#chapterfic

Sasha remembers dying. Remembers how it felt. He doesn't know who caused that final blow, but he knows it was a bullet. He felt it tear through the meat of his chest and rip through the veins nearest his heart. It burned like a fire from a low rung of hell, one much worse than the ones he'd felt before.

He'd been shot before. He'd felt the heat of the metal as it pushed through him, but not like this. No. This was different. He knew this is the one he wouldn't come back from.

The hope of a saviour died out quickly - Jett and Gekko were across site engaged in a fight, Sage was pinned behind a wall, and Phoenix… well, who knows where Phoenix was. He lay there, hand clutched over his chest, breath shallow and stinging his lungs as they fought to keep him going. He couldn't blame anyone for that either. He'd hung back, lurking in the background as he tried to keep an eye on everyone.

The protector of everyone except himself, it seems.

It didn't matter for very long - he was dead in under a minute. Even if someone had noticed they wouldn't have been able to save him. His last breath wasn't significant, it wasn't poetic or comforting. It was painful. The most pain he'd ever felt in his life.

Then it was done. He was dead. The end.

Or at least he thought it would have been.

He was lost for a while, wandering a vast, white space. There was nothing. No pain, no fear, nothing. He wasn't cold. He wasn't warm. He was just there. He walked and walked over unnaturally flat terrain. He seemed to make no progress.

Days, weeks, maybe years passed. Or was it minutes? He didn't mind either way. Or did he? He wasn't sure. It was all blurred, just a smudge of white blinding his vision until it all faded back in.

It was faint at first, just a muffled whisper in the distance. It was the first thing he’d heard in ages - decades it felt like. He followed it, chased it, ran for the first time since his death towards something other than that awful, blank, silent whiteness. It came into focus and shifted colour.

It was darker now. And he felt something. A deep unease crept into his bones as the blinding brightness faded off into a cool, dark shadow. The voice was nearly in his ear now, but he realised it wasn’t directed towards him.

The conversation was one sided, questions flowed from one side only to be answered with silence. He recognised her then.

“Fade?” Sasha calls out, voice cracking from disuse.

The voice stops mid-sentence as she drifts into his view. She stood there before him in the dark void, eyes wide with shock. Shock? Terror? Sadness? He wasn’t sure.

“Fade?” He tries again. He receives no response aside from her petrified stare. He digs deep, trying to remember enough about her after his absence to jar her out of her silence. “Hazal?”

She flinches at the name. “You’re dead.”

“I know.”

Her look softens, shifting from disbelief to a proper sadness. “Sage tried to bring you back, but something went wrong.”

Sasha hums in response, still locking eyes with Fade. “Was everyone else ok? Did they survive?” He receives a nod in response. “I’m glad.”

Hazal shifts uncomfortably, still seemingly coming to terms with her current position. “I’m not sure how you’re here - Nightmare isn’t exactly the afterlife.”

“I only just got here - I followed your voice. Before it was white - all of it. Forever.”

“Sounds lame.” Fade jests, a very forced attempt to add to the conversation. “I just - I’m not sure what to make of this. I never knew that this crossover was possible. I’ve never experienced something like this before.”

Silence returns to the darkness around them. Fade feels herself drifting, slowly being pulled out of Nightmare and back into consciousness. It must be visually obvious, as Sasha’s eyes look panicked.

“Fade?” His voice is pained, the reality that he’ll be alone to drift again rapidly setting in.

“I’m sorry, Sasha, I can’t control it!” Hazal fights against the fading as much as she can until she finally feels herself waking up, reaching her hand out to Sasha. He cannot reach her.

As she’s pulled further she hears Sova calling out one more time: “Look for me where you would usually find me. I will try to follow you as best as I can.”

Hazal wakes up as she always does - gasping for air and shaking. She reaches for the bottle of water on her bedside table and gulps it down, dry throat straining as she does. Had that been real? Sasha speaking to her within Nightmare?

Was such a thing really possible?

She forces herself to sit up, rubbing her still tired eyes as she tries to unpack what she’d seen. She slowly rises out of her bed and shuffles over to her desk to write down her conversations with Nightmare. She had much to sort out.

Her body was still buzzing with anxiety and her mind still foggy, which might account for why she didn’t notice him.

Sasha stood in the corner of Fade’s room. He felt weak and disoriented, but there he stood, firmly on the ground of Valorant HQ. He’d done as he’d promised, chasing after Hazal as she faded back into her mind and physical body and somehow had found himself beside her.

He slowly moves his fingers, then his toes, then sluggishly lifts his hand up to his eyes. He’s solid. Firm. At least he thinks so.

“Fade?” He calls out weakly, voice cracking as it had when he’d seen her first in Nightmare. He clears his throat and tries again. “Fade!”

No response.

“Hazal! Can you hear me?” He takes a step forward, feeling his legs nearly limp forward as he tries to get them to follow his mental requests. Fade continues writing in her journal - hands jerking about and scrawling sloppy, unorganised notes onto the blank pages.

Sasha watches with sorrow as her face twists into a look of pain, tears slowly finding their ways into her eyes. He suddenly feels like he’s invading her privacy. He is, he realises, awkwardly stepping backwards to give her some space.

