The pale light of dawn reveals a city transformed, its familiar streets now host to an occupying force that moves with military precision. From our perch atop the building, we watch the changing of patrols—one group of soldiers replacing another with clockwork regularity, their armor glinting dully in the early morning sun. The explosion site still glows with that unsettling blue light, though it seems dimmer now, more contained, suggesting someone has managed to at least partially control whatever magical disaster we unleashed.
We descend the building in stages, Mairi leading the way with Hamish following behind her like a shadow. The boy hasn’t spoken since falling asleep last night, other than to tell us his name, but every second glance appears to be considering whether he should escape, and where to. It’s eerie how closely his movements mirror Mairi’s, the same careful testing of each handhold before committing his weight, the same instinctive freezing whenever a patrol comes nearby.
Calum takes the rear, his sword hidden for now, as it’d just give us away.
Our final descent brings us to a narrow alley between two merchant houses, the kind of space that would normally be busy with early morning deliveries and workers heading to their shops. Instead, we find it deserted aside for a small pile of crates that provides perfect cover for catching our bearings. The city sounds different now - quieter, more subdued, with the usual morning bustle replaced by the rhythmic march of armored boots and the occasional sharp commands of patrol leaders. Every few minutes, another group of soldiers passes the end of our alley, their systematic sweep of the city continuing with relentless efficiency.
People still seem to be out and about, the life of the city not entirely paused. But whoever is out hurries on their errants with a fear thats evident on their faces, in their furtive movements. I never liked police, even though I never actually did anything wrong, and this seems to be turned up to the max. Even if the soldiers are ostensibly 'theirs’, nobody on the street seems happy to see them.
These aren’t the usual city guards—these are professional soldiers from the bastion, and when I see them I can’t help but remember all the stories I read about the lack of discipline for soldiers in the middle ages. The systematic way they’re sweeping the city suggests they’re looking for someone or something in specific, and the way they’re going about it tells me I do not want to be on the receiving end of their inspections.
Mairi shifts restlessly beside me, fingers tracing her shiv as she watches another patrol pass. “You might want to put that away,” I say as I nod at the shiv. There’s a little start as she realizes what she’s doing, and the shiv disappears down her pants with a jerky movement, as if she’s embarrassed to be caught. “They know something.” she says, refocusing on the soldiers passing by constantly. “The questions they’re asking… they’re not just looking for survivors or witnesses. They’re hunting… imperials.” Her eyes narrow as if trying to figure out the soldiers’s intentions by sheer willpower.
Calum’s frowns. “Even if they don’t know exactly who they’re looking for, I guess that’s a great start for them,” he murmurs, “they’ll be suspicious of any group moving through the streets right now—and I haven’t seen anyone pass by with children yet. Any sensible mother keeps her kids inside during a time like this. Far away from the soldiers…” He trails off, but the implications are clear. There’s a little bite to his tone, as if he takes personal issue with the way the soldiers go about their search.
I gesture toward the steady stream of civilians making their way through the streets, my eyebrows raised in silent challenge to Calum’s concerns. Laborers trudge to their morning work, and even a few street urchins dart between the patrols with practiced ease. The soldiers seem more focused on searching buildings and questioning merchants than bothering with the peasants going about their day, but once in a while we see something that’s indistinguishable from harassment, where a pretty young girl or woman has caught the eye of the wrong ruffian in uniform. It’s noteworthy that it never goes further though. The officers seem to draw the line somewhere, even if it’s not quite where I’d like them to draw it.
“We could just try to blend in,” I suggest, a hint of dry amusement creeping into my voice despite the gravity of our situation. “Just another harried mother trying to wrangle her unruly brood through the chaos. Just because we’ve not seen any children doesn’t mean they’re not there. Don’t forget we’re in the…” I look around myself, and realize that that we’re not in the tannery district at all any more. “Well, we’re not in the inner city anyway.” I finish, a bit lamely.
Calum concedes the point with a nod of his head and a slight smile. “That’s true. Though you look a bit too young to be my parent, and I can’t really pass for your husband either.”
I frown at his statement. I’m more than old enough to be his mom. He’s what, 16? And I’m 32. Ok, well, yes, I guess that’s pushing the boundaries of what’s proper, but this is the middle ages isn’t it? We’re supposed to be having children young, and I’ve certainly seen a bunch of teenagers carrying what I presumed to be their siblings around. It never quite occurred to me that it might be their children instead, but in hindsight it’d be a bit unlikely for parents to suddenly decide to have another child 15 years after the first one.
Calum studies me with poorly concealed amusement, some of my thoughts must be visible in my expression. Eventually he sighs. “That said, I don’t really have a better idea either.”
“Nineteen is a perfectly respectable age to have children,” I shrug. “I can pretend to be a bit older than I am.”
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, clearly not expecting that answer, and I watch as he reassesses my appearance with an incredulous look on his face. “You are either joking, or you look far too young,” he asserts, the amusement in his eyes giving way to genuine confusion as he tries to reconcile my apparent age with the timeline I’ve suggested. “How old are you actually?” He questions me. I guess the subject of our ages hasn’t really come up in our conversations before.
“Thirty-two,” I state, somewhat defensively. I don’t think I’ve ever had someone react like this to my appearance. Some other girls have remarked on how lucky I was for looking young, but I always thought it was fairly annoying. I still got carded when buying alcohol. Nothing quite like having someone young enough to be your child demand you prove you are old enough to drink. The memory draws a quiet snort of amusement, though it carries a slight edge of bitterness.
“The hell?” he says. “You look barely old enough to claim that Mairi is your daughter, and she’s eight.” There’s a trace of embarrassment in his voice, and a sheepish look on his face when he admits, “I kinda thought of you as an older sister. It’s weird to think you’re old enough to be my mom instead.”
I let a small, sardonic smile play across my face as I consider his skepticism. “Trust me, it cuts both ways,” I say, keeping my voice low enough that only our small group can hear. “Back home, I still had to prove I was old enough to drink every time I wanted to order a beer.” I let out a sigh. “At least here I don’t have to deal with that particular indignity. Small mercies, I suppose.”
Calum’s brow furrows at my cryptic comment about having to prove I’m old enough to drink, his mouth opening briefly before closing again without voicing his confusion. The kids have gotten used to me sometimes throwing in concepts from a world still more than a millenium hence. I don’t think he’s ever had to prove he was old enough to drink. Even beyond the lack of age limit, nobody would bother some kid that lives on the street with such nonsense. No parents to get angry when they come home in a stupor. Coin is king, and the lack of it naturally prevents that from occurring. I do vaguely recall that Calum once told a story about a stolen cask, and Rhona telling him to never do that again.
We hold each others gaze for a second longer before he gives in. “Well, whatever. In the worst case we get questioned and we’ll just make up some excuse that we’re on our way to the outer city to get you some proper boots.” he glances at my, still-bare, feet in exasperation. “Seriously, how is it possible you never once felt the need?”
I glance at Mairi, whom also doesn’t have any shoes, then my gaze passes from Calum, who does, to… Hamish, who sort of qualifies as having his feet clad with the attempt as sandals he’s wearing.
