic surged, but even at their full force, it couldn’t eclipse the hurt. Just as joy can carry sorrow, heartbreak can carry bitterness. And bitterness—if left unchecked—burrows deep, festering, taking root.

“I wish the ground would swallow me whole.”

She had heard it said before. But Nala knew where such voices led—downward, into despair, into the place where there is nothing but grief and struggle, where you weep and gnash and lose all hope. She knew. And so, instinctively, she let her sorrow wash over her, let the tears purge the demons clawing at the edges of her mind and soul.

Even with her eyes shut tight, she sensed a presence within—ironically near and dear to her heart—someone who had once prayed to The Gray Lady on her behalf. On this fated month of her choosing, she had severed a part of herself—a kindred spirit—for the sake of friendship and honor. She had sacrificed a longing close enough to touch but never to claim, near enough to hold but never to possess. And in that act, she and her interlude had unraveled.

Perhaps, for the death of self, The Gray Lady would grant her mercy—weep with her, shield her from the darker hands looming.

Some time later, Raban would come. He would find her. He would build a fire and cover her in furs, untouched by the scent and weight of a somebody now torn from her beating, bleeding heart. There, she would lie in anguish day after day, abandoning the outside world.

A lost rider from The Plains had found a quiet girl: coaxed and thrilled her, sustained her, then stirred a storm threatening to consume her.

“The quiet before the storm lost— by a storm he made.”

[Nala Thorhild]

Mind, body, and soul—having all three shredded within a week drew a dry, sardonic laugh from Nala’s lips. The involuntary act sent pain lancing through her side, forcing her to slump to the right. Without the potent healing poultice surging through her veins, knitting her wounds back together, she would have needed Amelia’s immediate aid to keep death—and Cherga’s gates—at bay.

Zhambra’s mighty marble pedestal, once pristine, was now streaked with her scarlet blood as she sank lower. The pain dulled into numbness, yet the pressure and sickly ache of countless lacerations still pulsed beneath her skin.

Before a single wand or sword was drawn, Nala became Mas’ first victim. Despite her prayers and struggles, an unseen force penetrated her mind. When she refused to act out its heinous deeds, it carved her up with magic—or worse—and unleashed chaos upon Cadomyr. Bloodthirsty demon spawn emerged from the shadows, their four-legged forms terrorizing the city. Nala had cried out to protect the humble citizens still gathered in the square. Even now, their blood-curdling screams rang in her ears.

How many had died? Was her mental ineptness the cause of so much harm and destruction?

Years to find a reason to leave her quiet place. Months spent pushing herself to the brink—learning to survive, to excel. Had it been worth it?
Was it worth sitting in a pool of her own blood? Was it worth having people question her faith and sanity? Was a single blessed season of levity and mirth worth the burden and misery of blood and bone?

She had no answers. Her friends would fight on while she closed her eyes for a moment. Maybe she wasn’t as strong as she thought. Maybe this was the end. If so, death didn’t hurt as much as she had imagined. It felt more like exhaustion—like a long rest within reach. Nala’s eyes closed on the second long night of Mas, uncertain if she was dying or merely drifting into sleep.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

On the fifth night, Nala woke, still fully armored, in the Seaside Inn of Cadomyr. Had it all been a dream? As she rose and pushed the linen blankets back, she couldn’t remember how she got there. But that mattered little. She tore off her gloves, searching for the claw marks—and found nothing. Her face, her body, all were healed. What fortune was this? Whether it was Sirani’s blessing or not, Nala thanked her and vowed to tithe thrice-fold to her beloved patron in Elos.

She had lived to fight another day. Tears edged at her cheeks as she rushed from the room. She would see Amelia again, Sir S’rrt, Inara, Mirai, Lady Clairette, Master Nalcy, and even Malchus—as much as every look from him felt like a thousand needles. As much as her heart screamed in agony every time he entered a room. As much as she tried to smother it with venom and distance.

For now, perhaps forever, she could not be close to him. He had chosen to be a hired hand for Mas, and Sir S’rrt and Lady Inara had made him integral to their command. He didn’t deserve her cold words or averted gaze. He had only ever treated her with respect. In his heart, he had found a kindred spirit, a woman worth gravitating toward. Yet, Nala—not Dalia—couldn’t keep the bite from her words or the malice from her actions. The hurt was too raw, like salt on an open wound, like misery upon plight.She didn’t know how to act, how to breathe in his presence. If it drove him away, if it made him hate her—so be it. All was fair in the battle for one’s own sanity as much as love and war.

Apparently, demons thought similarly. No sooner had Nala joined Horatio at his post than the voice in her head returned. It commanded her to open Cadomyr’s gates, to harm a lizardman named Chirch, to defy orders—to become a beast herself. Again, she refused. Again, the beast stirred within her.

