#low fantasy

------------------------ Originally written October 5th, 2025 ------------------------

Chapter 95

Nuu was unsure exactly how Glaukos had roped him into helping a group of Nihimlaq’s locals haul water up from the underground oasis to the desert surface. Yet they found themself with sore shoulders and knees nonetheless as they carried two heavy buckets.

Following the curly-haired Sammosan beanpole up the shallow spiralling ramp, the cold air of the desert night felt refreshing against the sheen of sweat on their forehead. The underground town may have been shielded from the desert heat during the day, but the population and prevalence of torches and braziers held the cool air at bay.

“Why, exactly, are we doing this?” Nuu tried not to sound like they were complaining, but the ache in their back made it difficult to keep exhaustion and pain out of their voice.

“Being good guests of the town,” Glaukos said. There was no hint of strain in his voice, despite carrying twice as many buckets of water as Nuu which he balanced on a long wooden rod braced across his shoulders. “I’m also trying to impress one of the locals.”

His voice carried up the stone tunnel, and one of the locals they were following - Nuu suspected she was the one Glaukos fancied - called back, “The only thing impressive about you is your tenacity!” The others laughed. Nuu would have too, had they not exhausted their good mood already.

The tunnel opened to a starry sky and a half-moon; light enough to see plenty without the need for torches. Nuu was relieved to be walking on sand again; the strap-sandals they wore were great for trekking in the desert, but sorely inadequate for carrying a heavy load up a rock ramp, unlike the shoes the natives were wearing. The much softer ground, cooled in the night, felt relaxing by comparison.

Nuu added their buckets to the row that had been laid out by the others. Some of them were already carrying water up the grassy slopes, then gently trickling it onto the green-and-brown plants that grew up the side of the dune.

They were using the plants’ root systems to anchor the sand in place, likely using an imported soil beneath as the initial source for the hills. Such practices were common throughout Desheret, but Nuu was particularly impressed with the size they'd achieved. Five times the height of a camel, at least, if not seven or eight.

“How long have you been managing these dunes?” they asked one of the villagers.

The woman had just sent Glaukos up a grassy hill to water some dry bushes. She gave Nuu a speculative look before saying, “Seven generations. You’re Deshereyan?”

“Yes.” Nuu bowed courteously and she matched it.

“We’ve had many white cloaks come through lately but few are from here, it seems.”

Most citizens of the desert nation wore layers of thin, light fabric to keep cool, but few could afford to wear truly white attire long. It was hard to achieve and harder to maintain. Even Nuu’s robes, freshly acquired at the onset of the adventure. “The Disciples of Flame are new to Desheret,” Nuu said, “but the Fire spreads nonetheless.

“Why did you make them so tall?” they asked, looking over at the few adobe huts that existed above ground, built around the rim of the large sinkhole that allowed sunlight into the underground village.

“Necessity. Sandstorms are commonplace here, and the sand builds up with each successive pass. It proved easier over time to simply plant over each covering. Whatever can grow up through the sand would persevere, and whatever cannot becomes soil for the next layer.”

Clever. And the higher the dunes got, the sturdier they were. The vegetation at the bottom was already thick enough that several bushes had to be cut back with sharpened tools to provide paths to the upper slopes and spread the water.

Nuu looked up to the top of one slope where Glaukos was trying to get their attention. Or, rather, the woman’s attention. He showboated by spinning the bucket around on his finger, only to drop it on his foot and yelp in pain before chasing the bucket down hill.

“Out of curiosity, and for my own potential amusement, tell me; does he have a chance at impressing you?”

“Ha. Your friend is amusing but not impressive enough for me to upset my wife with.”

“I never claimed to be his friend,” Nuu said. “Would you like me to explain to him that you are not his type?”

“Yes, I’d appreciate that,” she said, waving at Glaukos as he approached with an empty bucket and swapped it out for a full one. “But I would appreciate it more if you waited until after we are finished out here.”

------------------------ Originally written September 28th, 2025 ------------------------

Mica carefully counted footprints while crouched in the thin layer of sand near the oasis. It was easy to pick out Nuut’s presence; the small, round dimple where her brass peg leg showed where she walked about. The rest were a bit harder to discern.