I guess I don’t feel the need? It’s ages since I’ve last felt pain in my feet. It’s ages since I last worried about my feet getting dirty either. “Dunno.” I shrug. “Feet are fine now, so guess I haven’t really thought about it.” I think back to the basketfulls of food I’ve seen shoes exchanged for, and add “Besides, shoes are expensive.”
“Well, fair enough,” Calum says as he shakes his head, “Lead the way then, ‘mother’”. I cringe when I hear him saying that. It’s one thing when Mairi does it since I’ve sort of gotten used to it, but Calum, well, no.
Mairi crouches next to Hamish, her voice dropping to that particular tone she uses when explaining some deathly important rule. “If anyone asks, Emma’s your mother,” she instructs, her small fingers straightening his collar with an brisk efficiency that makes her look so much like the older sister it makes me smile. “Just stay close to her and try to look scared—shouldn’t be hard with all these soldiers around.” The boy nods mechanically, though his eyes betray a deeper confusion as he watches the easy familiarity with which Mairi speaks of me.
The way Hamish keeps glancing between us speaks volumes about his struggle to understand our dynamic. In his experience, street children don’t trust adults, and adults certainly don’t risk their lives to save strange children from burning buildings. Yet here we are, this odd little group, and our bond seems to both fascinate and bewilder him. His fingers twitch unconsciously toward Mairi’s hand before dropping back to his side, as if unsure whether such comfort is actually available to him.
Mairi’s hand darts out to seize Hamish’s, her fingers clamping down with the desperate strength of someone who’s lost too much already. Her quick glance in my direction carries a weight of unspoken need for approval, reassurance, before she tugs the boy closer to our huddled group. The sight of tears in her usually fierce brown eyes hits me like a punch to the gut—Mairi crying in public is about as common as snow in summer. Her small shoulders hunch forward under an invisible burden as her gaze flicks between Hamish and the smoldering ruins on the horizon, and I recognize that particular blend of guilt and responsibility etched across her young face. It’s the look of someone who’s made choices they can’t take back, who saved one but couldn’t save all. Christ, no child should have to carry that weight.
It suddenly occurs to me that what we are doing here, Calum, Mairi, and me, is try to distract ourselves with all this nonsense about shoes and age.
Nineteen children. Nineteen lives snuffed out because of my recklessness. Because we, I, wanted to play the hero, to strike back against the bastards who were hunting us.
I try to justify it to myself—we didn’t know it would be that bad, we were trying to protect others, just trying to burn a building down, not level a city block, it’s not entirely our fault. But the excuses ring hollow, even to my own ears. Deep down, I know that I made a choice, and that those children paid the price. My bruises from being thrown around like a ragdoll feel almost laughably inadequate in comparison. I feel sick, a churning knot of guilt and regret twisting in my gut.
It doesn’t feel real. The blue glow, the charred buildings, the twisted bodies, or worse, the still screaming ones—it’s like something out of a nightmare, a twisted nightmare of the city I’ve come to know as home. Maybe that’s why I’ve been able to function, to keep moving, to focus on the immediate dangers. Because if I let myself feel the weight of what we’ve done even once, I’m not sure I’d be able to go on.
I glance at Mairi, her face pale and drawn, and I realize that she’s feeling the same thing. The guilt, the horror, the crushing responsibility. But she’s just a child herself, barely eight years old, and yet she’s carrying the weight of all that on her small shoulders. I want to tell her that it’s not her fault, that she didn’t do anything wrong, but the words catch in my throat. I don’t even believe it myself.
Calum seems to be trying to ignore the truth of it all. He’s trying to move us on, to distract us with action. He’s not oblivious, he’s just trying to keep us focused on the present, on surviving the next hour, the next day. He’s right, of course. We can’t afford to fall apart now. We have to keep moving, keep fighting, to protect those still alive.
But I know, deep down, that this isn’t something we can just outrun. The guilt, the regret, the memory of those kids—it will follow us, haunt us, probably until the end of our days.
As we slowly make our way through the city, we catch glimpses of the soldiers’ interrogation methods, each scene more troubling than the last. Some conversations appear almost casual—a merchant calmly explaining his whereabouts, a washerwoman gesturing animatedly about the blue flames she witnessed. But others… A man kneels in the street, blood trickling from his nose as armored figures loom over him, their questions lost in the general din but their intent clear in every rigid line of their bodies. The methodical brutality sends a chill down my spine, reminding me uncomfortably of historical documentaries about secret police and military dictatorships.
We pause near a market square, ostensibly to adjust Hamish’s clothing but really to eavesdrop on a group of soldiers questioning a fruit vendor. Their voices carry clearly in the morning air—they’re asking about strange symbols, glowing marks, anything unusual in the days leading up to the explosion. The vendor’s confused responses and their increasing frustration suggest they’re searching for something specific. It’s pretty clear to me they’re asking about runes, but I don’t understand why they bother. As far as I know it’s impossible for people without juice to see them.
It then occurs to me that if they had their mage with them during their assault on our hideout, they might have found the floating rune I left behind. Those were Empire soldiers, so I doubt they’ll have an idea of whose it is, but if one of the assailants got caught, and the authorities cross reference that information with what they’ll inevitably find out about who lives in that square…
Mairi’s grip on my hand tightens as we pass another interrogation, this one targeting a group of street children. The soldiers’ questions are different here—focused on movement patterns, on who controls which territories, on recent changes in the usual hierarchies. It’s almost sad how they only show interest in those children now that they need something from them. One child’s tearful insistence that they “don’t know anything about the people from the warehouse” draws sharp attention from the interrogators, and I have to drag Calum away before he does something we will all regret. The systematic nature of their questioning paints a disturbing picture—they’re not just investigating an explosion, they know something more is at play.
I imagine that’s due to the large number of young bodies found in the blast zone…
The pieces click together in my head as we hurry past another group of soldiers questioning merchants about strange symbols, and I have to consciously stop myself from cursing out loud. “You know,” I mutter, keeping my voice barely above a whisper as I guide our little group through a particularly crowded section of the market, “I once worked on a project where we left some testing code in production. Harmless stuff really, just a few debug statements, but someone higher up noticed and started asking questions. Next thing you know, they’re tearing apart the entire codebase looking for similar ‘vulnerabilities.’ Found things we’d completely forgotten about, traces of old experiments that should have been cleaned up months ago.” My fingers twitch unconsciously, fighting the urge to try to try to wipe my mistake away.
Mairi’s hand tightens in mine as she catches my meaning, her small frame tensing almost imperceptibly beside me. Calum takes a moment longer to process the implications, but when he does, his face pales slightly under its usual stoic mask. “That floating thing,” he breathes, his voice barely audible even to our small group. “And all those practice sessions in the square…” He trails off, but the way his hand drifts toward his concealed sword tells me he’s reached the same uncomfortable conclusion I have. If these soldiers are specifically looking for evidence of rune usage, our little sanctuary might already be compromised, and the others aren’t just fleeing from those imperial soldiers, there’s a whole city full of soldiers out looking for them.
And us, I grimly append to my mental tally of potential disaster scenarios. Because of course our little debugging session in the square hadn’t exactly been subtle, had it? Amateur hour in production environments, as my old tech lead would have said—right before firing everyone responsible.
