A Free Sworn

It was the colors that caught her first—the way sunlight seemed to cling greedily to each fold of petal, as though unwilling to let go. Nabi leaned close, eyes wide, delight written in every breath. The merchant had placed the pots near the edge of his stall, so that passersby could not help but pause. She whispered the name reverently when the small wooden tag confirmed it: Bird of Paradise.

It must have arrived only recently. She was certain she had not seen such blooms the sun before.

Anchor, beside her, looked at the paired plants with a frown. “These two be the same?” He tilted his head skeptically. “Mayhap, that one a bird. The other—” he gestured bluntly, “a crone with no teeth.”

Nabi laughed, the sound carrying like bells among the bustle of the port. The first bloom indeed was magnificent: its pointed green “beak” sharp and proud, with a crown of orange petals fanned like fiery plumage, each streak of red and yellow bold against the green stalk. A bird mid-dance, wings flaring, its beauty demanding all eyes.

And beside it, its sibling drooped in pale silence. Its crest hung limp, its beak dull and sallow. The fibers of its crown dangled like unkempt hair, each strand dry as straw.

“Not a crone,” Nabi murmured fondly, bending low to cradle the wilted stem with both hands. “Only tired. The journey across the sea is long, and not all catch the same rays. Some find less water than their sisters.” She smoothed a fingertip gently along the faded bract, her smile tender. “Give it time. Sun, but not too harsh. Mist to cool its skin. Then you will see—the crown will return, golden and bold, with rosy blush upon its beak. No less splendid than the one beside it.”

Anchor snorted softly, but his eyes warmed at the sight of her so intent. “Ya tell a fine tale o’ it.” His voice turned amused. “Mayhap I believe ya. Ya always better wit’ plants than with men.”

She grinned at him over her shoulder, her golden eyes bright with triumph. “Because plants tell no lies.”

At once she turned to the merchant, eagerness brimming. “Please, may I take it? I’ll give it the care it needs.”

The man shook his head with regret. “Ah, no. These were ordered especially for the first courtesan of Kugane Castle. She pays dearly for such exotic beauty.”

Nabi’s lips parted in protest, then softened. She sighed, nodding her acceptance. With a small bow, she whispered to both blooms, “You will have a beautiful home. Pristine soil and trickling streams.”

Still, she was not content to leave it without aid. From her pouch she drew a scrap of paper, hurriedly writing her instructions in neat script: Rest it in sun without heat until the color returns. Mist morning and evening for humidity. Water plenty, but never let it puddle. She tucked the note beneath the pot’s lip, brushing the plant one last time with her fingertips.

“Grow well,” she murmured.

XXVIII: Potential

The workshop smelled of oils and hides, the air heavy with the resin of stitched leathers. Roen ducked under the low lintel, her blade wrapped in cloth, and straightened carefully, mindful of her bearing. An elder Arkasodara sat at a low bench, spectacles perched precariously on the bridge of her broad nose, her thick fingers busy arranging lengths of a braid cord.

“Greetings,” Roen said, bowing slightly. “Forgive my intrusion. I was told to seek Utpatti. Daksh, the blacksmith down the street, said you might have the skill I need.”

The elder looked up at once, her large ears twitching as she broke into a grin. “Daksh, eh? That boy always sends me the most interesting referrals. People with troublesome blades, stranger requests.” Her eyes twinkled as she set aside her tools. “Good. At my years, child, I have no patience for boredom.”

Roen allowed herself a small smile, dipping her head. “Then perhaps I will not disappoint you.” She stepped forward, unwrapping the cloth from the weapon with both reverence and caution.

“Ah,” Utpatti breathed as the blade came into the light. At once her low voice began to hum with delight. “See here—how the runes lean into one another. Each word feeds the next, as breath does to song. Not just power, no… a weaving. A story told in strokes of light.”

Roen, at first, was less taken by the words than by the woman herself. She had never stood so close to an Arkasodara before, much less one in her elder years. The folds of her thick skin carried a history Roen could not read, as though they held years stacked atop one another. Her fingers—broad and ridged, stronger than Roen’s—moved with surprising deftness as they traced the glowing script along the blade.