Nearby, a local member of the town guard that Mica had bumped into the night before - Majal - was walking in a narrow circle around the cluster of footprints. Her leather armor made a gritty whisper with each step; sand trapped within the protective layers made it useless for true stealth. Mica preferred taking her chances with silk and wool.

“I count four,” she said, looking up at Majal when the other woman knelt across from her.

“Five,” Majal countered.

Mica rolled her eyes. “Not including Nuut. The peg leg.” She pointed at one of the dimples.

“Oh. Then I agree.” Majal stood back up. “Four people, one of them with a particularly long stride.”

“And one that’s heavyset.” Mica pointed out the footprints that were better defined than the rest.

“And you said none of them were wearing white?”

Mica shook her head. She remembered seeing the group together, briefly, while keeping tabs on everyone the night before. Although she had not gotten close enough to listen in on what they were talking about, she could see them clearly enough. Nuut had been the only one in the white garb of a Disciple of Flame.

“No, they were wearing dark grey. Almost black.” Good for blending in at night in the desert. “But that doesn’t mean they’re not Disciples as well.”

“Easy enough to change outfits,” Majal agreed with a sigh, crossing her arms. She had already followed the footsteps back toward town while Mica had pursued Nuut’s separate path, but both had encountered the obvious problem of returning to busier streets and getting lost in the crowds, or the sand getting thin enough as to be unreadable.

“I’ve been keeping an eye on Nuut, but she hasn’t met with them again yet.” Mica doubted she would, either. As mad as the Desheryan warrior was in her quest for retribution, she was still cunning.

It didn’t help that every time Mica stepped through the shadows to look for Nuut she was worried about encountering that old woman, again. No one had ever been able to strip Mica’s freedom like that. Every step now came with the fear of appearing in that small room, the air suffocatingly hot and laden with incense. Her head spun as she remembered the cackle of the woman who knew too much.

A footstep nearby. Mica spun around, a knife up her sleeve sliding into her palm. Before she could swing, a hand clamped around her wrist and a forearm shoved up under her chin, pinning her to a rock.

“Mica, calm down!” Majal’s voice cut through the fog and Mica was back in the present. The tall guard looked intent on holding her down until she capitulated.

It was hard for Mica to ‘calm’ herself while being pinned like that, but to Majal’s credit the pressure from her forearm was more against her collarbone than her throat, so she could still breathe.

“Okay… okay, I’m calm.” Mica took a deep breath - or as deep as the pressure Majal was putting on her chest would allow - and dropped her knife. This seemed enough of a gesture, as Majal eased up and helped mica back to her feet.

“Still worried about the old woman?” she asked.

Mica nodded, picking up her knife and sliding it back into her sleeve.

“I researched the town’s census record,” Majal continued. “If she’s here, she’s one of the Disciples passing through and not a resident.”

“She’s here,” Mica said. “You don’t hallucinate something like that.”

Majal crossed her arms and grinned. “I sure don’t.”

“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” Mica asked, narrowing her eyes. Majal may have been cute and highly competent, but Mica wasn’t going to take flak from any pretty face.

“No, no, not at all,” Majal said, holding out her hands placatingly. “I meant that we didn’t both hallucinate the same thing. You came falling out of that tarp smelling like smoke and coughing. I poked my head in seconds later and could smell the fire. The air was still warm, too. No signs of her. So whatever mystical person you ticked off, they’re real, they just might not be here.”

“Maybe she’s not an old woman at all. Maybe she’s a ghost.”

Majal chuckled and shook her head. “I’d have an easier time believing she’s three kobolds in a trench coat, holding themselves together with a rope harness."

“What’s a kobold?”

“Local legend,” Majal said. “Imagine a little lizard person, about yay-tall,” she held her hand down to just above knee-level. “Not much shorter than you.”

“Oh, clever. Making fun of my height.”

“What height? Go get some height and I’ll make fun of it.”

“That’s it, I’m leaving.” Mica turned her back to Majal and took large, exaggerated stomps to stalk away. Behind her, she could hear the tall town guard laughing more.

"Oh come on, don't be short with me," she said, walking fast to catch up.