The alley where we’d planned to regroup stands empty, its familiar shadows now seeming oddly hostile in their stillness. The usual bustle of children comparing their hauls after an attempt at any of the nearby markets, sharing stolen bread, and plotting their next adventures is conspicuously absent, replaced by an eerie silence that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Even the typical background noise of the city seems muted here, as if the whole world is holding its breath, waiting to see what happens next.
Of course I’m imagining that. The whole thing is by design, that’s why we always met up here. The absense of background noise is a feature of this place being nearly as remote as our own hideoud, but with a lot more entry and exit points. it’s perfect for gathering and dispersing. Nonetheless, the emptiness is unexpected.
Mairi’s fingers have found her way back to her shiv as she scans the familiar space, her brown eyes darting to each of the hiding spots and bolt-holes she knows so well. There should be lookouts posted, the organized chaos that keeps our little society functioning—but there’s nothing. Just empty crates and abandoned corners where children should be huddled together, discussing their next meal or sharing the day’s gossip.
The weight of uncertainty settles over our small group like a heavy blanket, each of us lost in our own dark thoughts about what this absence might mean. Calum studies the rooftops, while Hamish presses closer to Mairi’s side, his earlier wariness giving way to genuine fear. He doesn’t know what this means, but he can recognize the change in our demeanor as well as anybody. The carefully crafted plans we’d made, the backup locations we’d established—none of them accounted for finding absolutely nothing, no signs or signals to guide our next move. The empty alley offers no answers, only the growing dread that something has gone terribly wrong with our evacuation plan.
With no better options, and a strong undercurrent of fear, we unanimously decide to trace our way back to our hideout. We need to know what happened there. Imperial soldiers, if any, should be long gone. The tension builds with each cautious step toward our hideout, my spark unconsciously forming the burst rune in preparation for trouble. We need to know what happened to those left behind. Mairi leads us through familiar alleyways, scouting ahead, her movements become more predatory with each turn, while Calum’s hand never strays far from his concealed sword.
As we approach the final corner before our hideout, the eerie silence becomes almost overwhelming. The usual sounds of children playing, arguing, and living their lives is conspicuously absent, replaced by an oppressive stillness that makes my skin crawl. Even the typical street noise seems muted here, as if the very air is holding its breath in anticipation of what we might find. The sense of wrongness grows stronger with each step, but we press on, drawn by a desperate need to know the fate of our makeshift family.
As we round the second to last corner, Mairi is suddenly in front of us, and my heart stutters to a complete stop. “The entrance is guarded! There’s League soldiers there, we have to get away!” she whispers urgently.
The deeper meaning behind those words freezes my blood in its tracks. All our worst fears were true. If the League know what we were up to, and the empire soldiers have been here before too then… all Iain’s fears of whole towns getting leveled because a new rune appeared could become reality. They will definitely find that floating rune, and there could be traces of the burst ones we used for training.
Mairi describes how she saw them moving with practiced efficiency through our home, their systematic search pattern suggesting they were looking for something rather than ransacking the place like common thugs. The words send waves of nausea through my stomach as I realize they have definitely found something—perhaps traces of our rune practice, or maybe just enough suspicious evidence to warrant this kind of response. More importantly, there doesn’t seem to be any trace of the children, nor signs of a fight.
If Iain’s evacuation plan worked. The children should be long gone, safely hidden in one of our backup locations with Iain and Rhona, their absence a sign of success rather than tragedy. But the gnawing fear in my gut grows stronger with each passing second as I remember the empty alley where we should have found them, the lack of signals or signs that formed such a crucial part of our communication system.
I can’t tear my eyes away from the corner to the entrance, beyond which the soldiers wait, my imagination painting increasingly horrific pictures of what might lie beyond those armored figures. Did the imperials find the children before the evacuation was complete? Are there small bodies hidden behind those corners, silent not because they escaped but because they can never make noise again? Mairi seems to think not, but I’m itching to see the place with my own eyes. My spark forms the burst rune almost unconsciously, my mind drawing comfort from its familiar pattern as I fight down the urge to charge in and confirm my worst fears.
My mind races through possibilities as I imagine the soldiers around the corner, each option more desperate than the last. Finally, taking a deep breath and squeezing Mairi’s hand one last time, I turn around and lead everyone away. There’s no point in tempting fate just to confirm what Mairi has already described to me. As much as I want to. The knowledge that there’s no bodies feels like it should bring hope, though the gnawing uncertainty about where exactly our scattered family has ended up threatens to overwhelm that fragile optimism.
The echo of heavy boots on stone cuts through our shared relief like a knife, and as one, we silently turn to flee without conscious thought or coordination. Mairi’s hand finds mine even as she grabs Hamish with her other, while Calum’s bundle containing his sword somehow vanishes beneath his cloak without breaking stride. We flee down the twisting alleyways, our feet finding familiar paths through muscle memory alone, and before long we leave the footfalls behind, never really knowing whether they were coming after us in the first place.
None of us dare relax just yet. We keep moving through the twisting alleys, taking random turns and doubling back occasionally until even I lose track of exactly where we are in the city’s maze-like slums. The systematic way the soldiers were tearing apart our sanctuary, combined with their specific questions about strange symbols and street children, leaves a cold knot in my stomach. They know too much, or at least suspect too much, about what we’ve been doing with the runes.
Eventually, we find ourselves huddled in the shadow of a crumbling wall. After a brief, whispered discussion, we agree that our only real option is to head for the predetermined meeting point and hope the others managed to make it there as well. The thought that Iain was in charge of planning gives me some comfort—the kid is too smart for his own good, and his obsessive nature meant that he’d definitely anticipate the possibility of our hideout being compromised, even after the assault by the imperials failed. He would have made sure everyone knew exactly where to go if things went wrong. Still, as we begin picking our way through the city’s back alleys toward the rendezvous point, I can’t shake the feeling that we’re walking into another trap.
It is night, one day after the explosion, and we’re still waiting. Sitting in the designated meeting spot wondering what is going on. There should have been plenty of time for Rhona and Iain to show up here, or at least send someone with word. If they anticipated or somehow got wind of what happened, maybe they decided to leave the city entirely, considering how hot things have gotten. Even we’ve had to vacate this location several times when we heard guard patrols coming. Thankfully the location makes that easy. Something the soldiers clearly haven’t grapsed yet.
“We should have decided on a secondary meeting spot,” Calum speaks up after nearly an hour of silence. There’s a weight to his words that wasn’t there this morning.
“I’m fairly certain there was one.” I mutter under my breath. What I don’t say out loud is that I didn’t think we’d need it, and therefore didn’t really listen when Iain described where it was. In my defence, we were pretty stressed about the whole imminent attack thing. And just having any plan meant we could jump into action instead of waiting to be slaughtered.
On the other hand, these two don’t seem to remember it was there at all, so…
“Yeah,” I concur, instead of pointing that out. No point in loading up on even more failure. “But we weren’t exactly thinking carefully at the time. As much as we wanted to think it through carefully, it wasn’t really something you could reasonably expect with an armed band of soldiers descending on our hideout.”
Mairi attempts to puffs up with pride, the way she does when she thinks she’s contributed something amazing. “Isn’t it great that I was there to warn you they were coming?” There’s a desperate note to the way she says and does it, as if needing some confirmation that not everything that happened in the past two days led to horror.
