This one...I don’t remember this one. Is it fate, or perhaps did I experience a bleed-through? I don’t know about the logic of this system–I’m learning as I go along. It is the only thing I can do given my current condition.

  It’s my face sure enough, and I’m running for my life—the wind blowing through my hair as the scenery blurs behind me. The walls high around me—this labyrinth...I think I’m remembering this one now. This is before the gunshot happened. I think...this was where I died. This is troubling. I’m going to set this piece aside.

  It reminds me too much of when I last saw you.

  Why is that?

  It hurts too much.

  Hauthe 20th, 758

  As I peer into the abyss, a gentle whisper of unseen winds carries the distant echoes of untold stories and forgotten dreams across the distant chasm. I feel an uncanny darkness from both within and surrounding my body the longer I stare within.

  They twinkle with ancient wisdom.

  The humming sound grew louder and louder, until it filled the air around me like a living presence. I could feel its power radiating from the depths of the chasm, pulling at me, trying to drag me down. It is a sound so deep it rattles me deep to my core until I can feel every cadence resounding against my heart.

  "Are you to abandon your quest, youngling?" the voice booms. "Are you to throw your life to forfeit? Are you that weak?"

  I shake my head, my heart pounding in my chest. "No!" I shout. "I'm not going to abandon my quest. I'm going to make it to the Empire, because I have belief I can! It’s the only thing I can do..."

  The voice laughs, a deep, rumbling sound that shakes the ground beneath my feet. Each shaking causes tremors inside that send my vision waning. It is so crazy to think that mere laughter can halt my entire body.

  "Do you think your silly belief is all you need to unlock that sword's latent abilities?" the voice sneered. "Do you think you can truly master its power? To take command of the power gifted by the gods?"

  I reach for the Sword of the End, its familiar weight reassuring in my hand. "I only need to use enough of it to make it where it needs to go!" I yell back. "I'm not going to cause any undue harm with this blade. I refuse!"

  "Are you to abandon your quest, youngling?" the voice booms. "Are you to throw your life to forfeit? Are you that weak?"

  I shake my head, my heart pounding in my chest. "No!" I shout. "I'm not going to abandon my quest. I'm going to make it to the Empire, because I have belief I can! It’s the only thing I can do..."

  The voice laughs, a deep, rumbling sound that shakes the ground beneath my feet. Each shaking causes tremors inside that send my vision waning. It is so crazy to think that mere laughter can halt my entire body.

  "Do you think your silly belief is all you need to unlock that sword's latent abilities?" the voice sneers. "Do you think you can truly master its power? To take command of the power gifted by the gods?"

  I reach for the Sword of the End, its familiar weight reassuring in my hand. "I only need to use enough of it to make it where it needs to go!" I yell back. "I'm not going to cause any undue harm with this blade. I refuse!"

  The voice laughs, a deep, rumbling sound that shakes the ground beneath my feet. Each shaking causes tremors inside that send my vision waning. It is so crazy to think that mere laughter can halt my entire body.

  "Little fool. You don't even know the blade's true name. How can you protect something that you do not even understand? Your silly little fiction shames the metal of my kin. Worry on it not, though. It is only a matter of time—You'll be returning to me soon enough. There I'll engross you with the infinite knowledge of the ancients."

  I’m losing my balance, the chasm's edge slipping away beneath my feet. I reached out desperately for something to hold on to.

  "I'll never find myself there," I cry out. "I've got people I love here—I've got a family back home."

  "You are confused," the voice whispers in my ear. "Those people do not love you. If they did, why would you be where you are? Why would you be here? You'll return to me soon enough. After all, this is what you wanted."

  I close my eyes and feel myself falling into the darkness. I think of my family and friends, and of all the things I will miss if I never made it back to them. But then I remember the Sword of the End in my hand. I have a mission to complete, and I am not going to let anything stop me. I open my eyes and thrust the sword into the chasm wall. The blade glows with a blinding light, and I feel myself being pulled upwards.