“What story, then?” Roen asked, her voice quieter than she intended.

Utpatti’s laughter was a deep low rumble. “That depends, my girl. These signs may tell of many becoming one, uniting to guard what is fragile. Or they may mean that many steps, one after another, can shape a single path, endless in its way. It is always so with the old languages. Multiplicity is the heart of them. Even spells—meanings shift in the hand that speaks them.”

She set the blade aside and turned to rummage among her rolls of leather. Roen watched her pull one bundle after another, muttering over thickness and grain. When Utpatti held up a deep brown strip, she tapped it knowingly. “Not of Thavnair. This—this comes from the far East.”

Roen frowned, curiosity stirring. “How could you tell?”

The elder’s eyes glinted with humor. “Because I learned to see. My roots are here, child, but only a fool closes their study to the rest of the world. Those who share blood with my ancestors dwell upon the Steppe. Perhaps it is that old kinship that keeps me turning my gaze there.”

From another chest she pulled stoppered jars, herbs bound in twine. “And I must walk to the Great Works soon, to fetch what I need. Give me a sennight. Your hilt will be ready.”

Roen inclined her head. “I ask only for discretion. I have no wish for the Houses of Thavnair to weigh upon this.”

Utpatti chuckled, tusks gleaming. “A crafter’s silence is as sacred as a priest’s. We share knowledge with the academies, yes, but never the names of those who trust our hands. Fear not.”

Roen moved to gather the cloth about her sword once more, but Utpatti stopped her with a glance. “Do you know what this blade is, truly? What it may yet become?”

Roen paused, her hand resting upon the pommel. “Not yet. The priestess who gave it spoke much the same as you—that the runes would shift with the wielder, that its potential is not fixed. I have only just begun to learn how it answers me.” She allowed a faint smile, half determination, half wonder. “I look forward to discovering the rest.”

The elder hummed, satisfied, her tusked smile warm. “Good. Then you are already on the right path. Remember—steel holds no song until hands and heart give it voice. This blade will shape itself to the measure of your will, neither more nor less. It can become a burden in the wrong hands, but can also be a gift.”

Nabi did not like to hunt. 

In fact, she tried her best not to harm creatures when not necessary. She tried asking first, years ago, but from beetles to skunks; none would oblige, answering her with a spray of toxins or a bite on the tip of the finger, or worse. And yet, she could not turn away from what only they could give. Roots and herbs sang freely to her, but there were properties locked in flesh, blood, and secret sacs that no green thing could offer. Medicines, poisons, antidotes—sometimes one and the same—woven in ways that spoke of necessity and survival.

Ahead, she saw Tserende and Kiyokage locked in combat with a purbol, their movements sharp, practiced, the clash of steel against thrashing hide echoing in the thin air of the Steppe. Nabi winced, torn between awe and pity. Purbols fascinated her, not for their size or ferocity, but for the sacs crowning their heads, each one a tiny apothecary. Poisons, paralytics, foul odors—all stored, then blended in an instant to unleash at will. The genius of it humbled her: what alchemist could rival such instinct?

She had tried once to gather remnants after death, from beasts felled by others or carried off by time. But already the compounds broke down, soured by decay. Most of what she collected in those ways proved useless. So she was left with no choice but this—standing apart, clutching her satchel, waiting for the fight to end.

Her thoughts unraveled as Tserende darted free of the fray, urgency pulling at his voice. “Nabi, back! Too close.” He gestured sharply, already moving to shield her path.

Before she could answer, Kiyokage shouted something—half warning, half curse—and ducked low. The purbol, thrashing in its death throes, reared back and spewed, its maw unleashing a terrible doom.

A rain of liquid and fumes cascaded down. Nabi flinched, the world filling with sting and stench even with Tserende taking the brunt of the emesis. It coated her hair, her hands, the hem of her robe, soaking through.