“It was.” I attempt to reassure her, stroking her hair with my hands. If not for Mairi’s warning we’d likely have died without even knowing it. “You are the reason we’re still alive Mairi.”
It’s hard to think of anything more to say though, and we lapse back into silence. Waiting for someone to show up isn’t good for our mental health, as we have lots of time to replay our memories of last night.
The explosion replays in my mind like a broken record - the initial flash, the devastating force that swept through the tannery district, and most horrifically, those otherworldly blue flames that seemed to consume everything in their path. But it’s not the destruction itself that truly haunts me; it’s the aftermath, the desperate search through the rubble, and the small, broken bodies we found amid the chaos. Each memory brings fresh waves of nausea, and I find myself unconsciously pulling Mairi closer, as if I could somehow shield her from the horrors we’ve already witnessed.
The faces haunt me with merciless clarity - each one seared into my memory like brands on flesh. A little girl, still clinging to her wooden doll as if it could ward off death itself. A boy, barely five, frozen in his final desperate reach for comfort that would never come. An older girl, body contorted by the blast, her features locked in a rictus of terror. Each one represents a story cut brutally short, possibilities snuffed out in an instant of blue flame. I catalog them mechanically, like entries in a database—age, position, probable cause of death—because the alternative is to actually feel the weight of their lost futures. Behind my eyes, their faces float like accusatory ghosts, a testament to human cruelty that no amount of logical analysis can explain away.
I want to forget their faces, but I can’t. I mustn’t. I can’t forget any of it. But the dead ones weren’t the worst, not really. It was the ones who weren’t quite dead that haunt me the most. The ones who were still clinging to life, their bodies broken and mangled beyond recognition. The ones we couldn’t help, couldn’t comfort, could only… end. I know it was a mercy, but it felt like murder.
The faces blur together now, but the sensations remain razor-sharp - too damn many of them, far too many. My hands still tingle with phantom touches of cooling flesh and sticky blood, each “mercy” a weight pressing deeper into my chest. Their eyes haunt me most—wide, glassy orbs reflecting the dim torch light, filled with confusion and agony they couldn’t even begin to comprehend. The acrid stench of burnt flesh and hair clings to my nostrils, mixing with the metallic tang of blood that seems permanently lodged in the back of my throat. Each rattling breath they took echoed like thunder in my ears, wet and labored, until that final gurgling sound—a sound I know will chase me into my nightmares. Their mangled hands clutched mine with surprising strength, desperate for any anchor to this world, until… until they weren’t. That final transformation remains etched in my mind: the way their features would suddenly soften, pain lines smoothing out like ripples in disturbed water finding stillness. Was it peace I saw? Relief? The blessed numbness of death? Or perhaps just the simple comfort of not dying alone, of having someone—even a stranger - bear witness to their final moments? The questions circle like vultures in my mind, offering no answers.
The stone wall presses cold and rough against my back as I sit here in the musty darkness, each minute stretching like molasses while that haunting look of relief plays on endless repeat behind my tired eyes. I don’t know what’s worse, the memories or the waiting. Even the drip-drip-drip of water somewhere in the darkness seems to mock our enforced idleness, each drop marking another moment of maddening inaction. If we were running, fighting, or even just moving, the physical demands would drown out this endless mental echo chamber. But here, in the darkness, with nothing but my own thoughts for company, the memories are relentless.
“Verdomme!” The expletive slips out before I can catch it, the harsh consonants echoing slightly in our stone confines. Mairi startles against my side, and I immediately regret letting my iron grip on self-control slip, even for a moment.
“Are you okay?” she asks, her voice barely a whisper.
“Yeah, just…frustrated.” I try to inject some reassurance into my tone for Mairi’s sake, but the attempt falls as flat as the stale air around us, echoing weakly against the moldering walls. How could mere words protect her from what we’ve seen? I can feel my own hands trembling slightly, still phantom-sticky with memories too fresh to fade.
Mairi’s small frame trembles against mine, her fingers tracing meaningless shapes in the dirt. Her eyes have taken on that distant, glazed look I’ve come to recognize from our darkest moments together—like staring into wells frozen over with winter ice—but this time there’s something else there: a raw guilt that seems to consume her from within. Every few minutes, her lips move silently, forming words that don’t quite escape, and though I can’t hear them over the subtle sounds of her ragged breathing, I know she’s counting again—tallying the lives lost, the children who didn’t make it out, the ones she thinks she should have somehow saved. The methodical way she works through her mental list feels like a form of self-punishment, each name another weight added to her already overburdened conscience. The acrid smell of smoke still clings to her hair, a constant reminder of what we’ve witnessed, what we’ve done.
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The worst part is watching her flinch every time a distant sound echoes through the alleyways, her body tensing as if expecting another explosion, another wave of destruction that she helped unleash. Her earlier pride in warning us of the impending attack has completely evaporated, replaced by a crushing awareness of unintended consequences. The way she clutches at me, seeking comfort while simultaneously seeming to question whether she deserves it, breaks my heart in ways I never thought possible. All I can do is maintain this embrace, letting my presence anchor her while she wrestles with demons that shouldn’t belong to someone so young.
After several more hours of tense waiting, Calum suddenly stands up, and breaks the oppressive silence. “We can’t just keep sitting here hoping they’ll show up!” he barks out, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “Every hour we waste is another hour something could be happening to them, and these patrols aren’t getting any less frequent. We need to do something—scout whatever we think could be our backup locations, check the usual gathering spots, maybe even risk asking some other children if they’ve seen anything.”
I slowly nod in agreement, feeling relieved that he said what I somehow couldn’t bring myself to. I want to believe they’ll show up, but the gnawing uncertainty of waiting is its own form of torture, each passing hour adding new layers of anxiety to our already frayed nerves. “You’re right,” I say, as I consider our options. “Staying in one place makes us easy targets anyway, and at least if we’re moving we might actually learn something useful.” I spare a moment to focus on to the distant sounds of continued interrogation and marching boots. “Though we’ll need to be very careful we don’t give anything away. The soldiers are almost certainly looking for us.” The meaningful look I share with Calum carries all our unspoken concerns about the military’s probable knowledge of our runes and their owners.
“Of course,” he says, nodding in agreement. “We’ll split up. I’ll take the docks and the inner city. You take the outer city and the slums.”
Mairi’s head snaps up, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and defiance. “I’m coming with you,” she declares, her voice firm despite the tremor in her hands.
I hesitate, glancing at Calum. The idea of leaving her here alone gnaws at me, but taking her with me feels like it could be even more dangerous. Having her along naturally means that Hamish would have to come too, and he isn’t exactly in the most stable of conditions. Us walking around together would be pretty conspicuous, especially given the current state of alert. And with the soldiers specifically targeting street kids, and Hamish and Mairi looking the part, we’d be painting a target on our backs.
“Mairi, I don’t know…” I begin, but she cuts me off, her voice rising in desperation.
“I can help! I know the streets better than you do. I can watch your back.”
I sigh, running a hand through my hair. She’s right, of course. Her knowledge of the city would be invaluable, not to mention her knowledge of all the places the others could have gone. But…
“Mairi, someone needs to stay with Hamish,” Calum says gently, stepping forward to place a hand on her shoulder. “He’s still not doing well, and he needs someone he trusts.”