  I emerge from the chasm, gasping for breath. The voice is gone, but I can still feel its presence, taunting me. I stand up and turn to face the chasm. "I'm not afraid of you," I say. "I'm going to complete my quest, and I'm going to do it my way."

  The encroaching blackness surrounds me and I am swallowed whole. I wake with a cold sweat and a pounding headache. There’s also a sore sensation aching on my hand—I hold it up and the mark has faded slightly, but the skin around it has also sickened to a purplish color. I hold my left hand with my right, clenching it tight to subdue the ache.

  I try as hard as I can to grasp as many fragments of my dream.

  I blink rapidly, trying to focus my eyes on the swirling room. My heart is pounding in my chest, so hard that it feels like it's going to burst out of my ribcage. I take short, shallow breaths, trying to calm myself down, but it's no use.

  I'm terrified.

  My vision blurs and I feel like I'm going to faint. I reach out to steady myself against the wall, but my hands are shaking too badly. I'm sweating profusely, and my breath comes in ragged gasps.

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest, and my vision is blurred. I focus on my breathing, to slow my heart rate and clear my head.

  I feel my body relax, and my mind starts to clear. My vision sharpens, and the room stops spinning. I open my eyes and look around. The room is still unfamiliar, but it doesn't feel as threatening as it did before. I'm still scared, but I also feel a sense of determination. I'm going to get through this. I stand up slowly, still shaky, but I'm able to walk without collapsing. I take a few more deep breaths and then start to explore the room. I'm not sure where I am or how I got here, but I'm going to find a way out.

  I come to a doorway and step through. I find myself in a long hallway, with doors on either side. I don't know which way to go, but I decide to head towards the light at the end of the hallway. The memories of the night before flash back to me, and I shudder at the thought of the rumbling inside my body at the depths of that voice from the Abyss. It had to be Obsidias. If it is more than a dream, like I suspect, I am lucky to be standing here at all for so openly defying a god's wishes. Even though I know it is the absolute worst thing for me right now.

  I look over the mark on my skin again. It must be this that gave him free roam over my mind, playing on my biggest insecurities and drawing me closer to the edge. Did I say that I had people that I loved, though? In hindsight, I feel kind of stupid for that. I love my father, but that is currently it. Unless...my addled brain is mixing in my feelings for Ezra into the mix. Do I love her? It is too early. I don't know her.

  There’s a knock on the door, and my mind runs into overdrive.

  Shoot, I need to dress. "One second! I call, tumbling off the side of the bed and landing hard on my side.

  The door opens and I let out an embarrassed sound as I am trying my hardest to at least get my pants on.

  "Don’t worry,” Waylan’s voice cuts in and instantly I feel idiotic. "She’ll be here in a few minutes. I woke her from a good dream—much like yourself,” he’s looking at my disheveled state.

  "I...no, it’s not like that.”

  He chuckles, "Regardless, if we’re going, we’re going now. Gather the rest of yourself and meet me out front. I want this trip over as quickly as you do.”

  He turns and leaves me to my misery. Do I love her? No. Not yet. But do I have an immense attraction—enough to make me act a fool?

  Yes.

  Unfortunately, with Waylan around I don’t think there’s going to be a good opportunity to be able to seriously talk about these feelings...at least, I’m not guessing. Besides...I don’t even know how I’d even begin that conversation. "Ah yes, hello Ezra, I wanted you to know your hair looks good today! Oh...why didn't I say it before if I thought so? Uh, shoot. Your face looks…”

  I can't stop thinking about Ezra. I'm so attracted to her, and I can't control myself around her. I'm always acting like a fool when she's around. I don't know what to do. I want to tell her how I feel, but I'm afraid of rejection. I groan. Of all the things I could be good at mysteriously, why did it have to be cutting things with a sword when my brain freaks out. Why couldn’t it be talking to girls without making an utter fool of myself.