"I can figure out what Nuut's up to without you."

"But we have so little evidence."

"You've got a really small variety of jokes."

------------------------ Originally written September 21st, 2025 ------------------------

After the candles were snuffed out, Cass’s eyes slowly adjusted to the dark interior of the wagon. Fariba of Shen was hardly more than a vague silhouette beneath what little light the fabric top of the wagon let in. Fortunately, it was no longer enough to cause her cursed arm pain.

The eccentric merchant from Shen resumed unwrapping the bandages Cass used to cover her blackened limb. While under the light of any flame it appeared charred, like scorched wood. Here in the near darkness it once more twinkled with the light of a night sky.

“Magnificent…” Fariba’s voice was uncharacteristically soft and contained. An awed whisper, as opposed to their usual enthusiastic proclamations.

They applied a gentle pressure to Cass’s wrist and she followed the guiding touch, rolling her arm over. The starry void appeared static as ever while her limb moved. She allowed Fariba to lift her arm off of the bench ever so slightly and move it further to one side, and then back.

The tiny motes of light remained in place.

“It is as a facsimile of a window,” Fariba said quietly.

“Uh-huh, sure.”

“And you know not when this manifested?”

Cass shrugged in the darkness, turning her arm around and spreading her fingers as Fariba continued to examine. Without light, it wasn’t sensitive to touch at all. It felt indistinguishable from her other arm.

“I’ve had it as long as I can remember. But it wasn’t always the whole arm.”

“No?” Fariba lifted Cass’s arm higher to look at it from below.

“It doesn’t match the night sky,” she said.

“Maybe not in Sammos, where you are used to such stars. Fariba of Shen has traveled wide and far and seen many skies in many lands.”

“Yeah, well, Cassandra of Sammos has traveled as well, you know. And I’ve seen what my arm looks like in Sammos, Harenae, Desheret. Heck, I’ve even been to Chol and Shen during the war.”

“But has Cassandra the Great been to Gymir? Lumiria? Has she sailed the Icewaters to the south, or walked the queendoms west of Shen?”

Cass could hear Fariba’s smirk in the tone of their quip.

“No, I haven’t.”

“Fret not, Cassandra the Strong,” Fariba’s voice was still soft in the darkness, “you are not proven incorrect, yet. Fariba does not recognize these stars in all of the skies they have seen."

Cass rolled her eyes, knowing she was right in the first place. The stars in her arm were too colorful. Too bright. Too densely packed compared to most of the night sky.

“You say that this supposed curse was not the entirety of your arm in the past?” Fariba asked.

“Yeah, no, it started on my hand. I kinda think it was just these three fingers,” she circled her middle, ring, and pinky fingers a couple of times to emphasize them, “but it’s been so long it’s really hard to say.”

“Fariba sees. And what is the rate at which the supposed curse spreads?”

"Er... not really sure. It covers more of me every time I give into it."

"Give in to it?" Fariba sounded intrigued.

"Yeah, like... I don't know how to describe it. I can... let the curse take over. My entire body becomes like my arm; filled stars. I can see the life essence of other people. Well, their blood, I think, but it looks like light to me."

"Most interesting. Most interesting, indeed. Fariba may have seen its like before. And how far has the supposed curse spread up your arm?"

Cass grunted, flaring her nostrils in frustration. “Why do you keep saying ‘supposed’ curse?”

“It is very lovely for a curse, is it not?” Fariba’s fingers delicately traced across her skin.

“Maybe when it’s dark. Light a candle and the stars go away, and my whole arm burns like I’m holding it in the flame.”

“Hmm…”

Cass heard Fariba get up. She could just barely make out their movement in the faint, indirect light filtering down through the fabric roof of the waking.

A sudden spark of light at the far end, maybe three arm spans away. Fariba had lit a candle; their brilliant blue attire dark as the sea under the orange glow.

Cass retracted her arm reflexively, covering it with her travel cloak as a glimmer of fear fueled a growing anger.

“What are you doing!?” she yelled.

“Fariba was curious as to the quantity of light needed to alter your supposed curse.” Fariba held their hand in front of the candle, blocking most of its light from reaching Cass. “Did such little light from such distance cause you pain?”