I grimace at those words. Hamish has no people he can trust. He’s just trailing after someone that showed him the barest hint of sympathy after he lost his entire world.
Her face crumples, her bravado momentarily forgotten. “But…I don’t want to be left behind,” she whispers, her voice barely audible.
“You’re not being left behind,” I say, kneeling down to meet her gaze. “You’re protecting Hamish. That’s just as important as what we’re doing.”
She doesn’t need to know that I’m worried that she’ll get caught and tortured for information about the runes, or worse. I can’t lose her. Not after everything. Somewhere in the back of my mind a small voice is screaming about splitting up the party, but I squash it ruthlessly. Safe is more important than together right now.
Calum insists that we need proper backup plans this time. His voice impassive as he outlines three different meeting locations—the abandoned chapel near the docks for sunrise, the old tannery ruins at midday, and the collapsed well in the merchant district at sunset. The way he plans for our several layers of failure makes my chest ache, but I can’t deny that it’s necessary.
I pull Mairi close, pressing a fierce kiss to the top of her head as I try to memorize every detail of her small frame. “I love you,” I whisper into her hair, my voice thick with emotion I can’t quite suppress. “No matter what happens, remember that.” She tenses slightly at the words, her fingers freezing on my back, and I feel her small arms tighten around me with desperate intensity. The fear in her grip tells me she understands exactly what I’m saying, even if neither of us wants to voice it directly, we’re both well aware that if things go off the rails, this might be the last time we see each other.
Calum straightens up from his position against the wall. It seems he has none of me and Mairi’s compunctions. “If either of us don’t come back in two days,” he states dryly, though there’s an undercurrent of emotion in his voice that betrays his casual tone, “consider us dead.” The words hang heavy in the air between us, their brutal honesty a stark contrast to the way we usually try to shield the young ones from too harsh a truth. But trying to pretend this is too much after everything we’ve been through would just be a travesty—she’s seen enough to understand exactly what Calum means. As Mairi releases me, her face a mask of reluctance, her small fingers tighten around the shiv hidden in her pants and she gives him a sharp, determined nod that carries all the weight of our mutual bonds.
Mairi tugs at my sleeve, her small face scrunched up in an exaggerated expression of concern. “You know,” she says, her voice carrying a forced lightness that doesn’t quite mask the tremor beneath, “if you get caught, just tell them you’re looking for shoes. They’ll probably believe it since you’re still walking around barefoot like some kind of weird forest person.” Her attempt at humor falls slightly flat, the words catching in her throat, but the familiar teasing about my perpetually bare feet brings a bittersweet warmth to my chest.
Calum lets out a quiet snort, the ghost of his usual wry smile flickering across his exhausted features. “She’s not wrong,” he admits, some of the tension easing from his shoulders as he regards my decidedly unshod feet. “Though at this point, I think you’re just doing it to annoy me.” The gentle ribbing feels almost normal, a precious moment of levity in the crushing weight of our current situation. Even though none of us quite feel the humor we’re trying to project, the familiar pattern of teasing and banter provides a small comfort as we separate.
The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the cobblestones as I trudge through the city, my boots scuffing against the worn stone. The market where I became Mairi’s mother stands eerily quiet now, the usual cacophony of haggling voices and clattering wares replaced by the occasional flutter of discarded market papers in the breeze. My nostrils catch whiffs of lingering spices and rotting produce as I trace the path from the market to our hideout, every corner holding a ghost of children’s laughter. The way feels longer today, each familiar landmark making my stomach clench with anticipation. When I finally spot the entry, the surrounding buildings looms dark and hollow. A single sentry’s silhouette is visible against the weathered walls. His armor glints dully in the fading light as he shifts his weight, the soft clink of metal carrying clearly in the still air.
I don’t approach any further once I notice them. Being possibly chased a single time is enough, and figuring out what the hell they did to the the hideout isn’t what I’m aiming to do here anyway.
It’s strange to be by myself again for what feels like the first time in ages. Even when I was traveling with Mairi and Eilidh, while we didn’t really talk to the long stretches of walking through the countryside, they were still always present. It’s a solitude that should feel familiar, natural even, yet my skin prickles with an awareness of the empty space around me, as if my body has forgotten how to occupy space alone after so many days of constant companionship.
I keep finding myself wondering what Rhona is doing right now. Whether Mairi is alright back there with Hamish. Whether Calum has found the kids or whether he’s having no luck like me. Whether Iain’s plan for getting the children out without anybody noticing worked as intended. Maybe by the time we arrived at the hideout all the bodies had already been removed?
Something tells me that is silly, since Mairi would certainly have noticed the blood if it were spread around the hideout. Assuming they killed them? Maybe they took the children with them instead of killing them, and we completely misjudged their intentions? In hindsight, if they found a glowing rune there in the middle of the hideout, they might have just taken everyone prisoner on the off chance they were a channeller? They’d be correct to do so too, having obtained no less than 5 of them that way.
If the league soldiers could figure out that magic was done there, then so could the Imperial ones. I guess that would mean they had the channeller that Mairi saw with them.
Did I tell anyone where the tree was? No, no, the only ones that know where it is are Mairi and Eilidh, and Eilidh at least should still be safely in Ronain’s village. Mairi is safe back there in our hiding spot, so nobody with direct knowledge is captured.
But… would that actually help? Rhona and Iain both know that there’s a village in the woods with an herbalist boy called Ronain, and that it’s 5 days to the west near a huge forest. I don’t imagine there’s all that many villages that match that description.
I suddenly feel a pressing need to investigate the outside of the city. I try to imagine which gate they were most likely to leave from if the children were indeed kidnapped and directly taken to the gates. Only two really qualify, but I’d guess it’s the main gate by the fact the east gate would lead into the outer city and make the way out a lot longer. I suppose they could do that since it’s directly away from the bastion, but still unlikely, as the alarm probably wasn’t yet raised at that point.
My heart sinks as I approach the main gate, its familiar archway now bristling with so many armed guards it looks like a hedgehog made of spearpoints and armor. The usual casual flow of traffic has been replaced by a crawling line of people being methodically searched, their belongings scattered across rough wooden tables while armored figures prod and question them with mechanical efficiency. Even merchants with official papers are being turned away unless they can provide extremely detailed explanations of their business, and I notice more than a few civilians simply giving up and turning back rather than face the intimidating gauntlet of steel and suspicion. The contrast with the gate’s normal operation is jarring—where before a simple nod and maybe a silver would suffice, now every person attempting to pass through endures a grueling inspection that seems designed to discourage all but the most determined travelers. If they did take the children this way, they must have done it the night of the assault, before any such response could be mounted.
I study the gate from my vantage point, weighing options that feel increasingly impossible. The guards are thorough enough that pretending to be a peasant returning home won’t work—not with the way they’re grilling everyone about their business.
Bribing my way through is out too, what coins I had went into our stash, and that’s with Rhona and Iain now. Besides, these aren’t the usual lazy gate guards who can be distracted by a pretty face or a flash of silver—these are professionals actually doing their fucking jobs for once.