  I hurry to the lobby of the inn, my bag slung over my shoulder and my sword at my side. Waylan and Ezra are already waiting for me.

  Waylan looks impatient, tapping his foot and checking his timepiece. Ezra yawns and rubs her temples, trying to fix her tangled blonde hair. I am staring at her for far longer than I should. Especially at her disheveled state. She's even more human, more vulnerable this way. I’d never say that out loud, saving myself from the embarrassing situation.

  "Sorry I'm late," I say. "I had a little trouble getting ready."

  "No worries," Waylan says, sighing. "We were about to leave without you."

  Ezra yawns again and stretches. "I'm still half asleep," she says. "You couldn’t have slammed on the door any harder…?’

  Waylan sighs impatiently. "It's early," he says. "But we have a long journey ahead of us. If we're going to be doing this then we're going to be making up for some time, and fast.”

  Ezra yawns again. "Let's go then," she says. "I can't wait to get started. It's starting to get dreary here." She fans her mouth.

  Waylan chides her. "Not touching the sky, should we return to get you your precious sunlight?"

  Ezra scowls. "I'll have you know I frequently go days without sleep. I'm often in my father's shop smithing."

  "That mark of yours is working as intended, then," Waylan observes.

  Curious, I ask about the marks.

  "Don’t succumb to the mysteries too long, lest you find yourself sleepwalking. Then you’ll become nothing better than a puppet drawn closer to the depths.”

  "Noted,” I say, an unsettling feeling sitting in the deeper part of my chest.

  The transition from the depths to the surface is abrupt, and the morning sunlight assaults my eyes as we emerge through the familiar tunnel. Squinting against the glaring brightness, I find myself momentarily disoriented.

  As we step into the open, the silence of the Obsidian Wastes greets us, broken only by the ambient sounds of the environment. Our presence is acknowledged by the morning watch, a solitary guard whose nod carries a solemn acknowledgment of Waylan. However, it's a nod devoid of warmth or camaraderie, leaving us with a cold, indifferent stare.

  The guard's indifference sends a pang of unease through me. It's an unfamiliar sensation—never before have I felt so much like an outsider, even in Khadein.

  Expectations certainly are clashing with reality. I had envisioned a warm reception, perhaps a welcoming committee for Waylan at least, a display of support from his fellow townspeople. Instead, the silence and indifference hang heavy in the air.

  I take a deep breath, attempting to shake off the unease settling within me. Reminding myself of our mission, I gather resolve. We have a job to do, and nothing should impede our progress.

  Yet, as we distance ourselves from the guard, the lingering sense of isolation persists. It feels like we're stepping into the unknown.

  Ezra walks next to me, her shoulders hunch against the cold. She looks tired, but determined. Water drips somewhere nearby, and there’s a faint sulfurous odor. The crunch of gravel beneath our boots tingles a reaction in me, a sensory nightmare.

  The land itself is a monotonous canvas of muted hues—endless stretches of rocky terrain broken only by sporadic outcroppings of jagged stones. When looking at how desolate the above ground looks—it’s no surprise that the citizens of Obskurd have chosen to make their own dwellings beneath the surface. Khadein is blessed with green surroundings all over, so the buildings built had beautiful scenery all around to accompany daily life.

  Though, the reality of it is all of their lives are dependent on this journey. Surely any failure in this mission would have clear and irrevocable effects on the Khadeinites.

  My thoughts are interrupted by a distant rumble, a low growl that reverberates through the rocky terrain. A gust of wind carries with it a swirl of dust.

  "The dust is going to get worse as we go on. Be mindful of vibrations in the ground like that one. My people are not the only creatures that live beneath the soil.” Waylan warns.

  His pace is behind us at first—his pack is much larger than either of ours, but he quickly outmatches even my own, and both Ezra and I struggle to keep up. His pack sits heavy on his back.

  How many years of training has he had to be able to wield such a thing so effortlessly?

  The rugged path beneath our boots provides little respite, each step a negotiation with the uneven ground, but in due course I manage to find my own stride.