She wasn’t sure if it actually hurt, or how much, but she wasn’t about to take her arm out to check.

“How about asking next time?”

“Fariba wanted to be sure that the fear of pain is not the cause of it,” they said. “Not that Fariba doubts your truth, but it has been noted by medicine practitioners in Shen that the mind can cause pain where there is none.”

“Put out the damn candle or I’m gonna cover it up again, and you won’t get to poke and prod anymore.”

“Fariba requests only that you extend your arm and we test when you feel the light. Even the lightest tingling and-”

“No.”

“But-”

“No!” Cass stood up and shoved the wooden slab back into the slot it came from. There was a loud crack of wood breaking, but she didn’t care.

Fariba was quick to blow out the candle when she stepped toward them, but they weren't her goal. Cass turned mid-stride and left the crowded wagon, walking away from the torches and the merchant. She glanced at the side of the cart, where a couple of panels were fractured and a chunk of the bench she'd shoved was sticking out, and grinned with satisfaction.

------------------------ Originally written September 14th, 2025 ------------------------

Cass poked the contents of the clay bowl with a reed straw. It was brutos; a bland, porridge-like type of rye-beer, meant to satisfy thirst and hunger, but the taste and strength were disappointing. If Cass weren't so hungry she would have left it, and gone back to the wine.

As she considered pouring her drink into the bowl of grey mush to give it a hint of flavor, a pristine collection of colorful fabric joined her at the table.

“General Cassandra the Great!” Fariba of Shen announced as they slid into the seat with smooth, feline grace. “I have returned from that little favor I promised with most excellent and fortunate tidings!”

“Uhh, favor?” Cass tried to remember what she and Fariba had been talking about, but the eccentric merchant went through so many subjects of conversation. Cass had hardly realized they’d left to do anything and were just now returning.

A little bit of Fariba went a long way.

“Yes! The bo-!” Fariba covered their mouth and glanced around, then lowered their voice to a whisper. “The box. You told Fariba it had leaked some, yes? Fariba has repaired and refilled it for you.”

A polar chill ran down Cass’s spine. She mentioned the box? When did she do that? And when had Fariba gone off to-

“Wait, how’d you get the box?” Cass asked quietly.

“Cassandra told Fariba where to find it in her room, yes?” they said. “Has there been too much enjoyment of the wine this evening?” Their smug smile irritated Cass.

“I’m sober enough now to realize I shouldn’t have told you about it,” Cass said.

“Fariba reminds Cassandra again that Fariba was the one who provided the box and the preservative to Cassandra’s Council. Fariba already knew of its contents and purpose. And Fariba has fixed it for you and is ready to return it, unless Cassandra does not want the box returned yet?”

Cass closed her eyes and leaned back in her seat, sighing. There was no getting away from this talkative merchant, and she knew it. “Fine,” she grumbled. “Where is it?”

“In Fariba’s wagon. Come!” They grabbed Cass’s good wrist and pulled, but Cass was too strong for them to do anything but lurch mid-step and nearly fall. They would have had an easier time pulling a boulder.

Standing, Cass delicately used her bandaged fingers to pry Fariba’s grip off. Then she gestured for them to lead the way.

Out of the tavern, into the enormous underground cavern of the underground town, and down the road to where Fariba had stored their cart.

The large and lavish wagon had eight wheels - Cass assumed, seeing four on the side she approached - and had to have required at least four camels to pull, though none of them were attached to it at this time. Several bright and colorful awnings were stretched out from the side and the patterns sewn into them danced in the light of various torches.

“You don’t do anything subtly, do you?” Cass asked while Fariba pulled some concealed levers that caused a panel in the side of the carriage to pop open.

“Thieves and swindlers are subtle, Cassandra the Great,” Fariba said, gesturing for Cass to enter the wagon. “Fariba of Shen does not invite such types into their domain.”

The dimly lit interior was cramped, but not because it was a small wain. Cass could barely turn without bumping into a box, crate, or barrel filled with… stuff.

Fruits and vegetables, cured meats, jars of spices, vases full of odd baubles. Shiny metal tools hung from hooks; some familiar, some that Cass had no idea what they would be used for.