I could try waiting until nightfall, but that would probably just make things worse. Night patrols tend to be even more suspicious, and the darkness would make me stand out more, not less. Besides, the longer I wait, the colder any trail I might find becomes.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, falling back further from the gate. The smart play would be to retreat entirely and try to think of another way. Maybe I could find someone who regularly travels in and out, attach myself to their group somehow? But that would take days to arrange, if it worked at all.
My fingers drum against my thigh as frustration builds. Every moment I waste here is another moment the kids—if they’re even still alive—get further away. But charging up there half-cocked would just get me thrown in a cell, and that wouldn’t help anyone.
A flicker of movement catches my attention as I turn away from the heavily guarded gate, and I glimpse a figure darting into a side alley. Their technique is nothing like Mairi’s, which I’ve grown used to. Before spending a few months here, I would never have been able to notice, but all this time living on the street has taught me to notice things that would previously go entirely unnoticed. My stomach clenches as I realize someone must have been watching me, studying me in turn as I was studying the gate.
I bolt after the figure. However they were, they weren’t a soldier or guard, and that’s enough to make me think chasing them is worth it. I race to the corner the figure disappeared.
I sink into quicksight, the familiar drain of juice settling into my bones as the world slows around me. The figure ahead moves with what they probably think is stealth, but compared to Mairi’s fluid grace, their movements seem almost clumsy—too much wasted energy, too many unnecessary steps. Each time they glance back to check if I’m following, I can anticipate their next move before they make it, staying just far enough behind to maintain pursuit while avoiding confrontation.
As we weave through the crowded streets, it becomes increasingly clear that this is no child—the height, the stride length, even the way they breathe all mark them as an adult, and not a particularly skilled one at that. Where Mairi would flow through gaps in the crowd like water, this person shoulders their way through, leaving a wake of disturbed pedestrians that makes them painfully easy to track. Their technique makes me think of someone who’s read about stealth rather than lived it, each movement an imitation of true street craft that falls short of authenticity.
The pursuit ends abruptly as my quarry rounds a corner into a dead-end alley, their previously clumsy movements suddenly transformed into something altogether more purposeful. As they turn to face me, I feel momentarily lightheaded, my eyes dropping down to the pavement as I shake my head. When I look up, a predatory grin spreads across their face—a expression that sends ice through my veins even before they reach up to pull back their hood. The revelation beneath stops my heart entirely: black hair, the exact same shade as my own, framing a face that’s eerily familiar. And I realize that I misjudged their appearance badly.
The grimy alley walls seem to close in as I stare at what appears to be my own younger self, no older than Mairi is today. The fading sunlight catches on familiar grey eyes—my eyes—but where mine once held curiosity and optimism at that age, these gleam with a predatory coldness that sends involuntary shivers down my spine. It’s like seeing my reflection in a corrupted mirror, every feature perfectly matched yet fundamentally wrong, from the identical black hair to the sharp angle of the jaw I inherited from my father. The acrid smell of rotting garbage and wet stone intensifies as quicksight slips away, my juice dissipating like morning mist as shock shatters my concentration. I absently note that that that’s never happened before. My feet feel suddenly leaden against the cobblestones, my muscles locked in place as though frozen by the chill wind that whips through the narrow passage. The doppelganger’s grin spreads wider, transforming my once-familiar features into something that would have been alien in my old life, where the harshest expression I wore was reserved for particularly stubborn mathematical exercises. The sounds of the busy street behind us fade to a distant hum, leaving only the rapid drumming of my heart and our synchronized breathing echoing off the cold stone walls.
The younger version of me lets out a sharp, mocking laugh that sounds wrong coming from those familiar features. “Oh, this is just perfect,” she sneers, her voice carrying echoes of my own caustic tone but twisted into something crueler. “The great Emma, reduced to playing mother to street rats and running from soldiers like a common criminal. Did you really think you could just waltz into this world and remake yourself into someone who actually matters?”
I feel my face flush with anger, both at her words and at the way she seems to know exactly which buttons to push. It’s like looking into a mirror that reflects all my worst qualities—the cynicism, the contempt for others, the bitter edge that I’ve tried so hard to soften since arriving here. But there’s something else in her expression, something that doesn’t fit with my memories of being that age, a calculated malice that feels foreign despite wearing my face.
“Did you really think those children actually cared about you?” my younger self taunts, each word dripping with venomous precision. “They’re just using you, like everyone always has. Remember how Mom and Dad looked at you that last time? The fear in their eyes? That’s what you deserve—to be feared and hated, not playing pretend at being someone’s mother.” Her laugh is hollow and cruel, a twisted echo of my own that makes my skin crawl. She moves closer, each step deliberate and predatory, her eyes gleaming with malicious delight as she watches my reactions. Despite being two heads smaller than me it feels like she’s looming over me.
“Face it—you’re still that same bitter, lonely person you’ve always been,” she continues, circling me like a shark that’s scented blood. “All this playing hero, protecting street rats, learning magic—it’s just another way to feel special, isn’t it? But deep down, you know the truth. You enjoy the violence, the power, the way it feels to hold lives in your hands. You’re not protecting those children—you’re corrupting them, turning them into little versions of yourself. How long before Mairi becomes just like you? Or has she already?” The vision of myself gestures at herself, and for a moment I see her features transformed into Mairi’s. The same malicious sneer, the same hollow eyes.
The accusation hits me like a physical blow, freezing me in place as memories cascade through my mind. Rhona’s furious face when she learned about that time I told Mairi it was alright she killed, the raw maternal protectiveness in those blue eyes, the absolute certainty that I had crossed a line—it all comes rushing back with devastating clarity. I remember trying to justify myself, explaining how I was just helping Mairi cope with her past, but now those explanations feel hollow in the face of my doppelganger’s cruel words. Have I really been corrupting Mairi all this time, subtly reshaping that fierce, vulnerable child into something darker?
My mind races through every interaction, every moment of comfort and guidance I’ve offered, searching desperately for signs I might have missed. The way Mairi’s eyes lit up when discussing fire, how easily she suggested killing as a solution, her casual acceptance of death as a tool—were these traits already there, or did my presence somehow nurture them? The thought makes my stomach churn, because deep down, I recognize an uncomfortable truth: I have always admired Mairi’s ruthless practicality, her ability to do what needs to be done without hesitation. Have I been unconsciously encouraging those tendencies, praising the very qualities that Rhona feared would lead Mairi down an even darker path?
Even as my younger self’s accusations cut deep, I feels a strange, uncomfortable pride burning in my chest. Haven’t I tried to teach Mairi exactly what she needs to survive in this world? The street-smart pragmatism, the willingness to do whatever it takes, the understanding that mercy is sometimes more costly than violence—these aren’t corrupting influences but essential tools for staying alive. The thought of instead teaching Mairi the moral absolutes of my old world, with its luxury of ethical certainty built on the foundation of law and order, seems almost cruel—like sending a soldier into battle armed with nothing but good intentions and hope.
These self-justifications falter as I study the cruel smirk on my doppelganger’s face, and a nagging doubt creeps in about the source of this confrontation. Who or what is this entity wearing my younger face? The calculated malice in those familiar features, the way it seems to know exactly which emotional wounds to probe—this isn’t some simple hallucination or stress-induced breakdown. There’s something else at work here, something that wants to shake my confidence, to make me question every decision I’ve made since arriving in this world. There is no way this is natural. But why?