  "We're headed for Verdantia, right?" I ask. "Figure that's the quickest way through."

  Waylan, his expression eternally stoic, adjusts his stride to match mine. "By all means, you're the one with the plan. I'm merely here to make sure you make it there alive. A great use of my talents."

  Ezra sighs, "We get it. You don't want to come. Try something new for once."

  We continue with an uneasy silence until we approach a slightly sheltered area as we approach another tunnel entrance. The cave is above ground—so the possibility of other life existing is not zero. I ready my hand on my scabbard as we breach the surface.

  "Let’s take caution,” Waylan says. "Don’t know what could take hold in here. I’ll take up the rear, if you’ll be so kind,” he nods to me.

  Ezra rolls her eyes and sighs again. "Sure thing.”

  "If it means anything, I can get camp going while you confirm we’re safe. So unless either of you know how to cook up a meal, I suggest you cut the whining and help your share.”

  Ezra and I exchange glances. I knew how to fry and season meat, but given that we haven't come across any wildlife since making it to Obskurd quickly dashed those plans. I’d brought some packaged food from my father, but it needed another day at minimum to dry out from our experience at the coast.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  "Right, so to me, then,” Waylan says.

  We agreed and Ezra got out her gun and held it by her side. The light from the outside is enough to see into the cave, but it is clear it goes much deeper the further we went in.

  "Let’s go for a few minutes to confirm nothing’s taken shelter in here like us then let’s head back. I don’t like the thought of getting lost in here while he’s out there.”

  "Understood,” Ezra nods.

  When they return after finding nothing in the cave for the better part of ten minutes, Waylan has some makeshift seats propped up with a center cauldron—the size of which amazes me—afire with some odd soup-like mixture inside.

  "Glad to see you’re back,” he says with a neutral expression. "Means I get to live another day and unfortunately am spared of dealing with leftovers. Better to eat in the shelter here than risk being tossed around by the wind out there."

  "Does it get bad out there?” Ezra asks.

  "’Tis the season for it,” he responds. "Winds can rip through stone if they get bad enough. Main reason why we build under the surface.”

  "Oh, that makes sense,” I add.

  "Think we chose to live like moles for the fun of it, eh?” He shakes his head. "No, the history of our people is rife with a myriad of attempts to negotiate upward living. Try building more securely. Try building taller, stronger. Try building wider. Turns out, when the wind wants to rip something apart it will do so. Only a fool learns a lesson and chooses to ignore it for want of ego.”

  "I can see how awful that would be—to have to start over again and again.”

  Waylan makes an uncomfortable sound of agreement and then passes out small bowls—poured to the brim with the concoction. "Here, you should warm your innards. Even though we’re spared from the biting, it’s gonna get cold here, and I don’t see that either of you have packed anything for the cold.”

  "I didn't expect it to get cold around here—I heard the wastes are warmer than not,” I say.

  Waylan sighs. "Typically, but you’ve come in the middle of the storm season. Any air—even if it's hot—cools down if it’s moving fast enough. And when it gets ripping out there, you’ll wish for as many layers as you have.”

  "We understand how little we are prepared for this,” Ezra begins. "You don’t have to point out every little thing. We understand that if it were not for the Empire, we would gladly both be at home.”

  Waylan looks at her with a stern look, "The less I go on the less chance you have of learning. Clearly we have a fundamental difference about the thoughts of our chances. It’s not just your little village at risk of the Empire’s wrath. Why else do you think I’m accompanying you and not leaving you to find your own way back without that blade?”

  Ezra is silent, and I have no retort. It feels like it is an argument above my level, which only frustrates me more because it makes me feel like a child with no control over himself.

  "Like it or not, we’re aiming for the same end. Stop fighting back against every small thing and realize that.”

  "Would be easier with honey, than with vinegar, my father always said,” Ezra answers. "We clearly don’t have a disagreement in what we need to do, but it’s clear you’re letting whatever’s got you so mad about us seep into how you communicate. We’re not some emotionless things to be talked at.”