Nala braced for the pain, for the claws—but this time, she was not alone. Amelia knelt before her, praying. They wept together, bound by faith and love. When the claws emerged, they came for Amelia. Nala held her tight, whispering through tears, praying aloud for the first time in her life. Together, they resisted. Together, they defied the darkness. Though Amelia fainted, the claw marks upon her hands and shoulders were tenable.

The enemy had failed to break them.

Then, the true assault began.

Red portals split the night, cutting across Cadomyr’s southern walls. Chaos consumed the city as Sir S’rrt struggled to hold the lines. Nala watched in horror as Lady Clairette rushed to the eastern tower alone. Malchus was sent after her. Corrupted night dragons, blood cultists, Letma—this was something worse. A new horror born of insidious magic.

When an explosion erupted from the eastern tower, Malchus was flung through reinforced doors. Nala’s heart clenched as he responded with a quip. She hated that about him. She loved that about him. Always making light of trying times. She knew in her heart, he'd die with that stupid, infectious smirk on his chiseled face one day!

Then the flames came. Crimson tendrils lashed at the sky, writhing like living things. Magic clashed—Findari’s wrath met the abyssal force, lightning searing the night. The city held its breath. If the walls fell, if a single breach was made, Cadomyr would drown in blood.

But the walls held.

Hope flickered in Nala’s chest—until she saw Sir S’rrt hurled from the eastern tower, landing with a sickening crunch. She rushed to him, ignoring the insubordinate Chirch, plowing right through and past him. Malchus and she carried their Elderknight to safety as the battle dissolved into retreat. The Queen’s keep was sealed.

The city abandoned, by Her command.

They had held the line. They held it until they couldn’t.

Back in Galmair, Nala ensured Lady Inara’s wounds were given attention. But with the promise of the first dawn looming, she walked out. Alone. She would return to Cadomyr. She would do all within her power to help reclaim what was lost.

Through the harbor she went, feeling the pull of the sea—yet the call of the land was louder. Sand kicked up beneath her boots. Her spear gleamed as the blood red moon held on desperately.

She scouted. She fought. She bared her teeth at the beasts that lurked in the dunes. When Malchus, Aswe, and Beerus found her, they fought together. And then they heard it—a call from the city.

Someone was still fighting.

With renewed vigor, they pushed forward. And there, beneath one of the stalwart columns near the drawbridge, they found him.

Sir S’rrt fought his way back.

The defenders of Cadomyr had not perished. The city had not been lost. The darkness had come, but they had survived. And by sheer will, by the grace of the gods, they took back their home.

The fight to survive Mas was finally over and hope remained.

Beneath a sky of crimson fire,
Where demons rose with fell desire,
A city stood, its fate unsure,
Yet hearts of steel would still endure.

The walls did burn, our voices screamed,
Through blood and dust, the banners gleamed.
The gods looked down, their blessings cast,
And light held firm against the past.

Though shadow sought to claim this land,
They stood as one— might in hand.
By dawn’s embrace, hope took back its throne,
And in Cadomyr, we are still our own

[Nala Thorhild]

“How are your dreams?” Yridia’s casual question crept into their conversation like unseen roots. There was always something deeper with her—an unspoken weight born from experience, from her quiet concern for all living things.

Perception is everyone’s reality. Nala never warred with her intuition, and Yridia had a way of making her feel the world differently. In a way that reminded her how much she didn’t know, how much she hadn’t seen or lived enough to grasp the exceedingly, overwhelmingly complicated nuances.

How can you meet a person and be willing to bare your private self? What force compels one soul to trust another? What power exists in some but not others? Nala’s head swam with questions, most irrelevant compared to the simple truth of her reply.

“I don’t really dream.”

Reality and quiet rumination were enough to exhaust her each day. By the time her head hit the pillow, she had nothing left—no anxious speculation, no teasing lucidity, no nightmares clawing at her mind. No, when sleep took her, it carried her to Tanora’s unreachable depths. Peace for hours, rarely remembered.

Gods be. Whether it was Nargun, her matron’s unwavering love, or some force unfamiliar, the spell of sleep cast the world away. Each night, her body was renewed—her spirit revitalized.

Poets and writers chase the term indomitable spirit, as if it’s a muse they can capture. But faith is not a thing to be questioned when you truly have it. It is a spear when it must be, a rose when it doesn’t.

Perhaps that was why Jefferson Gray sought to kill Yridia.

Pathetic.

The word burned at the edges of her mind for any soul who shunned the gods of harmony and diversity. Corrupt and take, deceive and lust, scrap and claw. But they would never know love. Evil would never know peace, not until whatever they coveted most was relinquished—or ripped from their cold, dead nothingness.

Nala knew the depravity of mortals better than most. But since coming to Illarion, she had sensed something deeper. A darkness beyond the icy chill that lulled men into despair. This was something older. Ancient hatred, whispered in legends and buried in dust-laden tomes.