For a breathless moment, all she could do was cough and blink through the haze. Then, oddly, she felt a kind of resignation. Perhaps this was its answer at last. She had come seeking what it held, and the purbol had given it—its whole arsenal, its life’s work—bestowed in full upon her.

The tea steamed gently between them, fragrant with roasted barley and a touch of mint that had been one of Nabi’s favorites. Mimiyo had set the cups carefully upon the low table, her hands slow and deliberate, as though stretching each moment into something she could hold. The girl would soon depart, and Mimiyo found herself weighing every glance, every word, as if they might be the last she would see or hear for a long while.

Nabi spoke cheerfully, her eyes bright as she listed the wonders of the West. Books had given her a taste for Eorzea—its cities, its forests, the strangeness of its people. She described them with an eagerness that would have sounded like joy to anyone who did not know her. But Mimiyo had raised stalls beside Chanai for half her life, and she had seen enough of the girl to recognize what others could not. Beneath the cheer ran the thin line of worry, revealed only in the way Nabi’s gaze faltered when she thought no one was watching, in the breath she held too long before she smiled again.

Mimiyo sipped her tea, letting the warmth spread through her chest. She had suspected that boy worsening for some time, and now Nabi confirmed it without hesitation, though she tucked the truth between the talk of discovery and new horizons. Brave child. Brave, and already burdened.

There was much Mimiyo had not known, and still did not. She had only learned the truth of the kidnapping after the girl had been returned. Later came murmurs of some ruin in the Steppe, of dangers that did not leave lasting marks on the skin but shadows behind the eyes. The melancholic distance she glimpsed in Nabi’s face was familiar. It was the same shadow she had seen when Chanai passed, when the xaela’s laughter had grown scarce, after grief had hollowed her quiet moments.

But this was different too. The Confederate still lived. It was not the loss of him that pressed upon Nabi’s shoulders, but the fear of it. Mimiyo was grateful for that, even in its cruelty. For as long as the boy breathed, there was tether and purpose. She had seen what happened to Chanai when love was broken. She at least had Nabi to pull her forward, but in her moments of solitude, Chanai’s gaze were always lost to the distance. No other man’s glance had ever swayed her, no new flame had been allowed.

Mimiyo’s fingers tightened around her cup. Would Nabi’s heart break the same way, if this boy slipped away? Would she, too, turn her back on love, living with only her grief as companion? Mimiyo prayed not. She had always urged Chanai to soften, to let life’s warmth return, but it had been no use. Her attention remained solely on her daughter.

Across the table, Nabi’s voice lifted again, speaking of forests where the leaves were never still, of markets with spices she had never tasted. Determination glowed in her eyes, sharper than her words. Whatever loss she had carried from the Steppe, she had bound it, healed it enough to stand here now, ready to walk west.

Good, Mimiyo thought. All souls needed something to keep their fire lit. For some it was duty, for others faith, or even vengeance. For Nabi, it was this boy—this Confederate who held her steady in the currents of her grief. Mimiyo could only hope that he would burn long enough, bright enough, to keep her niece’s passion alive.

She reached across and touched Nabi’s hand, briefly, as though sealing that hope into her.

Night pressed close when she returned to her tent. The coals in the brazier had sunk low, their glow the only witness to her unrest. Chanai unlaced her cloak with stiff fingers, but did not remove it, her hands coming to hang at her side. She stood long at the threshold, staring at the small space as though she no longer belonged to it, as if she had left some essential part of herself in that cave by the river.

She sat finally, folding her legs beneath her, and tried to summon the discipline her teacher, Siban, had drilled into her since childhood. The entire way back, she told herself she had not faltered. She had gone to him because the prophecy demanded it. She had spoken with him, laughed with him, even softened toward him—for the sake of what was to come. The child. The destiny promised to end the cycle of war. That was her purpose, her charge, the weight she had carried since girlhood.

And yet her laughter had not been feigned. That was the thorn pressing too deep. The warmth in her chest was not the cool fire of duty, but something else, dangerous and unbidden.