  Remembering Elara’s words, I knew that this topic would broach itself sooner or later.

  "Let’s cool down and let that be it for now,” I say. "We’ve all had a long day, we’ve all had a lot to go on. We’re all tired.”

  It is good enough for Waylan, who sips his soup in silence and then turns away as he faces the outside, taking the mantle of watch without their say.

  "You should have backed me up there,” Ezra confides to me in-between sips herself. "Just sounds like you’re looking to avoid conflict by pulling the centrist route. I would have thought you of all people would have stood up.”

  My voice is heavy with resignation. “I’m sorry for disappointing you...I don’t think anything positive will happen fighting in a cave while half our words are muffled by the winds outside. It’s clear there’s a divide, and we’re at fault for some of that.”

  Ezra stares at me, her expression shifting from irritation to something almost like hurt. “You’re supposed to be better than that,” she says quietly, her voice laced with disappointment.

  I let out a long sigh, the weight of her words settling uncomfortably in my chest. “I’m not saying we aren’t justified for how we feel,” I explain, “but the last thing I think we need is to further pour gas on the fire while we’re at such a disadvantage here. It’s...complicated.”

  Ezra’s shoulders slump, the tension in her frame softening as she rubs her temples. For a moment, she wrestles with her own thoughts before letting out a frustrated sigh. “Sucks he’s good at the cooking side of this...makes it harder to stay annoyed with him.”

  I offer her a small, understanding nod. “It’s okay. I get it.”

  Her lips twitch upward in a fleeting smile as she lifts her bowl and takes a slow sip of soup. A contemplative look flickers across her face.

  “What is it?” I ask, curious.

  “What kind of flavor would you say this is?” she replies, tilting the bowl slightly.

  I take another spoonful, rolling the taste around in my mouth. “Tastes kind of...acorn-y?”

  "Hm…” Ezra murmurs, setting her bowl down as her eyes narrow in thought. "There’s a richness to it. I think I know what you’re getting at.”

  “I don’t know exactly what he put in,” I admit, “but I’d wager it’s something like that. He’s resourceful. Probably using whatever he’s picked up along the way...which is kind of a good way to explain everything else about him, too.”

  Ezra gives me a puzzled look, her brow furrowing.

  "I think he’s doing what he can with what he’s got,” I explain. "Elara told me part of why she brought him along is so we could help him as much as he helps us. I mean, you saw how the other Obskurdians treated him when we left. No one came out to wish him well or even acknowledge he is leaving. He’s got no connection to them, no ties. It’s like he is already forgotten before we are even out of sight. I kind of...relate to that, you know?”

  Ezra’s eyes narrow slightly as she considers my words. “So, what? You think he’s a jerk to everyone, and it’s up to us to fix that?”

  "Not exactly,” I say, shaking my head. "I think he’s hurt. Deeply. And I think whatever happened in Khadein is at the root of it. It’s made it hard for him to trust people, to open up. Elara sees that in him. I think I see it too.”

  Ezra leans back, her expression softening slightly. “You think he’s worth it?”

  I meet her gaze, steady and sure. “I think everyone deserves a chance to prove they are.”

  "Did he tell you anything?”

  "No, of course not. Not with how guarded he is about it. But I can feel it, you know?”

  Ezra thinks on it, her brow furrowing briefly before she gives a small nod. Her spoon clinks against the empty bowl as she finishes the last of her soup. I set my bowl down beside hers, the cool ceramic meeting the wooden table. Mine had been emptied long ago—I had been that hungry. There’s more to the soup’s flavor, layers of spices and a faint hint of maybe rosemary or thyme lingering on my tongue. I could say something about it, but I hold back.

  I don’t want to bore her. But deeper than that, I don’t want to be seen. Being seen is being open to criticism, to being wrong. Why am I so afraid of that? Logically, I know it’s nowhere near the biggest stressor in my life right now, but...still, I sit in silence. A frustrating silence that compounds with every second. Ezra turning to me breaks the chain, and I’m grateful for it.