He intends to lean back against the wall to steady himself, but feels a chill run down his spine as he glides straight through it.

He stands perplexed, staring at the wall he’d just backed through.

He was really dead. A ghost.

A ghost? He thinks. It’s not something he’d ever believed in, not even considered for a moment. His chest tightens at the thought that the ones he’d lost might be reachable like this.

Sasha’s thoughts are interrupted by the sound of footsteps. They echo down the hallway and approach him. He instinctively steps to the side to make space, but mentally kicks himself for it.

Sage and Jett turn the corner, speaking quietly to each other. Sage is carrying a bouquet of flowers - face sombre. They fall silent as they walk past Sasha and stop in front of a door.

His door - the one to his bedroom. It sets heavily with him as Sage opens the door and slowly walks in. Jett stands at the door, leaning on the doorframe without truly crossing the threshold into the room.

Sova slowly makes his way past her, walking into what used to be his space. It is mostly untouched, bed still roughly made and laundry still in the hamper when he’d changed that last time.

The only notable change to the space was on his desk. The notebooks and laptop had been stacked and set aside, leaving space for several new objects to be placed.

He comes closer, looking over the items. In the centre sits a large vase filled with slowly wilting flowers, Around it are various snacks and items that he recognised from his teammates. Little trinkets that held memories of him or snacks he’d once shared with him littered the desk in a type of altar to his memory.

What hit him the hardest and nearly left a sick taste to his mouth were the photos. There were many either framed or propped up around the other items. Photos of he and Brimstone from an ice fishing trip they’d been on, a group photo from the early days of the protocol, a few random polaroids that Phoenix and Jett had randomly started taking a few months before he’d died.

He chokes up when his eyes land on one of him and his babushka. How had he only just thought about her? Surely she knew he was gone… Is she handling it ok? Who will be with her now? Is she alone? He sits on his bed out of habit, pleasantly surprised that it was something he could still do.

“I didn’t mean to let these go for so long - they’re rotting.” Sage’s voice cuts through his thoughts, startling him for a moment.

“I doubt he’d mind.” Jett responds, voice lower than her usual cheerful tone. Sage hums in response, seemingly only half interested in the reply as she replaces the dying flowers in the vase with fresh ones.

“I still feel bad. Don’t want him feeling forgotten.” Sage’s words sting, even though they shouldn’t.

“He’s gone, Sage, he doesn’t know.”

“I’m not.” Sova mutters in response, unheard by the two women.

“He is, yes. I thought time would make it better, but I still feel awful.” Sage snaps, voice cracking a bit. Jett comes to her side and pulls her into a hug from the side.

“울지마 - it’s ok, I promise you.” Jett consoles, swaying slightly with Sage as she breaks down. “If he’s out there he knows we miss him, yeah? He’d remember that.”

For the second time that day, Sasha feels like an invader, just lingering around as someone he cares for breaks down in front of him. A wave of hopelessness washes over him. He’d felt hopeless in the past, sure, but not like this. This didn’t even feel like hopelessness, but he wasn’t in the place to place words at the moment.

For now he was fully focused on the feeling of bile raising up his throat. Can dead people puke? It absolutely felt like that was about to be the case.

He stands up from his bed and leaves his room, feeling ill and like he needs air. Perhaps he should have stayed put - the awful, blinding whiteness was feeling like the more bearable option.

Down the hallway, Cypher clicks through his cameras. He was in his room, eyes casually glancing across one of his six monitors. This wasn’t his official surveillance station, just the spare one he’d set up for more “light” surveillance needs when he wasn’t up to leaving for his proper office.

It had been happening less and less as the time passed since the day Sova had died, but it was still much more comfortable to sit in his room than in an office where he had to mask himself. (And wear trousers, but that’s neither here nor there.)

He’d seen Sage and Jett heading to Sova’s old room and had decided to keep an eye on them. A month had passed and yet Sage seemed no calmer now than the day it had happened. Well, “a month”…technically only 27 days. Amir had kept count.

He was surprised to find himself mourning Sasha’s death considering their strained relationship, but the tenseness had always been more from the archer’s side than Amir’s. There were many times that Amir had tried to bridge that gap, but Sasha just didn’t trust him. Which is fair - Cypher could hardly blame him.

His eyes are focused on the doorway leading into Sasha’s room- no, the room that Sasha had lived in- hoping to see Sage and Jett leaving soon. If not, he decided that he was going to head down, check-in on the two.

He glances over to his teacup, sighing in dismay to find it empty. As he reaches over to the shelf beside his desk to select a new tea, he notices a person leaving Sova’s room on the monitor. The relief is instant, but brief.

Amir properly looks to the monitor to see if Sage and Jett were ok as they leave the room but freezes in his seat.

The figure he sees leaving the room isn’t Sage nor Jett, no - it’s Sasha.

He drops the box of tea to the ground, not even noticing it pop open and spill expensive leaves onto the carpet, hands immediately returning to the keyboard to pause the camera footage.

Amir pulls the mask off and rubs his eyes, hoping to clear and refocus them. He obviously needed it - he was starting to see things. He selects the camera that he’d been looking at and makes it fullscreen, allowing the settings to enhance the video for the new resolution.