She pressed her palms to her eyes, as though she might rub the memory away—the earnest curve of his smile, the sound of her own voice betraying her. I did not mean to like you. The words rang still in her ears, as damning as any oath.

Chagur. She pressed his name back down before it could settle sweetly in her thoughts. He was open in ways she had not expected of a Junghid warrior, but that did not make him singular. She was certain that her impressions of him were far too perfect and could not actually be true; men like him—skilled, handsome, and unashamed in their cheer—surely they had women swooning around them, even within his tribe. He probably knew well enough how to charm with a smile and a laugh. Was she just another girl he met by the river? Just another conquest? How many other conquests came before her?

Her jaw tightened. Was that jealousy she felt, the sudden heat in her chest? Chanai scoffed aloud, startling herself, the sound sharp in the quiet. How absurd. How utterly foolish. She had watched other girls of her age trip over themselves with courtships, their fluttering glances, their late-night whispers. She had thought it all beneath her. And now—now she sat stewing over whether a Junghid warrior smiled this way at others?

Chanai pressed her palm to her brow, shaking her head. No. She would not tumble into that mire. She was not like them. Her purpose was larger, older, heavier than such trifles. This was a part she was meant to play, nothing more.

And yet—perhaps it was easier now. She did not need to act. That was the dangerous comfort she found herself circling back to. She no longer rehearsed her lines, no longer calculated every glance. Their conversations came as naturally as breathing, without the strain of design. She found herself eager for them, anticipating them in a way she told herself was only strategy, nothing else.

Her thoughts drifted to Chagur again, and this time she did not stop them. She saw his scars, his laughter, the way his voice gentled when he spoke of her crossing the river. I am honored by the accident. The memory unsettled her, yet she clung to it all the same.

Chanai drew a long breath, steadying the thrum in her chest. She was not lost to his current. She would guide its flow. She told herself this once, then again, as though repetition alone might seal it into truth.

Her eyes fell shut, and she exhaled slowly, letting her shoulders soften. No matter what else, she would see him again. She must. She wanted. That much she could not deny. But where it would lead—whether to triumph or folly—would depend on her resolve when the time came.

Nabi’s satchel lay open on the cot, each bundle of herbs wrapped in waxed paper, each vial carefully nested so they would not jostle against one another. She worked slowly, as though every knot tied and flap folded was a way of steadying herself before the journey. Their stay in Gridania had been brief, a pause too short for the ache of memory to fully fade, yet long enough for something gentler to take root. Here the air was green and damp, fragrant with pine and loam. It had given her, if not healing, then at least a breathing space from the shadows that clung to them still.

Her hands stilled over one small parcel, not herbs nor tincture, but a bundle of seeds wrapped in soft cloth. It had come from a stall half-hidden along the festival lane, where lanterns and garlands blazed in cheerful brightness. This stall had none of that; its table was bare wood, and the woman behind it was bent and weathered, as though she herself were an old root. Yet her smile had been gentle, and she had beckoned Nabi over with a lift of her hand.

Ghoa had been too busy marveling at a collection of moogle dolls in the next stall to notice, so Nabi had approached alone.

“You there,” the woman rasped, her eyes clouded, searching. “A padjal, are you not?”

Nabi blinked, startled, then laughed softly. “No, grandmother. I am Xaela. From the Steppe, far east of here.” She inclined her head, adding quickly, “We are a people of many tribes. All Au Ra are born with horns.”

The old woman squinted at her, suspicion and curiosity mingling in her gaze. “And do your people have hearers, then? Ones who speak with the wood, as our padjals do?”

Nabi tilted her head, unsure. She had read of Gridania’s Seedseers, but only in texts on flora and fauna, never in politics or power. Yet the question stirred recognition. “You mean the songs of the earth?” she asked, almost shyly. “Yes. I have heard them, always. My mother taught me how.”

A surprised sound escaped the woman’s throat, halfway between laugh and sigh. “Then you are a hearer, by another name. Do your folk not gather such voices into a council, as ours do?”