  "I can see what you mean,” she says finally. "I guess I should apologize to him tomorrow. And to you—”

  I shake my head quickly. "No, no. Not at all necessary. I agree with what you said. I’m a little jealous I didn't have the...” My voice falters, trailing off as I search for the right words. "I didn’t have the strength to speak up, so I found solace in running from the conflict instead.”

  "There’s a time and a place for everything,” Ezra replies, her tone steady but not unkind. "And I guess even for cowering. Come on, let’s get ready to sleep. I’m sure it’s the nerves from everything.”

  Outside, the light fades, bleeding into a muted twilight. The wind howls louder, its pitch rising to an eerie whistle as gusts hammer against the cave walls. Dust and grit churn violently in the gale, forming chaotic vortexes that dance like specters in the gloom. I shudder at the thought of being caught in that storm. The particles carried by the wind must be sharp as knives, and the mere image of them scraping against skin—or worse, eyes—makes me deeply grateful for the shelter we’ve found.

  Ezra arranges her bedding with methodical care, her movements brisk and purposeful. Meanwhile, I turn toward Waylan, ready to take over his watch. The cave has fallen into a tense, almost stifling quiet since Ezra and I spoke, and the weight of it presses heavily on me. Eager to shatter the silence, I approach Waylan with a casual air and clear my throat.

  "So," I say, drawing his attention as I settle into the watch position, "you look like you’ve been training for a while. How long has it been?” My voice is loud enough to be heard over the distant roar of the storm, the words hanging in the air between us, waiting for a response.

  Waylan eyes me suspiciously, his expression guarded. "I’ve been training since I was young—around nine or ten, hoping for the day of conscription into the army."

  "For the Empire?" I ask, curiosity coloring my tone.

  His response comes after a measured pause, the silence stretching long enough to feel deliberate. "...I wouldn’t have fought for the Empire," he admits, his voice steady, though there’s a tremor of something deeper beneath it—conviction, perhaps, or resentment.

  "is Obskurd planning something?” I ask, trying to read the subtleties in his tone.

  "I’m but a servant of my country," he replies tersely. "I wouldn’t know anything of the higher plans. Not that I’d divulge that here anyway. Not to an outsider."

  The statement hangs between us like a wall, its careful vagueness offering more truth than a direct answer might have.

  "That being so," I say carefully, my voice soft as I regain my footing, "I am sorry."

  His brow arches in faint surprise, his expression sharpening. "What have you to be sorry for? Unless you think a little spark from your friend is enough to wound me?"

  I shake my head quickly. "No, that’s not it. It’s not my place to apologize for someone else. I just… I empathize with what she said. And I’m sorry you’ve been dragged into this mess."

  Waylan’s expression darkens, his eyes narrowing. "You don’t know the first thing about me," he says, his voice low and biting. "Don’t place all this self-importance on yourself. I have as much disdain for the Empire as anyone else should. They’re no beacon of justice. They exploit, oppress, and conquer in the name of power. I’ve seen the aftermath of their campaigns—the ruins they leave behind, the people they abandon to die in the rubble. I won’t be their pawn. I’ve heard enough from the Chief about the front lines to know better than to cast my lot with them."

  "I understand," I say with a nod. "And when I say I am sorry, I mean it. I’m sure you have things you’d much rather be doing—people you’d much rather be spending the time with."

  He is silent.

  "Thank you for the food. I appreciate it. I’d like to learn the recipe from you sometime. I can place most of the flavors, but there are some pieces of it that escape me."

  "You know your way around flavors?" he asks.

  “I hunt game back home and have taken apprenticeships with our local butcher. He’s taught me a little about seasoning and frying. I’ve tried it a bit on my own. It worked sometimes, not others. But I can always appreciate it when someone knows what they’re doing.”