You don’t come to terms with hate this primordial. You are either devoured by it—or you endure.

Without Dalia’s interference, Nala would have been among the devoured. Instead, she broke. The world had no place for her tender heart. It had tried to own and subdue her, to mold her into Norodaj—harsh as the wind, piercing as her glacier eyes.

But she had only ever desired love.

To love and be loved, isn’t asking for the world.

Or is it?

When Yridia left, the weight returned. Ungrounded once more, she wandered. She had no love of her own, but she cared for many. And among those she called friends, there was goodness. There was kindness. The was a full life.

Keep the faith she told herself.

[Nala Thorhild]

Jefferson Gray had returned.

So much had happened since the day Yridia told her harrowing tale of the fiend—since the rumors started about the man returning, who defied death and became something else entirely.

Life moves on—faster than we think. Blink, and weeks are gone. Did you do anything of consequence? Did you take the next step?

Life doesn’t turn like a waterwheel, circling endlessly. It moves in currents—ebbing, flowing—taking us here and there, and if we’re lucky… back again.

It’s in that return where meaning lives: the once-in-a-lifetime people who smile when they see you, laugh with you, cry with you—stay with you.

And if they stay, you’re not alone.

In Illarion, it’s not fate or gods that draw us back—it’s them. The ones who matter.

Not even destiny holds that power. We are eternal, our souls stitched from the same fiber as mortals-turned-gods.

Not that we should seek to ascend—necessity begets providence—but we do matter. To each other, and to whatever watches from above. It just takes time to see.

Nala Thorhild lived a full and purposeful life, having settled in Cadomyr.

Then she died—cut down by a savage named Arnold.

He took what he wanted with strength and cruelty. He wouldn’t be challenged.

He had the advantage, and he seized it. His axe rose high, each blow laced with instinct and violence, the product of a life spent clawing for dominance.

That’s the nature of wild things—of men too hungry not to gorge, too possessive not to own.

Nala had known it all her life: give a pinky, they’ll take an arm.

Still, she stood her ground.

She died defending her friends, daring the savage to take a fist before an arm.

But it wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t smart.

It wasn’t right—not for those she tried to protect.

She should have seen the signs. Even bare-chested, he wore leather where she had cloth.

His cleaver came down like a portcullis—sharp, final, unstoppable.

Pain—more than she’d ever known—ripped through her shield, into her shoulder.

And just like that, Nala learned how fast a life ends.

After that?

She fell and fell, and kept falling.

Eventually, it felt like breaking through a surface—like sinking into Tanora’s depths.

But it wasn’t peaceful. She plummeted through chaos, through a storm of grief and confusion so thick she couldn’t sort thought from feeling.

Every lost soul screamed through the void.

Every struggle echoed in her bones.

Nala feared it would never end. No peace. No mercy. No life after death.

Then—she heard voices.

Faint at first, but sweeter than the noise.

She clung to them like breath.

And then… she came back.

Discarded. Like trash. Like a child’s mangled doll—torn and tossed aside.

Not mended.

Not ready.

Not dead.

Nala returned—by Cherga’s mercy perhaps, or by the Bonelord’s thirst for more blood.

What followed was agony—and grace.

Nala died. Returned. And lived.

And when she saw those faces—one by one—she knew.

These were the voices she’d heard.

Calling her back. Holding her here.

For her, at least this time, it had mattered.

Day by day, they returned. Some more often than others. That’s life.

But seeing Gwen’s face. S’rrt. Elefar. Margret. Malchus. Aswe. Mirai. Winrich. Even Katharina, in a chance meeting…

That made all the difference.

That made it worth it.

That made life worthy.

And yet, one question lingered—keeping Nala awake at night as she stared across the moonlit beach near the Cadomyr inn:

Are we worthy?

In this age, in this hour, are there still enough god-fearing souls to end Jefferson Gray’s ambitions—once and for all?

Are we worthy of peace?

Will we stand united against tyranny—or fracture into chaos and mistrust?

No one could do this alone. No lone hero could wield victory like a bludgeon.

It must be together—or never to be.

The gods have given us an edge in this battle—a moment of advantage in the war between order and oblivion, between harmony and hunger.

But we must not let the enemy fester.

We must not let it grow.

Now is the time.

Now, our faith must be unwavering. Our resolve, merciless.

Now, we become the instrument of the gods’ wrath.

And when we strike Jefferson Gray down, lich or not, we will rattle the dark-boned pillars beneath Letma.

We will split the earth wide open to the bowels of deliverance, and cast him down, down, down—where the weeping and gnashing of every soul he ever harmed will tear at him for eternity.

Let him echo his return from beyond the veil—let him wait for another age.

But not this one.

Not in an age where unity is still possible.