Nabi shook her head, smiling faintly. “Not quite. We have udgans, wise women who guide the khan and the tribe. They are seers, not rulers.”

The woman’s mouth curved with satisfaction. “A hearer, nonetheless. I knew I had not misjudged.”

Nabi’s gaze fell then upon the woman’s hands. They were rough, scarred, blotched with old rashes, the nails rimmed with soil. “Your hands ache,” Nabi murmured.

The woman dismissed it with a snort. “From pulling stubborn roots about my house. I keep a plot for myself. Small, paltry. But it gives me these.” She gestured to the table, where packets of seeds lay scattered like tiny promises. “Take some, if you will. A small price, nothing more.”

Nabi gathered them all, pressing a good amount of gil into the woman’s hand—and with it, slipped her own pair of gloves and a balm wrapped in linen. “These will ease your work, and your skin,” she said simply.

The woman’s cloudy eyes softened. She pressed a small pouch into Nabi’s hand along with the seeds. “Come back, next time you are in Gridania. By then, my hands will be better, the roots will be cleared, and I will have more to give you.”

Nabi bowed her head in gratitude. “Then I will return, grandmother. And perhaps I will ask the roots myself to find gentler ground.”

The woman chuckled, raspy and warm, and Nabi tucked the parcel carefully into her satchel.

Later, as she packed, she remembered the pouch. Loosening the drawstring, she found not seeds, but a scattering of oddments: small glass baubles that caught the lamplight and glimmered faintly, like dew preserved in crystal. At the bottom lay a key, simple iron, worn smooth with age. She turned it in her hand, puzzled at its weight. It was not marked, nor paired with any lock she knew.

She considered asking—but the thought of the old woman’s cloudy eyes and gentle smile stilled her tongue. Some gifts were not meant to be explained.

Nabi fastened the pouch shut again, slipping it carefully beside her herbs.

Now, as she drew the flap of her satchel closed, she felt the weight of the seeds and the pouch together not as a burden but as a promise. A reason to return, a thread tying her forward. Outside, the forest whispered in its endless green tongue. She smiled faintly, and thought of the roots and of the old woman’s scarred hands, and of the hope that next time, both would be better.

The cave by the river smelled of damp stone and woodsmoke. The water’s murmur outside softened the edge to their words, hesitant at first, as if both were still listening for pursuit. Chanai had come with purpose, her resolve folded about her like a cloak. She had rehearsed how she would draw his gaze, how she would lean close and let him catch her breath. She had promised herself she would not be swayed by his eyes or his smile.

But Chagur’s presence did not bow to her plans. He was too earnest, too open, his cheerfulness unfeigned. For all the strength in his broad shoulders and the way his hands bore the marks of blade and bow, he carried with him the lightness of someone who had not forgotten the beauty of things. The morin khuur rested against the wall, but even silent, it seemed to hum with him.

“You know,” he said at length, picking at the laces of his gauntlet, “my khan would call your people selfish to their bones. Hoarders. Keepers of plenty, but never sharers.”

Her golden eyes narrowed slightly, but her mouth bent with a restrained smile. “And mine would say the same of yours. Junghid—the endless takers. Never content, always reaching further, devouring what is not theirs.”

For a moment they held each other’s gaze, two mirrors reflecting the same lie. Then, unexpectedly, Chagur laughed. It came deep from his chest, warm and bright, echoing in the stone hollow. “How strange,” he said, leaning back on one hand as he settled comfortably upon the sheep rug. “We sing the same songs of hatred, only with the names reversed.”

Chanai’s lips parted in surprise, and then—despite herself—she huffed too. She pressed her fingers to her mouth, but it was too late; the mirth lingered in her eyes.

Her ease betrayed her. She felt it the moment the breath slipped free, the moment her chest loosened, and she hated herself for it. This was supposed to be deliberate, a meeting arranged by her own will to draw him closer, to weave him into the vision Siban had whispered of. She had not intended to be drawn in herself.

Emboldened, Chagur leaned closer. “Our prayers differ, yes. Our rites. But our names for the river, for the sky, and our songs… do they not sound much the same?”