  “I’ve had a passing interest in meat, but with Obskurd’s climate we’re not so lucky to have it available all the time.”

  “So the soup is your go to?”

  “Not just soup, but it’s a large part of my diet. Got to keep something warm when the tunnels chill over.”

  “I think I see why trade is so important,” I say. “I mean, of course every nation lives based on what they can provide for others...but I’ve remembered where I’ve tasted this before—the kitchens up near my home offer this soup. They must trade with Obskurd for the recipes and ingredients.”

  “I’m sure the ingredients aren’t necessary to be traded, but I wouldn’t know much about that. It’s not like we have butchers down underground in fair exchange.”

  I nod slowly, and then understand the point. “Your frustration is clear, and I know it extends in many directions. I’m just… trying to do what I can to minimize the harm they can do to my home."

  Waylan scoffs, the sound bitter and sharp. "You think this is going to save your home?"

  "What do you mean?" I ask hesitantly.

  He doesn’t hesitate. "I know you are naive—comes with being so young—but I didn’t expect you to be an idiot. Run the logic through,” he continues, his tone colder now. "Arm a tyrant with a weapon, and you expect the result to be peace? Does that make any sense?”

  I take a breath, trying to steady my voice. "What are you expecting?” I ask. "I’m trying to avoid angering the Empire any further. This… this is the only thing I can do.”

  "Oh, I agree,” he says with a humorless laugh. "You’re making the only choice you can make. But don’t fool yourself into thinking handing over that sword will end anything.”

  "What do you mean?” I ask again, my voice rising slightly.

  "Once they see you’ve completed this absurd task in the strict time they gave you—as nothing more than a test of loyalty—do you think it stops there? More requests will come. Weapons, armor, supplies to outfit their growing army. And who else but you will they task with that responsibility? You’re already doing it once. Why not again? And again? You’re not ending their wrath—you’re fueling it.”

  I haven’t thought of what comes after, and the realization hits me like a blow.. My voice wavers as the words escape me. "It… will never be over… will it?” I lean back against the cold, unyielding stone wall of the cave, the weight of the truth settling heavily on my shoulders.

  "The Empire is nothing but voracious,” Waylan says, his voice carrying the cold certainty of someone who has seen too much. "Many fools have gone to bat in service of the crown and ended up as nothing more than skulls on their pikes, their sacrifices forgotten before their blood had even dried.”

  The thought sends a shiver through me, but I force myself to meet his gaze. "Then… if you know that’s how this will go… why are you still here? Why are you doing this?”

  His expression hardens, though there is a flicker of something else—regret maybe?—in his eyes. "I’m making the only choice I can,” he says simply, his tone flat. "The decision is made by my Chief, and so I go. I see the strategic benefit of aligning with the Empire, no matter how much I despise it. When war inevitably breaks out between them and the Coalition, we’ll need to be on the side that gives us the best chance to survive. I don’t like the Empire, but I’m not naive enough to ignore the reality of the situation.”

  He pauses. "Take your watch,” he says finally, his tone softer but no less resolute. "You’ve got more than enough to think about. Tomorrow, we’ll focus on toughening you up so you can actually make this trip to that blasted end. We’ll see how much you feel sorry for me after that.”

  The silence that follows isn’t peaceful—it is heavy, oppressive, filled with the unspoken truths that lingered in the air. I stare out into the darkness of the cave, the distant howl of the wind outside a cruel reminder of the forces moving against us.

  I haven't felt confident at any point on this journey, but now, after that talk, I feel lower than I ever thought possible. My mind churned, replaying Waylan’s words, each one digging deeper into my doubts. The enormity of what lay ahead—and what it meant—loomed over me like an unscalable mountain. I pulled my knees to my chest, trying to find some semblance of comfort, but the cold stone beneath me only amplifies the emptiness clawing at my resolve.