The small merchant pushed large crates aside with ease; a faint metallic grinding sound hinting that there was something between the containers and the wood floor of the wagon.

They slid a thin table out from between two barrels and stood it up by quickly slotting three legs into it, the fourth corner resting atop a box for balance. Fariba spread a fine cloth over the polished wood, lit a half-dozen candles to illuminate the area, and set the gem-and-precious-metal-inlaid box Cass had been traveling with for days atop it.

“Here you are, General Cassandra of Sammos,” they said, turning the box and lifting the hinged lid. The leather inlay on the inside of the upturned hatch still clearly showed the Cholish words that Cass could not read, and within the box itself the Emperor’s head was once again fully submerged in the sickly-sweet scented substance.

“Tree sap, honey, and some special spices from Shen,” Fariba said proudly, gently closing the box and sliding it to Cass. “Now, please, allow Fariba to examine your wound.”

“My what?”

Fariba reached out and gently touched Cass’s bandaged arm. She winced and pulled it away from the merchant’s grasp.

“Fariba of Shen wears many hats,” Fariba said, lifting both hands up placatingly. “While they may not be as talented a healer as Maar, with whom you travel, Fariba has seen much and many things.” They reached out again but waited for Cass to return the gesture, which she did reluctantly.

Pulling at the bandages lightly, Fariba’s eyes darted from the arm up to Cass. As soon as the fabric was parted and the black, almost charred-looking skin exposed to the light of the candles, intense pain stabbed into her and Cass ripped her arm away, covering the skin with her good hand, hissing in pain.

"Fariba apologizes profusely," the merchant said. "It was not Fariba's intent to cause harm."

"It wasn't you," Cass said, teeth clenched as she waited for the burning sensation to fade away. "It's just... light burns."

"Sensitivity to light?" Fariba asked before blowing out the candles and sending the interior into darkness. "Why did Cassandra the Great not say so? May Fariba continue to examine the wound now?"

"It's not a wound, it's a curse."

"And the difference is?"

------------------------ Originally written September 8th, 2025 ------------------------

Olive branches swayed in the breeze, their subtle scent making Anatu wrinkle their nose. As a child, they'd visited the orchards in Sammos often. Their parents' favorite; the little green ovals had been bitter and salty on their tongue, and the firm texture unpleasant to chew. Disgusting. Unwanted.

Bile rose in the back of their throat as the taste exceeded mere memory. Oil, coating their tongue, with small bits of something else, creating an abomination of texture that made Anatu’s throat convulse. Their stomach lurched and they rolled over, gagging.

A moment of sudden weightlessness seized their breath. Hands gripped their shoulders and waist in the darkness. Anatu’s breath hitched and they pulled against the grasping shadows while a burning mass rose up their throat.

Freedom. Falling.

The shock of hitting stone stunned Anatu and the vomit got caught in their throat. They gagged and retched and struggled to breathe. The darkness around them pressed in. Pressure in their ears, in their chest.

A sudden strike against Anatu’s back dislodged the rising pressure and they spewed the contents of their stomach out. The world was spinning with no grounding. No up, no down, only the burning bile on their lips and the heavy darkness.

Thump. Thump. Thump. The firm blows repeated on their back, driving up more of the sick. The acrid smell and vile taste incited more.

Pain joined the symphony of suffering. A sharp ache in their head grew with each heave. Muted sounds filtered into their black haze. A painful tug at something around their head, and sudden light dazed Anatu.

“Breathe!” one stern, but concerned, voice said.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t cut you where you stand?” Another deeper, angrier asked.

“Look! They’re fine!” This one was Kebb. Anatu recognized his tense panic. They looked up while gasping, their eyes burning with tears. Nuut had a knife pressed against Kebb’s neck, pinning him against a wall.

Stop! Anatu tried to yell, but all the sound they could muster was a raspy groan as they dry-heaved once again.

A waterskin was pressed to their lips. The cool liquid was as soothing as it was surprising, and Anatu tried to drink and pull back at the same time, which only led to more coughing.

“Drink, Anatu. And cough it all up.”