“Not quite,” she said, though her voice had softened. “Your instruments carry a sorrow that ours do not. The Kharlu sing with fire, but Junghid songs… they ache, as if mourning already.”

He considered this, then reached for his morin khuur, plucking a note that hung in the air like a question. “And what of your food? We are told the Kharlu season theirs with trickery, hiding blandness with spice.”

Chanai arched a brow, pride prickling. “Trickery? Perhaps that’s only what your tongue cannot handle.”

He grinned, boyish despite the scars at his jaw. “I’ll grant you this: the buuz your people make… it’s better than my mother’s. There is something there. Something we do not know.”

The admission struck her strangely, honest and unguarded. She found herself replying in kind: “And your music—” She stopped, words catching, but his expectant eyes drew the truth from her. “It is sweeter than anything I’ve heard beneath our skies. Though I may be biased. It is not only the instrument that plays.”

Silence fell. His hand stilled on the strings, his smile softened into something quieter, more dangerous.

And before she could stop herself, she whispered, “I did not mean to like you.”

The words caught her as much as him. She turned her head sharply, ashamed of the heat rising to her cheeks.

Chagur’s voice was gentle, stripped of jest. “Then perhaps you should not have come back to me.”

She bit her lip. She wanted to say she came for prophecy, for fate, for reasons that had nothing to do with the way his eyes softened when they met hers. Instead she swallowed hard, managing the mask of calm back onto her face as she turned back. “I came because I was meant to,” she said. But her voice betrayed her, too quiet, too unsteady.

For a long breath, he only studied her, as though searching the truth hidden beneath her words. Then, carefully, he set aside the morin khuur and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.

“You may tell yourself that,” he said softly. “That the river carried you here because of duty. Because of fate. But I do not believe in rivers that drag us unwilling.” His dark eyes held hers with steady warmth. “You crossed for your own reasons, Chanai. And I am glad for whatever they are.”

She tried to scoff, to raise her defenses, but the earnestness in his voice made the words catch in her throat. Her heart thudded painfully, as if it sought to betray her again.

“And if you did not mean to like me,” he added, with a quiet smile that held both mirth and tenderness, “then I am honored by the accident.” He put his palm against his chest, bowing his head low.

It was too much. She looked away again, clutching her arms as though to shield herself from the heat rising between them. This was folly, dangerous folly. And yet the echo of his words warmed her in a way no prophecy ever had.

Chanai’s thoughts churned. She had meant to flatter him, to coax him further along the path she believed fate demanded. But the longer they talked, she was starting to forget about the obligations that brought her here. And when he laughed again, low and easy, and leaned back against the stone with an air of utter contentment, she felt the tension in her own body ease.

The conversation wandered after that, safer ground of songs and food and absurd jokes about what punishments awaited if either were discovered here. Their laughter mingled, floating lightly above the hush of the river. Yet the fragile thread of her admission—and his response, careful and true—remained, humming in the space between them.

By the time the fire dwindled low, Chanai’s shoulders were no longer set with purpose. Her thoughts stopped halting to see if she was veering off course. She was only a woman, laughing in the company of a man who looked at her as if she were the most marvelous thing he had ever seen.

Two years ago.

The forge in Thavnair breathed heat, red and alive. Sparks rose like fireflies as the blacksmith drew steel from the coals, hammer ringing out its sharp cadence. Roen stepped inside, the wrapped sword cradled in her arms.

When the man saw it laid upon his bench, his brows drew together. The cloth fell away to reveal the pommel—wings wrought in simple, elegant fire—and the length of the blade, lined with faint runes that glowed like banked embers.

“This is no common work,” he said slowly, running a calloused thumb along the grip. “The balance is true. The make… foreign. These runes—” he shook his head—“they are beyond my forge. For such things you’d want scholars. Casters. Or better, the chemists of House Dener. They alone could shape metal to fit what aether already flows through.”

Roen’s mouth tightened, her red hair damp with the forge heat. “I have had enough dealings with the Houses of Thavnair. I did not come to alter the blade.”