I spin around, my heart pounding as I search for any sign of the bustling crowds I’d followed my doppelganger through just moments ago. The street outside the alley stretches empty before me, the chaos of vendors, workers, and peasants conspicuously absent. Even the ambient noise of the city seems muffled, as if someone has drawn a thick curtain between this alley and the rest of the world. The wrongness of it sends chills down my spine—I distinctly remembers shouldering past people, dodging carts, even hearing snippets of conversation as I pursued my quarry.
My mind races as I try to reconcile my memories with the deserted scene before me. Hadn’t I just seen a woman haggling over vegetables? Hadn’t there been children playing near that corner? The empty street mockingly reflects the afternoon sun, showing no trace of the life and movement that filled it mere minutes ago. The silence feels oppressive now, unnatural in a way that makes my skin crawl.
Suddenly my younger self’s fingers dig into my jaw with bruising force, wrenching my face around to meet those cold, mocking eyes. The touch feels wrong—too solid, too real for what should be impossible—but before I can process that wrongness, she’s hissing more poison about corruption and violence. The words fade into meaningless noise as my mind fills instead with vivid images: Mairi’s face pressed against my chest, her small body wracked with sobs as she processed the horror of what we’d done, the way she’d reached out to comfort Hamish even as he tried to hurt her, choosing compassion over violence despite everything she’d been through.
The memories hit me like a physical force—not just the moments themselves, but the raw emotion behind them. Mairi’s heart has remained stubbornly, beautifully intact despite all the darkness she’s endured. If anything, my presence has given her the safety to express that compassion more freely, to show vulnerability without fear of exploitation. The realization burns through me like a cleansing fire—whatever influence I’ve had on her, it hasn’t hardened her heart or turned her cruel. She’s still that fierce, loving child who chooses to protect rather than destroy, who reaches out to comfort even those who might hurt her. The one that took me in, when she had every reason to distrust the bizarre adult in front of her.
The illusion before me fractures like shattered glass, my younger self’s mocking smile twisting in surprise for a second before splintering into a thousand glittering shards that dissolve into nothingness. As the phantom’s final accusation dies on disintegrating lips, the empty alley transforms around me, revealing three armored figures where moments before there had been only one little girl. Their grip on my arms is painfully real, a stark contrast to the psychological torment I’d just endured, and I find myself strangely fascinated by the fact that one of my captors is a woman—her strength belying her relatively slight frame beneath the reinforced leather armor she wears.
The man before me seems to sway slightly on his feet, dark circles under his eyes suggesting days without proper rest. His armor, while clearly marking him as part of the same group, bears subtle differences in decoration that suggest higher rank or specialized function. The leader of the mercenaries? The exhaustion etched into every line of his face makes him look older than he probably is, and there’s something almost apologetic in his bearing as he regards me—as if he’s as weary of this confrontation as I am of being caught in it. A thin sheen of sweat glistens on his forehead despite the cool air, and his hands tremble slightly as he steadies himself against a nearby wall.
I try to focus on the details of their equipment, searching for any hint of their true allegiance. Their armor is maddeningly generic—no markings, no distinctive patterns, not even the subtle variations in style I’ve learned to associate with different military units. The studied blandness of their gear feels almost artificial, like actors wearing deliberately nondescript costumes. The League’s immediate response to the explosion seems too coordinated, too prepared, as if they were expecting something like this to happen. Could these be some kind of specialized League unit, masquerading as some unit of mercenary soldiers to catch out their targets? Or perhaps they’re the Imperials, their generic appearance designed to let them play whatever role their commands require? Whoever these people are, they’ve gone to considerable effort to hide their true identity.
The man in front of me lets out a weary sigh, aimed at his colleagues. “Dat was veel lastiger dan ik verwacht had,” he says as he shakes his head, wiping sweat off his face. the woman next to me grins. “Ze stond in ieder geval stil, maakt het een stuk makkelijker om haar te vangen.”
The sudden shift in language hits me like a physical blow, my mind stumbling over familiar sounds that somehow feel alien after months of speaking nothing but the local tongue. For a moment, I find myself trying to parse the Dutch words as if they were the language I’ve grown used to, my brain automatically reaching for meanings that aren’t there. The cognitive dissonance is dizzying—these are clearly words I should understand, yet they slide through my consciousness like water, refusing to align with either my adopted English or my native language. It’s not even the words themselves, it’s just the displacement in both space and time that completely discombobulates me.
The firm grip of my captors grounds me in reality even as my mind reels from this linguistic vertigo. There’s something deeply unsettling about being physically restrained by people speaking my mother tongue. As if two completely separate parts of my life have collided in a way that shouldn’t be possible. The casual familiarity of their words contrasts jarringly with their hostile actions, creating a surreal disconnect that makes my head spin. It’s like stepping through a doorway expecting another step only to find empty air—my brain keeps trying to reconcile the comforting sounds of home with the very real threat these soldiers represent.
“W… wat?,” I manage to stammer out, “Wie zijn jullie?”, the Dutch words feeling clumsy and strange on my tongue after so many months of disuse. The familiar syllables taste like home, carrying memories of family dinners and childhood squabbles, even as they serve as a reminder of how far I’ve strayed from that life. My accent has grown thick with disuse, making the words sound almost foreign even to my own ears.
The three soldiers stare at me with such utter bewilderment that I might as well have started breathing fire. The exhausted man’s jaw actually drops open, while the woman’s grip on my arm loosens slightly in her shock. Their expressions shift rapidly between confusion, suspicion, and something that looks almost like fear, as if my ability to speak their language has suddenly transformed me from a simple prisoner into something far more dangerous and unpredictable.
The familiar Dutch syllables seem to physically anchor me in two worlds at once, creating a surreal disconnect that makes my head spin. These soldiers, with their medieval armor and weapons, feel completely out of place speaking my mother tongue—as if someone had spliced together footage from two different movies. My brain struggles to reconcile the harsh military bearing of my captors with the comfortable sounds of home, creating a cognitive dissonance that leaves me momentarily unmoored from reality.
The soldiers exchange rapid-fire words, their confusion evident in their increasingly agitated gestures and words. The exhausted man keeps glancing between me and his companions as if hoping one of us might offer an explanation for this impossibility, while the woman’s grip on my arm has grown almost painfully tight, as though she fears her prisoner might somehow dissolve into thin air. Their evident bewilderment only heightens my own sense of displacement—these people shouldn’t exist, shouldn’t be capable of producing these sounds that belong to fluorescent-lit offices and cozy living rooms, not medieval city streets in the fading afternoon sun.
I find myself struck by absurd details—the way the woman’s accent carries hints of Utrecht, just like my old university professor; how the exhausted man’s pronunciation reminds me of family trips to Amsterdam. These fragments of my old world, delivered by people who have clearly never seen a car or used a smartphone, create an almost hallucinating effect. I want to laugh at the sheer impossibility of it all, even as my rational mind screams that I need to focus on the very real danger these soldiers represent, regardless of what language they’re speaking.