The thumps against their back were replaced with a firm, but calming, rubbing. Anatu took a slow, wheezing breath and looked up. Maar was holding the water to them and rubbing their back, but glancing worriedly at Nuut and Kebb.

It was clear why; Kebb’s face was already marked; four deep scratches along his cheek, glistening with medicine and only recently dried blood.

Anatu sipped the water again and swallowed it against the burn in their chest before rasping, “Stop!”

Their voice was low and grating, but it was just loud enough to get Nuut to look their way. Their eyes met and Anatu saw the same look Nuut had back in Dehenet, when she was bent on trying to kill Cassandra. Unlike the Shadow of Sammos, Kebb was not impervious to the blade in Nuut’s hand.

Another breath rattled its way up Anatu’s chest and they bent over coughing again. Nuut appeared beside them, working with Maar to help Anatu back up and onto the bed. They both kept Anatu bent forward and rubbed their back as they struggled to breathe.

A long while of short, stunted breaths, coughing fits, and forcing down water passed before Anatu could speak without gasping. Maar had taken to cleaning the mess they had made when Nuut and Kebb nearly came to fight again over it.

“Thank you, Maar.”

“Somebody has to care for the patient,” Maar said, giving a searing look to the other two. Nuut flared her nostrils and left the room, slamming the door shut behind her with enough force to make the candles around the bed flicker. A few even extinguished.

“What happened?” Anatu asked.

“You and Kebb had an altercation, apparently.” Maar looked at Kebb, who touched his scratched cheek with a grimace.

“You attacked me and I defended myself. I struck you in the head in the process. Maar helped you recover.”

Anatu reached up and felt the fresh bandage around their head, the short half of their haircut still caked with dried blood.

“You were not unconscious for very long,” Maar said. “I was giving you olive oil to help you swallow the garum.”

The thought of olives made Anatu queasy again and they covered their mouth. “Please, none of that again.”

“I told you they preferred figs,” Kebb muttered.

“If we gave them figs with garum they would have become violently ill.”

“As opposed to this?”

Maar opened her mouth as if to retort but took a breath instead, returning their attention to Anatu. “I will refrain from giving you olive oil again.”

“Thank you.”

“How are you feeling?”

“My head hurts, my throat burns, and my stomach aches.”

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Three.”

“And now?”

“Eight.”

“Close your left eye.”

“Four.”

“Right eye.”

“Six.”

“Tell me your name.”

Several repetitive and tiring questions later, Maar seemed satisfied with Anatu's condition but told them to remain awake for another hour or more. Kebb promised to keep an eye on Anatu until dawn when Maar would return with a compress and fresh wrappings for their head.

After she left, Kebb sat at a nearby table.

"Do you remember what you were doing before?" he asked.

Anatu thought back. "I remember waking up from a bad dream, breaking my fast, speaking with Fariba and Cassandra, and they were talking about the box, then-" It returned. The revelation that they had been escorting their grandfather's head across the desert. Nausea returned.

"You were tearing apart Cassandra's room when I found you," Kebb said. "I tried to stop you and you attacked me."

Anatu touched the side of their head.

"I am not going to apologize," Kebb added.

------------------------ Originally written August 31st, 2025 ------------------------

(These events follow Chapter 89)

Charis sat quietly by the calm oasis at the underground town's center. Nihimlaq, like many desert towns, was built around a vast wellspring. It sustained its small population and, so far, showed no signs of strain despite the growing influx of traveling Disciples. A pale mineral ring circled the water’s edge, but in the center, the pool sank so deep its bottom was invisible.

All they saw when they looked at the water was the gentle, rippling reflection of the night sky through the large opening above. Their thoughts turned to Cassandra’s notorious curse; the way her arm took the appearance of a star-filled sky when no firelight illuminated her. Beautiful... But then, they remembered hearing what had happened at the Interchange, when the curse took over entirely.

Charis hadn’t seen the change personally, but Maar told them about it; the starry void spread across Cass’s entire body, her already inhuman strength multiplied, her movement unnatural in both fluidity and speed...