  What else is I to think about but where this is all inevitably heading? The thoughts churn in my mind, relentless and sharp, as I stare out at the mouth of the cave. Waylan’s words echo in my ears, their weight undeniable. He is right—there is no world in which the Empire loosens its grip on Khadein simply because it is asked to. Obedience alone can never earn freedom from their vice-grip.

  I grip the hilt of the Sword of the End, the cool, pulsing energy within it flowing into my blood like an icy tide. The weapon feels alive, its power humming faintly against my skin, yet it brings no comfort. Instead, it fills me with a deep sense of unease. How can it not? We are risking everything—our lives, our futures—to hand this blade over to the man who can destroy us with nothing more than a whim. The tyrant, as Waylan aptly calls him. A man whose strength already overshadows us, who now demands the one thing that could make him truly unstoppable.

  So, that is the heart of it. If every path ahead leads to ruin, then my choice isn’t about avoiding the worst outcome; it is about minimizing the harm. If my compliance–my surrender–means sparing my father this task or protecting my people from immediate retribution, then I will do it. No matter how much the role of being the Empire’s errand boy twists my gut, I will play it. For them.

  I turn to glance at Waylan and Ezra, both of them fast asleep now. Waylan lay with his back against the wall, his face slack but still carrying the lines of someone perpetually on guard. Ezra is sprawled out more freely, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm that contrasts with Waylan’s measured, almost imperceptible breaths. Their paths have brought them here, intertwining with mine, but for reasons uniquely their own.

  Neither is bound to this mission in the way I am. Their obligations come from different places—from their leaders, their ideals, or perhaps something else entirely. Yet here they are, caught in the same tangled web. Even so, it is clear that defying the Empire isn’t an option any of us consider truly viable. For all our differences, we share that same grim understanding: we are trapped, not by chains, but by the crushing reality of what resistance would bring.

  Gripping the hilt of the sword tighter, I turn my gaze back to the cave’s mouth, where the wind howls and the moonlight illuminates the swirling dust like a portent of what lay ahead.

  I sit back and let my gaze drift upward to the vast expanse of the night sky, its stars scattered like shattered glass across an endless black canvas. The wind has quieted for a moment, leaving only the faint whistle of the storm lingering in the distance. In the stillness, a single thought—desire—rises unbidden in my mind.

  Mom. What would you say to me at this moment?

  I close my eyes, letting the thought deepen.

  If I were back home what wisdom would you offer? I can almost hear the soft timbre of your voice, even though it is completely foreign to me, the way you would tilt your head slightly as you listened in the way he does. Or maybe not. I have no clue how you would do it. Maybe your hands would be busy with some small, familiar task—folding linens or sewing a loose button. Maybe you are a sculptor, or an artist. You’d have stopped the moment I came in, setting everything aside to focus entirely on me.

  Would you have reassured me with one of your gentle proverbs, the ones that felt like they had been passed down through generations? Or would you have placed your hands on mine, grounding me in your calm strength, and simply told me to keep moving forward? I imagined the weight of your gaze, so full of understanding.

  Guesses. Nothing more than guesses.

  I open my eyes, the hope of her already slipping away like a dream fading with the dawn. The ache in my chest deepened, sharp and raw, as I realized that no wisdom—no words—could make this task any easier. And yet, there is a small comfort in the thought of her, a fleeting warmth that dulled the edges of my fear, if only for a moment.

  I feel a deep insecurity over my inexperience. At the end of the day I am the weakest out of each of us. Ezra has training with her father she could fall back on—something told him she is skilled with that gun—you don’t make a shot like she did against Khody without being skilled, which meant she had a level of practice.

  Sure, I had enough wits about me with the junk sword to hunt our local game, that isn’t nothing. But it is clear that my experience fighting anything that wanted to fight back is lacking, and extremely so.

  And so my resolve is set. If I wanted to be stronger, I needed to train. I would take Waylan up on his offer with the rising sun and I would work as hard as I possibly could.

  For now, though, I shall make sure they can rest peacefully. Something in my chest said that sleeps like this will be rare moving forward.

  "I...will protect you.”

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