The familiar cadence of Dutch words wraps around me like a warm blanket, stirring memories of crowded train stations and busy cafes where the simple sound of my mother tongue would instantly mark someone as “one of us.” Despite their medieval garb and hostile stance, these soldiers suddenly feel like lost cousins rather than enemies—the shared language creating an inexplicable bond that transcends our current circumstances. I find myself fighting an absurd urge to relax. To ask them about their families, to compare notes about favorite foods and childhood memories, as if we were just another group of expats meeting far from home.
The cognitive dissonance only grows stronger as their conversation continues, my brain automatically shifting into the comfortable rhythms of casual Dutch conversation even as my rational mind screams about the impossibility of it all. This connection feels even more profound, bridging not just physical distance but the very fabric of reality itself, making the leather-clad soldiers feel more like confused colleagues than dangerous captors.
The comfort of this linguistic familiarity shatters abruptly as my mind finally processes something that’s been nagging at my subconscious—their Dutch is modern, filled with idioms and grammatical structures that shouldn’t exist for centuries. They’re not speaking the archaic Dutch I’d expect from this medieval setting, but rather the same contemporary language I used when visiting my home country just half a year ago. The realization hits me like a physical blow, forcing me to confront an uncomfortable truth: either these soldiers are as out of place in this world as I am, or something far stranger is at work.
“Wie zijn jullie?” I repeat, “Wat wil je met me?” The words grow more familiar with use, and they’re the most important ones I can ask right now. The fact they speak the modern venacular might not make any sense, but it certainly makes things easier for me.
The words seem to bring the three back to themselves, as they stare at me with some confusion. The commander scoffs with a hint of amazement in his voice “Ik had nooit verwacht dat een van jullie Ligisten onze taal zouden leren.”
I guess that confirms they’re from the High Empire. Fuck me, the High Empire, that boogieman that scares the whole country, speaks… Dutch? I mean, German, sure, but Dutch?!
“Uh…”, I try out the triple translation in my mind before hesitatingly saying “Het Hoge Rijk?”. There’s an evident mix of distrust and confusion in the face of the man facing me as he hears my halting attempt. “Het Hoge Keizerrijk” he corrects me. That sounds wrong to me. Who thought of that name? Why are “Hoge” and “Keizer” in the same name. Is there anything higher than a fucking empire? Maybe this world is making an in-joke about the fact the country is called the ‘low-countries’ in my own world?
“Dat is vaag.” I can’t help but mutter, something about the language making me less hesitant than I’d otherwise be in the face of armed men holding me prisoner. Not that I have any experience with that.
The captain, whoever he is, frows. Clearly not used to such lack of respect for the place he calls home. I find myself wondering if they share cultural norms as well as language. It’s hard to say with the place I find myself in, as I recognize neither the language nor the culture, other than it being vaguely medieval.
“Waarom was je daar?” the commander demands, his earlier confusion giving way to sharp suspicion. “Waarom stond je naar die wachtpost van de Liga te kijken?”
I bite my lip, weighing my options. The familiar Dutch makes it dangerously tempting to be more forthcoming than I should be. “Ik was gewoon nieuwsgierig,” I try, knowing how weak it sounds even as the words leave my mouth. “Er stonden ineens zo veel mensen bij dat oude gebouw.”
“Bullshit,” the woman holding me snaps, her grip tightening further. “Niemand is ‘gewoon nieuwsgierig’ naar Liga wachtposten. Wie ben je?”
The commander steps closer, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten as he studies my face. “Je spreekt onze taal,” he says slowly, “maar je komt duidelijk niet uit het Keizerrijk. En je bent ook geen gewone Ligaese burger.” His eyes narrow. “Dus wat ben je dan wel?”
I force myself to maintain eye contact, though my heart is hammering in my chest. These soldiers aren’t just confused anymore—they’re starting to see me as a genuine threat, someone worth interrogating rather than just arresting. The familiar language that had initially seemed like such a comfort now feels like a trap, drawing me into conversations I shouldn’t be having.
“Ik ben niemand,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “Gewoon iemand die de verkeerde kant op liep.” But even as I say it, I can see in their faces that they’re not buying it. The commander’s expression hardens, and I realize I’ve probably said too much already. These aren’t just random Imperial soldiers—they’re here specifically looking for information about the hideout, about my family. And I’m hella suspicious just by virtue of speaking their language. Why the hell did their language need to be Dutch, and why did I feel the need to respond to them in it. I curse my own lack of foresight.
The familiar comfort of speaking Dutch has lulled me into a false sense of security, making me almost forget these are still enemy soldiers seeking information about my family. I need to conciously keep reminding myself these are likely the same people that set out last night to wipe out everyone I know.
“Waarom maakt het uit wie ik ben?” I ask, trying to redirect their attention. “Jullie hebben me toch al te pakken?” The words flow more naturally now, though each familiar syllable still feels like a betrayal of my adopted home.
The commander’s face remains impassive. “Het maakt uit omdat er kinderen vermist zijn,” he says, his tone carefully measured. “En jij was wel erg ge?nteresseerd in die wachtpost.”
My heart skips a beat at the mention of children, but his choice of words - “vermist” rather than “gevonden” or “gepakt” - gives me a flicker of hope. The word choice, even if I’m sure they’re not trying to ‘save’ them suggests they haven’t found them yet. I fight to keep my expression neutral, even as relief threatens to wash over me.
“Kinderen?” I echo, trying to sound appropriately confused while my mind races. “Ik weet niks van kinderen.” The lie comes easily, but the woman holding me apparently doesn’t appreciate my evasiveness. Her grip tightens painfully on my arm.
“Je liegt,” she hisses. “Je weet meer dan je zegt. Waar zijn die kinderen heen? Hoe zijn ze de stad uitgekomen?”
I open my mouth to protest, but the commander cuts me off with a sharp gesture. “Genoeg,” he says, clearly tiring of the circle we’re going in due to his exhaustion. “Je kunt ons vertellen wat we willen weten, en dan laten we je gaan, of…” He lets the threat hang in the air, unfinished but clear.
Looking at his face, I realize I’m not going to get any more information from them—they’ve clearly decided I’m the one who needs to do the talking. The familiar language that had momentarily created a false sense of connection now feels like just another weapon they can use against me.
I need to be careful. This man in front of me is exhausted now, but I guess he’s presumably the one that did something to my head earlier, making me see things that weren’t there. It must have been some form of channeling. It’s too bad I didn’t get to see that rune. I wonder if he’s still holding it.
I drop into quick-sight. Curious about what the man had been doing. My curiosity about the man’s earlier channeling turns to ice-cold dread as I discover myself standing in the center of an enormous rune, its ethereal lines glowing with a sickly blue luminescence that cuts through my midsection like a phantom blade. It’s a pretty simple one, but I’ve never seen it before. Nor have I tried, or even considered trying to form a rune at this size before. The exhausted man’s eyes suddenly grow wide as saucers, and I watch with mounting horror as his hands frantically dance through the air, signaling to his companions with desperate urgency. My heart hammering against my ribs, I try to wrench myself out of quick-sight, but it’s too late.
Evidently, a method of detecting whether people are channeling or in quick-sight exists. The thought shatters as something solid and brutal crashes against my skull with a sickening thud. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth as the world dissolves into an inky void, swallowing me whole in its suffocating darkness.