“And this contemplative woolgatherer is Charis.” A voice broke Charis’s thoughts. “Former slave, current Disciple, and General Cassandra’s…”

They looked up from the water as Mica approached, accompanied by a tall, dirty-haired blonde woman in leather armor. She had a distinctly ‘town guard’ look about her. Charis couldn’t tell if Mica was being escorted by her or showing the guard around with how lackadaisically she always seemed to carry herself.

“Are you Cass’s consort? Or just a fling?” Mica asked.

“I’d rather not discuss personal matters in front of…” Charis looked at the guard.

“Majal,” she said, taking a few steps closer and extending her hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Charis.”

Charis slid down from the rock and took the offered hand, surprised at first by the firmness, then wincing as the grip turned crushing. They winced as they were released.

“Like someone dropped a rock on your hand, right?” Mica asked with a nasally chuckle.

“Oh, sorry.” Majal frowned sympathetically.

“No harm done,” Charis said.

“You looked like you were dozing off there,” Mica said. “Need to take a nap?”

“Ah, no. I was thinking about Cass and her arm.”

“What a coincidence, that’s why we’re here.” Mica gestured between herself and Majal. “Nuut was talking with some suspicious-looking people around here yesterday, and now she’s stalking around, talking about killing her again.”

“We’re going to have a look around to see if we can find anything about who she was meeting with.” Majal sounded more formal with that, her posture becoming rigid and professional.

Charis sighed. “I hope she doesn’t try anything foolish. Cassandra’s temper has been short since she’s been drinking.”

“Really?” Mica asked. “I’d have thought her attitude would be more relaxed and playful and… well, giggly? She seems like a giggler.”

“She is, and she is definitely more jovial in the tavern than in the desert,” Charis said. “But she is also more reckless. She doesn’t think in this state, she just acts.”

“Ah, I see. She might hurt someone if they irritate her.”

“Exactly,” Charis said with a nod. “And I don’t want her to have another episode like at the Interchange.”

Mica grimaced and shook her head. “No, that would not be good.”

“Especially if she unleashes her full curse.”

“Curse?” Majal asked.

“When Cass gets pissed off she turns into that starry-void-night creature,” Mica said in an off-handed tone.

“A what?”

Charis and Mica both looked at Majal for a moment and then glanced at each other as it clicked.

“You met Cass an hour or so ago,” Mica started.

“General Cassandra, yes,” Majal said, her face becoming a mask of confusion and concern.

“Well her arm… the bandaged up one, is cursed.”

“Cursed?”

“I don’t know the details,” Mica said, looking at Charis.

They shrugged. “She said she was born with it, and it started down at just her fingers.”

“Right, well, her arm looks really shriveled up and burnt. A lot like charred wood,” Mica said.

“Except at night,” Charis added.

“Right, at night it’s more normal sized, but it looks like the night sky.” She pointed up at the sky through the hole in the cavern's ceiling. “Not exactly the same but close enough. And when she gets mad her whole body becomes like that. And she gets a bit bigger, I think.”

“Noticeably so.” Charis nodded. “But when she returns to normal, her arm is more deformed. The blackened, shriveled part spreads. A lot.”

“How much?” Mica asked.

“It spread almost halfway across her back last time,” Charis said. “But that was significantly more than normal from what she told me.”

“One moment, let’s cover the ‘monster’ part again,” Majal said. “Do I need to be worried?”

“Only if you’re the one that ticked her off,” Mica said. “She seems to be in control of it.”

“She says she is,” Charis added.

“At the Interchange she didn’t even kill anyone. Just kind of flicked a bunch of would-be muggers on the head and knocked them out. Broke one person’s arm, I think, but didn’t kill anyone.”

“Okay,” Majal still looked concerned, but didn’t seem afraid or alarmed anymore. “Is there a way to calm her down? Or stop her?”

Charis shared a look with Mica again and they both shrugged.

“Nothing, I think,” Charis said.

“The Empire threw a war at her,” Mica said, “and now it’s gone and she’s still here. Let’s go see if we can figure out what Nuut is up to so we don’t have to find out. Charis, want to help?"

Charis shook their head. "No, I think I'm going to go back to the tavern and help Fariba keep an eye on Cass. Maybe get her to drink something other than wine."