He back-tracks the paused feed a few seconds to reassure himself he hadn’t seen what he thought he had, but was met by horror. There, clear as day in the middle of the screen, is Sasha. Not all of him, almost as if he were fading out from the feet up.

But there was no mistaking it - that was Sasha. Sova. Walking through the hallway outside of what used to be his assigned room. It was impossible, unthinkable, and currently happening.

Amir rewinds and rewatches the footage a few more times, praying each time that he’d clarify what he was still sure had to be an error. It doesn’t help. Every rewind showed clearly the semi-transparent form of Sasha pacing down the hallway as if he’d never left.

“Ghost…but that’s not…that isn’t…” Amir leans back into his chair, brain absolutely frying from the slow onset of a reality he simply was not in a place to accept. His fingers thread into the hair at the back of his neck as he tries to ground himself. If he’d seen it in person he would have been fine - could have blamed it on grief or some emotional shit but no, technology doesn't lie.

Sasha’s ghost is wandering the halls of the Valorant Protocol headquarters.

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hihiiiiii- if you made it all the way down here then thanks for reading! i'm thinking about putting this one up on ao3 since it's going to be several chapters haha. ngl i already have chapter 2 written bc i accidently went ham at 3am so i'll get around to posting it once i have the ao3 setup <3

first time back writing something longer so hopefully it came out ok! :)

Dropping the dishes into a wash basin, Til knows sleep will not come easily to him. He nods to himself, deciding that if sleep will not come to him—for there’s nothing for him to do at this hour—then he might as well go about his duties. There’s always work to be done, and he’d rather keep his hands—and his thoughts—busy rather than lingering.

As he walks through the ancient walls of the castle, past the sleepy and stumbling staff, he thinks about why he broke so quickly and agreed to help.

He’s not trying to stand out; he has no desire to. He’s been a faithful steward of the King, and that’s all that he needs to be to one day reach his reward. But here he is, planning to offer himself like a lamb for the slaughter because tired, hurting, sky-blue eyes asked it of him. 

Perhaps this will be what launches him to his final reward?

Til nods to a pair of knights, helmets off and chatting quietly, tucked away into a mossy alcove. They likely wait for the next tolling of the bells to stand watch over the early morning training.

Others were scattered around the castle as Til walked past. 

The kingdom has only known peace since Til’s arrival there, with only the occasional attempt on the King’s life, even warranting the smallest number of the knights and Honored. There’s no need, never has been, for so many soldiers, for so many prepared for war. Even with the threat of King Adem’s devices, a threat of war never reached them. The knights and Honored were rarely needed outside of the city surrounding the castle, let alone farther out into the kingdom.

Although Til’s rounds often take him out of the castle and through the city, down a winding path that leads all throughout the streets—he and the other knights reminding people, warning them, the kingdom is guarded against attack—Til doesn’t go out into the city this time. 

Instead, he stops by the massive gates that, when open, are large enough to allow a dozen men abreast to walk through. They have never changed location since Til’s arrival, which feels like a lifetime ago. One door is always open, and the other is always shut. Leafy vines anchor themselves on the sun and water-damaged wood, slipping through the massive bars holding it all together. A sight to admire when the flowers were blooming, though the vines themselves are just as pretty. Some of the tendrils are as thin as a hair, whereas others have grown as thick around as Til’s wrist. 

There has been no need for the gates to be opened to allow an army to exit or closed to keep an enemy out.

Beside the gate was one of the other Honored, one who had only recently joined their ranks. It wasn’t long ago he’d been a child among many training, one of many in a crowd of youths in Til’s mind.

The practice of years of never seeing his fellows' faces had taught Til much about body language. The boy’s exhaustion radiated from him, despite his valiant job, standing tall and straight, without leaning on anything. Til thought if he wasn’t going to sleep, someone else should.

Til sends the newly graced Honored back to the castle, suggesting he rest before going out to the city to enjoy himself.

The younger Honored—whose name Til doesn’t catch—thanks him even as he looks around as though he was expecting someone else to appear and tell him to get back to work.

Til watches the young man leave, wondering about his name. He’d only left training the year previous; Til had trained him as well. He’s sure at some point he’d known the younger knight’s name, but now it proves as difficult to grasp as fog.

It doesn’t matter. Til would watch the front gates; it wasn’t the first morning he’d taken over. In fact, it was something of a habit when a restless night turned into an all too early morning, and sleep eluded him the whole time.

The code that the Honored were required to follow, that Til was required to follow, was certainly something that had kept him up before. 

If that was his goal, he’d bring it up to the King when he was Kingsguard.

But today, he feels that talking to the common folk might help him understand his thoughts. 

At this time of day, it’d mostly be people who worked within the castle who didn’t live on the grounds or those carrying supplies.

As most of the people he checks pass through the gates, none sway his thoughts from the missing children. Though they do remind him of his own disappearance, as it were. 

When he’d fled his home to come to Argest, he’d been more than a boy but full of angry pride and determination. He’d been so sure he could change things, truly change things, and prove his kinsfolk wrong. 

And he has.

But they weren’t the things that he’d come here to do. It didn’t stop him from wanting to help the young ones, children who showed up at the castle looking for a purpose, something like freedom, what they really needed. At least as close as they could get. 