The blacksmith looked up, puzzled. “Then why bring it?”

“I need a hilt worthy of it,” she said at last. “A normal binding will not hold. The sword has its own temper. It rejects what is common.”

The smith frowned, thoughtful. “Not a blacksmith’s task, then. An aetheric one. Still…” He set the weapon down carefully, as if its runes might stir. “There is one woman. My father worked with her once. An elder artisan—she made hilts for patrons with unusual tastes or elaborate magical weapons. She may still take commissions.” He wrote the name and address on a piece of parchment, sliding it over to the paladin.

Roen inclined her head. “Then I shall find her. Gratitude.” She drew the cloth back over the sword, wrapping it tightly. She tucked the offered information into her pouch.

The blacksmith hesitated before speaking again. “If I may ask one thing in return. Where did it come from? To know such artistry exists… it humbles me. But I’ve never seen its like.”

Roen’s eyes lifted, gray and unreadable. “A tribe deep in the Steppe,” she said. “One that does not trade with outsiders.” She paused as if to consider sharing further. After all, the man did give her the courtesy of offering her a possible contact. “Btu they are known to hone a single skill their entire lifetime.”

His curiosity pressed further. “Then how came it into your hands?”

She smiled then, faint and enigmatic, as she lifted the sword back into her arms. “A promise,” she said softly. “An oath for steel.”

The mountain rose sheer before him, stone upon stone stacked by time itself, and Chagur moved up its face like a shadow. His party let him go as they always did, the excuse of a higher vantage enough to ease their curiosity. None questioned the Junghid’s skill—he was the best among them at climbing, springing from ledge to ledge with a strength and swiftness that seemed born to the stone. And none teased him for what followed, though his friends knew. Always strapped to his back was the morin khuur, and when the watch was ended, he sought solitude, letting its deep voice echo against rock and sky.

This sun, his thoughts had already run far ahead of his body. On the other side of the ridge lay a river cave, a hidden place where the Kharlu healer waited. He saw her already in his mind’s eye—golden gaze steady, shoulders proud, the faint, sharp fragrance of herbs woven into her hair.

Then the rock betrayed him. A ledge, solid at a glance, sheared away under his step. For a breath he hung in the air, the gorge yawning beneath him. He flung an arm wide, caught another edge, and swung hard into the cliffside, boots scraping for purchase. Breath burned in his throat. A smirk tugged at his lips, rueful, chastising. He had let his thoughts run before his body.

He stilled himself, closed his eyes briefly. And there she was again, as if the danger had sharpened her in his memory. Chanai. A udgan in training, her tribe’s healer. A Kharlu. An enemy. And yet—he had fallen for her from the first moment he saw her across the One River, filling her pail. The sight of her had been like a strike of lightning through dry grass.

Their meetings were few still. Words fewer. Yet every look carried weight, every silence more eloquent than speech.

“I warn you,” she had said once, when his smile lingered too long, “I am more thorn than blossom. A cactus, sharp to the touch.”

“And cacti bloom,” he had countered easily, eyes bright. “Some only once a year, some only in the secret dark of night. But when they open, they are the most rare, the most treasured. Worth waiting for.”

She had turned away then, but not before he saw the curve of her mouth falter, caught between resistance and some deeper tug.

Little victories. A glance held longer than needed. A smile half-hidden. They were treasures to him, more dangerous than any fall.

And yet here he was, climbing in peril with those memories crowding his mind. He pressed his brow against the stone, drew breath until the heat of eagerness cooled. If he missed another step, if he fell—she would be left waiting, and he would have betrayed her unspoken trust. He could not bear that thought.

Many years ago.

Roen’s armor hung loose at the shoulders, the greaves pinching where they should not. She had taken what she could from the armory in the confusion before departure, and at sixteen years the weight of it was more than she had ever borne. Still she marched, her breath heavy in her throat, her hand firm on the hilt at her side. She had slipped into the ranks without her father’s knowledge. To stand among the legion—this was her chance, she told herself, to prove her worth, to win his gaze.