It wasn’t enough.

Before him, an older woman appears—one who’s long since started stooping and only seemed to get shorter in all the years Til’s known her—guiding her mule-pulled cart, the back of it covered with a heavy quilt embroidered with a field of flowers made from threads of a thousand colors. He’d asked her once how she got the quilt, but she would only say “magic” with a secretive smile. She stops the cart before the gate without being prompted and uncovers the back before Til can ask.

“Good morning, ma’am. What brings you to the castle today?” Even though Til knows the woman, it’s hard not to after seeing her twice a week for years, he can’t be familiar with her. Though a part of him aches to know her name. Like with the young Honored, he’s sure he’d learned it at some point, but it’s been too long for him to ask again.

“Good morning, Honored Til! I’m just bringing in the eggs for the castle. You know, I was talking to my cousin the other day. And she said that…” Til isn’t sure how she knows his name, just that she did. She starts her story without end once again, as it had been unfolding for all the years he’d known her. She shows him the mountain of eggs she has for the kitchen, showing him that none were cracked as she tells her story. 

As the woman drones on, Til wonders what the King thinks of him. He makes all the right noises, allowing the woman to tell the plights of her and her cousins. Her stories aren’t the most interesting, but more than once, Til’s learned of a chicken-based catastrophe thanks to her, which was reason enough to listen to her stories.

The only reason he has to stop her is the next cart creeping up the hill. He likes to let her talk as long as she wants; he’s always been curious to see if she would talk the whole day away if given the chance.

“Alright, ma’am. See you next week.” Til waves her through, raising his hand for the cart that’s still making its way up the hill, “Next!” 

The tailor isn’t someone Till knows well, not well enough to know his name or wonder even about it. An event is happening soon, so of course, the King needs new garb for it. But if Til’s one of the people going on this grand journey he may have already agreed to, then he won’t have to worry about it himself.

If he proves himself now, he can earn his place amongst the Kingsguard.

Now that he thinks about it, it’s really a golden opportunity being dropped into his lap. 

He misses most of what the tailor explains as he shows his many cloths, but he has other people arriving at the gates, “Very well, have a nice day. Next.”

All he has to do is take it.

✨✨✨

Hours pass before he is relieved at the gate by another Honored, who sends him to rest. The lack of sleep tugs at him, weighing him down; his feet drag as he walks, and his shoulders dip until it seems only his armor holds him up. He pressed on.

He can’t think about his lack of sleep, about the dark fogginess that settles within his mind. He can’t think of his cell. If he goes back, he’ll be alone, truly alone with his thoughts. Without sight to distract him, only the most muddled sounds of those around him will keep him company.

Unease deepening, Til thought of times like these that made him question why he remained Honored. Why did he wear the Helmet at all times, at the oddest of hours? Why does he submit to the black abyssal cell to sleep and prepare himself in?

Among the most stifling rules the Honored follow is that he couldn’t even see himself. Can’t even take off the Helmet to look in a mirror and question if it was really all worth it.

This is part of being Honored. The knights, who’d already taken off their helmets, had no need to worry about the majority of the code Honored adhered to. However, when they drop Honored, they can no longer become Kingsguard and reap any of the rewards of that station. Til didn’t care as much for the rewards as the options they would give him. For the time being, he has to keep his Helmet on and follow the rules.

Then he’d be able to get that part of himself back when this was all said and done. 

Til walks the courtyard alone, noting the knights who should be watching over it have left. Not that there’s much need for it to be guarded outside of the training hours. The only people who spent time there were pages and maids, who used it as a shortcut. Though Til supposes that visiting dignitaries could spend time here. Admire the artful stone structures and grown-over suits of armor from long-dead Kingsguard littering the courtyard while their personal staff followed. 

It had been a while since there’d been any visitors. Til couldn’t remember the last time there had been some. 

Even though there’s no need for watchkeeping, Til finds a place with good vantage over the courtyard. It also keeps him nearly completely out of sight as he wonders about the missing children.

Noan had been distraught, more so it seemed than the King. If he’d been looking for the children for some time now, then it’s no surprise he looked so tired. Til wonders what changed and what would happen when they were brought here? 

A page appears as he sits, lost in thought.

The teenager, more like a child, really, looks around, her shirt darkened with sweat that drips from her. She was without armor but already bore the symbol of those who become Honored. Her head swings around, shorn short hair barely avoiding her eyes as she searches for something.

“Page,” he calls to the girl, “What do you seek?” 

She starts, her body whipping to face Til. If his hiding place surprises her, she doesn’t sound it, calling back, “The King has called another meeting. All knights and Honored are to be in the throne room by the next tolling of the bells. If there are others with you, bring them with you!” 

Til waves off the page, “Understood.”

He stands, stretching as much as he’s able before making his way into the depths of the castle. Maybe his questions will be answered.

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It crosses Til’s mind that Noan is fleeing the castle, or, perhaps, something or someone within.

The urge to flee the capital had lessened the older Til got and the more time he’d spent as Honored. It hadn’t left him completely, though, and as the castle, then the city, grows ever smaller behind them, a tightness in his entirety eases as well, from the tips of his toes all the way up to the ever-present pressure at the base of his skull.

He doesn’t put much thought behind it, just puts it to the fresh air and the ability to ride freely for the moment. That and trying to keep up with the Wizard.

It’s only as the city walls have shrunk to nearly nothing that Noan finally slows.

“So-” Til gasps, feeling almost as out of breath as poor Stoney heaving for air beneath him, “Where exactly are we going?”

“Wherever we need to.” Noan answers, looking windswept and pink, eyes shining as bright as his smile. Nothing like Til’s already exhausted and frazzled.

Til waits to see if the Wizard plans to add anything to that somewhat cryptic statement. A few moments pass while they sit in silence, rocked gently by the motion of the horses. Realizing Noan isn’t going to add anything, Til says, “That’s not exactly helpful.”

“My apologies, but I’m afraid there’s really not a better answer in this situation.”

Squinting at the other from the recesses of his helmet, Til wonders if it’s too late to turn around. Surely they were close enough still for him to be able to turn back. 

It’s not worth thinking about. He’d agreed to be a part of this journey, and even though the last time he’d traveled this hard through these lands, he’d been rushing like the flames of his anger were nipping at his heels, pushing him faster onward like it was something he’d had a chance to escape.

That time was long behind him now.

Now, he needed to figure out where they were going next. 

The night before, he’d been able to examine the maps to some extent, but he wasn’t exactly comfortable saying that he’d had them memorized. It’d been another story in his youth, but that was a long time ago, and he’d had no need to remember them since coming to the castle. Trying to remember what he’d seen the night before, Til concentrates on the memory. The map and the towns had only been uncovered a little while. The crystals had covered most of it too soon for him to memorize anything, but at least he’d known their direction. 

“Well, we’re not going north, east, or south,” Til says aloud, more to himself than to Noan, but loud enough for the other to hear.

“How clever you are to know the direction we’re headed.” Noan drawls, not even giving Til the satisfaction of looking his way.

Feeling the flush of embarrassment heating up his cheeks and ears, Til thinks Noan is taking far too much pleasure in having all the information to himself. He can’t be surprised that the King’s favorite would know all the details, all the specifics that would certainly make this all the easier, but Noan keeps it to himself, choosing not to say anything. Fighting the blush, Till looks at the other, trying to compel him to say something, anything, to give him even a hint of where they were going, or what to expect. 

This, this not knowing, this was one of the few things that could, and would, send Til right over the edge.

Unfortunately, Til’s silent attempts to force Noan to speak were fruitless. He has to get the information in another way, one that would also be much harder. 

“I wasn’t aware there was much in this direction worth looking at, let alone stealing from,” Til says conversationally, as though discussing the weather.

“There’s not, not really. With how often fighting rolls this way, the swarms of bandits, I wouldn’t want to live here.” Noan’s gaze never leaves the road, but there’s something in his voice that leaves Til wondering what the Wizard had left behind when he’d gone to the castle. “And it’s certainly less populated than most of the kingdom, but still, there are those who choose to make their homes here.”

“Enough for some foe to try to steal them?” Til asks, adding on, “Who do you really think is behind this?”

“Why do you ask? Aren’t you supposed to follow the King’s word on all things?” 

“Perhaps I wanted to know what you thought.”

“Whoever or whatever they are doesn’t matter; all that matters is they’re starting here, where the fighting was once strongest.” Noan’s voice has a note in it that pulls Til’s curiosity back to the forefront of his mind.

“It’s been a long time since there was fighting through here,” Til says loud enough to be sure Noan can hear him, but softer, he adds, “There used to be a great city near the border before that.”

Noan’s head flicks to look at Til, eyes big with shock.

Then his brows drop, and he looks over Til, seemingly searching for something. Though what, the knight doesn’t know. Eventually, Noan says, “I’ve heard of it, Dana City. I’m surprised you know of it.”

“My family often passed through when I was a child,” Til tells him openly. There’s no need for him to hide the half-truth. He hopes that sharing something of his own past might persuade the other to share about himself. “But I suppose it belonged to an age done and gone now.” 

“Is that why you became a knight?” 

Looking ahead to a small copse of trees, wary even with the knowledge none would be so bold as to attack a knight this close to the capital city, Til considers. “I wouldn’t say it’s the only thing that led me down my path, but it weighed into my choices.”

“You wouldn't be the only one. Disaster leads so many people to the capital.” Noan looks back to the road, shoulders higher than they were before, more tense, “I won’t even think of how many will be brought there by this tragedy.”

“You think the missing children will lead people to the capital?” Til nudges; he wants to know more, and this is the first opening that Noan’s given him.

Shaking his head, Noan answers, “In one way or another.”

Yanking the reins in hand, Noan abruptly turns his horse down a dirt path that could easily pass for a well-used deer trail. “Come on, I think this will lead us where we want to go.”

“Which is where exactly?” Til asks, turning his horse around to follow Noan. 

“If we go this way, “ Noan explains slowly, like he’s talking to a child, “it’ll take us past where some of the disappearances have already happened; we might be able to cut off the enemy this way.” 

In spite of the condescending tone of his voice, Til still hears the unspoken words, “And we might be able to save more of the children.”

Til has so many questions, so many gaps in his knowledge. How is he supposed to be able to help if he doesn’t have the answers? He needs to know more, to have more to work with. 

But he knows that even if he asks, he won’t get the answers he seeks. 

How’s a knight supposed to plan anything under these circumstances?

“Do we know how many of the Touched we’re looking for?” Til asks, realizing as he speaks how broad the question is, he tacks on, “Or even where?”

Noan sucks his teeth, loudly, “Well, we do. Somewhat. We’re going to some of the smaller villages, ones that are more easily overlooked-”

Til listens, thinking of how close they were to having to deal with the children. Til hadn’t spent a lot of time around children, not since he himself had been one. And even before he’d come to the capital to learn and train, he’d been more focused on learning from his elders. He hadn’t had time to spend around babes or little children, and when he did have them cross his path, he usually did his best to return them to a parent before they started crying. Traveling with the children was by far the least appealing portion of this while quest, and he certainly wasn’t looking forward to it.

“-which might still have children capable of truly incredible things. They’re the kind of places Donner wouldn't bother sending an emissary to. Too small, too few people, too little need for goodwill from them. And the children won’t really know until they find their key, you know? So many people don’t even know they’re Touched, and if they make it out of childhood without learning they can heal, or harm, or make a rainstorm-”

If he’d had the time, Til would have learned at least the basics of childcare; that would probably have saved him some trouble. Maybe it wouldn’t all be bad, though? Perhaps the children would be more focused on the shiny Wizard and what they themselves might be capable of doing.

“-But once they find they can do that one thing, once they begin learning, they’ll be able to learn how to do all kinds of amazing things. Things they never even dreamed possible. But they need to be taught by a good teacher, who will push them towards good-”

With any luck, Til wouldn’t have to deal with the children.

Noan could; he had to spend time with the Touched children, and he was probably good at it. 

And Til could protect them all.

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In the darkness, unable to tell if his eyes were open, Til wondered if he’d really agreed to an impossible quest, or if that was an interrupted dream lingering on. Focusing, Til tried to listen for what may have woken him, if he’d been sleeping at all. But there was little sound in the room, likely designed that way on purpose. Only the alarm bells rung jarringly loud in these rooms, though that had only happened a handful of times in Til’s time here. Even the morning bells weren’t that loud, and could be slept through by the stubborn.

 Til prepared himself to continue languishing in his semi-dozing state, only for a sharp rap at his door to rouse him.

“Honored Tanner! It’s time! You are required at the gate!” A voice from the other side announces.

Til grunted something, it could have been words, he couldn’t be sure which, though, and set about readying himself in the darkness, possibly for the last time. 

He shakes the thought from his head as he opens the door quickly, blinking quickly, trying to get his eyes to adjust as he leaves his chamber. There’s no one else around, but Til had expected that. The glittering predawn light barely touches this hall, and even if it did, the bells still hadn’t tolled, and the changing of the guard wouldn’t happen till well after dawn.

There wasn’t much Til would need for this journey, his weapons settling familiarly against his form, and the bag he carried only holding a few odds and ends, like a heavier, less embroidered cloak that would help keep him warm in the nights. One of the cooks had already packed a kit of food for him, and several sleepy maids who’d woken early or hadn’t yet gone to sleep told him they’d miss him and wished him a safe journey. 

He’d been sure it would take longer, that there’d be more action, attention to the undertaking he was about to go on. But the gray of the very early morning was punctuated most of all by quiet.

The last thing he’d need was a horse, which a bleary-eyed stable hand led out to him. Stoney, an unimaginatively named stone-grey mare, was the only horse Til could think to take with him. He’d become somewhat fond of; for her easy demeanor and ability to follow even some of the more incredible demands made of her. She’d already been geared up and had saddlebags packed and on her back as well.

As the stable-boy stumbled away, likely to try to get what little rest he could before the hustle and bustle of the day, Til looked forward toward the quest he was somehow taking on.

Guiding the horse to the front gate, Til couldn’t help muttering a few reassurances to her, promising to at least get her back even if he failed in every other way. 

She walked beside him, a silent and only witness to his departure from the castle. 

This was surely an occasion that should be treated with great cheers, with great crowds cheering him, them, on as they went. But as the King had explained, they were trying to ensure that whoever was at fault for taking the children didn’t know they’d been noticed, so that they might catch them in the act and say with certainty who was at fault. A part of it didn’t sound right to Til, but he’d shaken it off. 

He was serving his King and Country. 

What the King said he was to follow and trust in his leadership, even if he didn’t understand it.

Waiting for him is an individual covered in a rust-colored cloak on a white, mottled black horse, whose coat has been brushed to shimmer, looking like the night sky had been made into their personal steed. Black boots had also been shined, and above them, dark fabric hugged strong thighs, which disappeared under the cloak. Dark leather gloves held the reins in a loose but sure grip. The rider’s face was hidden by the cloak and the dark as they faced out, looking at the world they were about to take on.

Til wondered who it would be; the person was almost certainly a wizard. There’d been plenty who’d passed through the castle over the years. Children mostly, though a handful in the early bloom of adulthood stayed within the castle walls, teaching the other children and enjoying freedoms the likes of which few could imagine, let alone attain.

“Hale, Wizard,” Til calls as greeting, wondering if this is the one he was supposed to meet, and if they were one he’d met before, or a stranger.

“There you are, Honored Tanner.” The cloaked figure calls him by name and greets him warmly. A laugh is hidden in his words as he continues, “I was wondering if I’d have to send another page to get you.” 

It’s Noan. 

Noan Isle, the King’s right-hand Wizard, would be the one to accompany Til? 

Til couldn’t believe it; he was shocked and somewhat appalled, as this couldn't be right. He may have needed some kind of backup, but surely there had to be someone who was a better choice, someone other than Isle.

He was the King’s favorite. He’s been at the King’s side for almost as long as Til had been in Sunotoma. 

Why would the King be so willing to put him in danger?

Til’s mouth moves faster than the rest of him, “What are you doing out here, Wizard? Shouldn’t the King be sending one of his less favored wizards?”

Noan’s head tilts, a knowing smile on his lips that doesn’t quite meet the darkness in his eyes, “The King knew he could entrust his favorites, both of his favorites, to this task. Now, we have places to be, Honored. Children to save. Enough with the gawking, and let’s get going.”

With a pointed look, Noan snaps his reins and races off, leaving Til to mount his horse as quick as he’s able.

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The doors and halls slip past Maria in a blur; she wants to put as much distance behind her as she can as fast as possible. This place is just too damn big for lingering anywhere.

The next room she passes into surprises her, though —again, something strange and unexpected —and yet, now, it becomes wholly expected because nothing in this place makes a lick of sense. 

The new room is entirely tiled in white, but that’s not the thing that stands out to Maria. No, the thing that stands out to her is the mass of dark fur in the far corner, though it’s hard to really tell what it is, where it’s 

The biggest thing in the room, the only thing in the room, as far as Maria can tell, is the giant furry black thing in the corner. She thinks it might be facing the wall, as she can’t see its eyes or ears or anything else she might use as a way to tell. She's not sure that it’s awake, either. There’s a soft rumbling coming from it that Maria can hear easily, even all the way across the room. The noises the creature makes aren’t sad, but they’re certainly not angry. 

No snarls or growls, just the quiet hum of its breathing and the soft noises it makes on every exhale. 

The thing is very bear-like. IT at least seems that way from Maria’s vantage point. Maybe like a boar? But she’s pretty sure those are less furry than the creature she’s looking at. The way it’s huddled up against the wall concerns her; it makes her think the creature might be injured, or maybe sick.

Something in Maria wants to check on it, even though the beastie is probably more than big enough to eat her should it want to. Something in her tells her that she wants to check on it. 

Inching closer, on quiet aching feet, Mara tries to tell if it’s hurt, or sleeping, or something else. 

Maybe she should, just leave? 

The fight with the blocks couldn’t have gone any less her way. Maybe it was better if she didn’t tempt the fates once again putting herself into danger. 

All she’s armed with is a pocketknife, a staff, and a couple of dreams.

Still, despite the danger, she knows she

S courting, she steps closer, curiosity pushing her where all else falters.

About halfway across the room, the rumbling breaths stop abruptly, and the creature starts sniffling audibly, reminding her of a large dog. Maria freezes in place, her heartbeat speeding up as she realizes just how close she already is. 

The creature, which had already been turning its head towards her, tilts it now, at an angle.

Maria remembers now why you’re not supposed to walk up to wild animals. 

She’s about to be in a depressingly short fight, and she knows she won’t be the victor. 

“It’s okay,” She coos with a softness in her voice that shocks even her with the steadiness of it.  She wants to inform the creature of her presence, not wanting to scare it or make it seem like she was sneaking up on it.

Even if that was exactly what she was doing, albeit unintentionally. 

The creature jumps up at the sound of her voice, turning bodily towards her while sniffing loudly. It allows Maria to see its full body, though it doesn’t make much more sense when she can see it.

Her initial estimate of bear-like isn’t quite wrong; it’s hunched over on all fours and looks almost like its round form isn’t quite bear-like. Still, with the thickness of the jet-black fur covering it and seemingly so out of control, it's hard to tell exactly how its frame actually looks, and harder still to tell how big it really is. 

The only thing she can say for sure is that it must be almost the size of a horse. 

Even though it’s facing her, she thinks that at least, some mass of fur that must be its head swinging around, she cannot see any eyes, though the teeth are very, very large and shockingly blue, almost the same color as the lichen on her staff and the ceiling outside this harshly lit room. 

Its mouth is so large that she’s sure it could swallow her if it were able to accurately place her. 

That, though, seems like a lot more teeth than she’s willing to deal with right now. 

Maria glances over her shoulder, spotting the other door on the same wall she’d entered through. That’s her exit. She backs up toward it, as slow and as careful as she’s been so far. 

Still, a little part of her wants to test her luck, to try again, see if maybe it would work this time. “Hello.” 

Again, she speaks, like her own death wish. 

The creature sinks low, moving its head in the same searching manner, looking for something that isn’t there. It rumbles at her, but doesn't advance; instead, it seems that it’s pushing itself back, looking for a carer without turning around.

It’s almost like, like it’s scared of her.

As Maria backs away, it does the same, smushing itself into the corner opposite where Maria’s walking. As its head swings back again, Maria realizes that the creature must be blind, and not only that, it must be looking for an exit, the very thing she stands in front of.

It opens its mouth, huffing out a breath as it seems to realize, at the same time as Maria, that it cannot press itself any further back into the corner. 

The movement also allows Maria to see it to its mouth much, much more than she’d want, but still enough to see the massive molars hidden behind its massive fangs.

This thing might be an omnivore. 

At least, she hopes it’s an omnivore, not just a meat eater. 

She’s got some food tucked into her back, maybe something in there will be something it can eat, something to show she’s not a threat (but also not a tasty dinner), reaching wildly behind herself, Maria manages to get a hold of the bag and pull out one of the not apples.

It might not help to feed the creature, but maybe she could win some points in its favor with the treat.

She rolls the apple over, thinking of the thousand or so other times she’s seen this play out in a movie, and as it sniffs the apple, Maria hopes this isn’t the time where it ends with the brave heroine getting eaten by the strange creature they’d found.

The creature sniffs the apple a few times, unsure, teeming to scent the air between her and the apple before it up and swallowing it whole. 

Now, its head raises towards her, and it seems to be observing her. 

She’s positive now that it doesn’t have eyes, but she’s less sure that it can’t see her. 

Maria wonders if it’s waiting for another snack, or for her to look away so that it can be as violent as it originally expected her to be.

Maria creeps back towards it, and as she does, so does the creature. Without taking her eyes off it, Maria reaches into the bag, pulling out something else from her back, and when she pulls it out of the bag, she’s not at all sure of what it is. 

Maybe this is something she should actually try to get low on, to present it in a nonthreatening way. She bows elegantly, reaching her hand out as far as she’s able, giving it the chance to sniff her hand as it creeps closer and closer. She keeps her staff behind her back; she’ll still be able to swing it around with some force if she needs to, but she keeps the rest of her posture submissive and nonthreatening. 

The creature sniffs around, slowly walking closer and closer to her with the same kind of careful and soft steps she’d used earlier, its paws hitting the ground with no more than a whisper of sound. The creature sniffs around, finally finding its way to her hand, holding the fruit out. 

Holding her breath to keep the post, Maria refuses to flinch, slowly letting it out as the enormous creature moves closer and closer, sniffing the fruit, then her hand, body, and face. 

However terrifying it feels to have something so large, so capable of hurting her, sniffing at so many places that could kill her, it leans down to bite the fruit out of her hand. The teeth never touch her skin, but they are still too close for her comfort.

Maria’s always known that she’s on the small side, a boon for her dance, but she’s never felt as small as when that massive mouth and those nearly glowing teeth eat the fruit out of her hand. 

Maria reaches out a cautious hand, laying it on, then through some of the fur, trying to pet the giant creature’s head. 

Maybe this would work? If it did, it would all be too much like a Disney movie. Maria starts to sing, softly at first, to gauge the creature’s response, “Somewhere... over the rainbow, skies are blue…”

The creature pauses, and as it does, Maria herself pauses. 

Then it pushes its head into her hand. Maybe it's requesting more of a cuddle than she’s giving? It snuffles when she doesn’t start singing again, and when she starts, it rumbles a bit, reminding Maria of an overly large cat. The face, now that Maria’s feeling around under the fur, almost seems streamlined. Maybe feminine, if Maria had to guess. The fur is also much smoother than Maria had thought it would be, not wild and untamed like the first look Maria had caught implies.

The creature seems almost like a fox in its body, though it purrs like a cat. Maybe, instead of a cat running on dog software, it’s a dog —or a bear —running on cat software? 

Maria doesn’t want to think too hard about what they would be like when she’s still petting it.

She thinks that, maybe, this creature wouldn’t make the worst traveling companion. 

Maria realizes she hadn’t left Mr. Frog out in the hall like she had the time before, and looks to the end of her staff, breathing a sigh of relief when she finds him there.

“I don’t think,” Maria contemplates a name, though names were never really her forte, “... Fluffy is as dangerous as I first thought.”

“How do you feel about taking," She’s already decided the frog was male, “her with us?”

Mr. Frog croaks, never taking his eyes off the large mass of fur that’s slowly pushing itself against Maria. 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Maria says, looking at Fluffy’s teeth, taking particular notice of how sharp they are and how many there are. The mouth seems almost as large as Maria’s entire torso at its longest and widest.  “Well, she ate the fruit. She’s an omnivore at least. I’ll bet good money she’s not French and we don’t have to worry about her eating frog's legs.”

If that pacifies or worries Mr. Frog at all, he doesn’t show it. And Maria decides that she must not have been too far from insanity if she’s already this comfortable talking to a frog and being ready to adopt a bear-sized creature.

Maria doesn’t know why Fluffy was alone in that room, but she thinks Fluffy is like her, in a way. All alone, stuck in a maze made all the more difficult by the lack of opposable thumbs.

“We’re off to see the wizard,” Maria half-sings, offering her hand to Fluffy, her new beastie, as she exits the room through the new door, “The wonderful wizard of Oz.” “The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.”