The Flats of Carteneau stretched ahead, a wide and empty plain under a lowering sky. The camp swelled with noise: the bark of officers, the clatter of armor, the restless hiss of engines. Magitek vanguards stood like iron titans among the flesh and blood, their gears grinding, pistons steaming as they lurched forward into formation. The ground trembled beneath each step, the soil itself sinking under their weight.

Around her, the soldiers’ faces were hard, expressionless, but Roen wondered if any of them felt as she did—tight with fear, uncertain as to what lay ahead. Garlemald was a nation nourished on wars and conquests. To her it had always been news in her father’s study: neat reports of territories subdued, of beasts driven out, of savages brought to heel beneath Imperial order. Words on parchment had never shown her the smoke, the sweat, the living dread.

Her mother’s world had been different. The woman’s shelves and halls had been filled with the strange, the beautiful, the things of other lands—bright fabrics, painted masks, tales told in foreign tongues. Rider too had spoken of such things, with his quick grin and wide eyes. He never cursed the Empire; his family worked diligently to earn their place, his homeland quiet under Garlemald’s shadow. He would speak of his people as proud, clever, resilient. For him, the conquest had been peace.

But this—this was no quiet occupation. This was battle.

Roen bit her lip, tugged the helm down until it pressed firm across her brow. The visor narrowed her vision, and the world became the space between iron. Her breath rasped hot inside it. She tightened her hand on the sword’s grip, remembering the years of practice—wooden sticks clashing in the garden, steel in her arms before she had even the strength to lift it properly. She could do this. She told herself she could.

And yet… was this why she had come? To conquer those who did not wish to be conquered? To prove herself not as protector, but as one who took?

She dared not search the lines for Rider. He had enlisted two years before her, older, braver, always ahead. To find him here, among the armored ranks, would be to risk discovery. And discovery would end everything.

The command rang out. The legion shifted. Magitek engines screamed, and the march began across the open plain.

XV - Threat

The fire in the brazier had burned low, casting long, soft shadows along the walls of the yurt. Chanai, still a child, nestled close to Siban’s knee, her eyes wide and unblinking. The old udgan’s voice was low, slow, carrying the weight of something older than either of them.

“There was once,” Siban began, “a mountain, vast and ancient, whose roots reached the bones of the world. At its feet lay a tranquil valley, where creatures lived in peace. The mountain loved them all. It gave them rivers of clear water, roots and fruits enough for plenty, and meadows bright with flowers.

“Of them all, the mountain loved a child most dearly. This child tended a single kind of flower, setting its seeds where the sun struck each morning. When the petals opened to drink the light, the mountain felt joy, as though the bloom were a song sung to it alone.”

Chanai hugged her knees, already imagining the flowers, already wondering what kind they were.

“But,” Siban’s voice darkened, “there were some creatures—cleverer, more willful than the rest—who began to take more than they needed. They hoarded fruit, uprooted roots, dammed rivers. They fought one another over what had always been freely given. The beauty of the valley withered. Fields burned, animals fled. The rivers ran with blood, and the ground grew heavy with the bodies of the dead.

“The mountain, watching, was torn. It loved them all, even those who destroyed. Yet it grieved for what was lost, for flowers trampled, for innocence stolen. Its heart blackened with sorrow and burned with anger, growing hot as molten stone. Fire rose in it, longing to break free.

“And so,” Siban said, her gaze distant, “the mountain bound its own heart, wrapped it tight, and lay down in slumber. Upon its back the flowers of the child still bloomed, their lullabies weaving a veil of rest. The mountain dreamed, and did not rage.

“But listen well, child. The mountain knew one day it would wake. And if the child—or the child’s child—called to it, it would rise. Yet it could not know what it would become then. Would its blackened heart be healed by love, and so give life once more? Or would it break, and fire pour forth to destroy all it once cherished?”

Siban’s eyes, glinting in the dim firelight, fixed on young Chanai. Her voice sank to a whisper, more breath than word: