Chapter One

  Third Era, Year 280, Meinsdein, Second of First Fallegg

  Outskirts of Hlavasturn, Noon

  Vyra tipped her head back until her neck began to ache. The sky was so blue it almost didn’t look real, like someone had spilled paint and forgotten to wipe it away. The clouds were the best part—big, soft white shapes drifting along as if they were close enough to touch. She reached up anyway, fingers spread wide, and grabbed nothing but air. She hopped once. Then again, higher this time, as though that would change something. Her hand still cut through empty space. Vyra huffed and let out a small, offended whine.

  “There’s my little flower! I’ve been looking for you!” a booming voice laughed.

  Vyra spun toward it, giggling before she even saw him. Strong arms scooped her up and set her on broad shoulders, and suddenly everything was taller—wider—the world opening around her. Her platinum hair whipped as she looked left and right, then she snapped her gaze back to the clouds like they had been waiting for her. She threw both hands up again. Still nothing. Her cry came out sharper this time, as if the clouds were doing it on purpose.

  “What are you reaching for, my darling? Are you reaching for the trees?” he asked with a chuckle. Vyra looked down at the blonde head beneath her and pouted hard enough to hurt.

  “Da, you said Ma lives in the clouds! I’m reaching for Ma!” she squeaked, bopping his head.

  His shoulders went stiff for a heartbeat. Then they softened again as he looked up, brown eyes sweeping the white stretches above, “Ah, aye, you are right, my Flower. Your mother lives in the clouds and watches over us.”

  He lifted her down and set her on the ground carefully, as if she might tip over. Then he knelt to her height, brushing her hair out of her face with a smile that tried to stay light.

  “Unfortunately, you cannot see Ma until much, much later. But I’ll tell you what you can do.” His gaze flicked past her, and his mouth tightened slightly before he looked back at her. “You can go help Auntie Ylva unpack her horse!”

  Her eyes widened and a smile beamed across her face as she turned around and watched a horse and rider walk through the gates of her home.

  Letting out a squeal, she ran towards the chestnut brown and white horse and jumped at it with fervor. It let out an annoyed huff as Vyra wrapped herself around its right hoof and nuzzled into its pelt.

  “Hersén!” She laughed out, nuzzling further into the horse. The sound of metal clasps coming undone from above Vyra made her look up from her current position and give a tooth filled smile, though one was missing, “Auntie Ylva you’re back!”

  “Ah, yes,” Ylva held a tone of monotony, but a small smile graced her lips. She pulled her large braid over her right shoulder as she undid another clasp, “It is good to see you, little Vyra.”

  Ylva swung a leg over the saddle and stepped off from the horse, crossing her arms as she looked down at the little blonde girl, “Stratum, she’s going to be flatter than leather unless you come pull her off your horse.”

  Stratum smiled as he walked towards the horse and his daughter, “It is good to see you, too, Ylva. I hope you have some good news.”

  “Depends, what do you consider good news?” the woman retorted, placing a hand on her hip. Stratum leaned down and peeled Vyra off Hersén and held her in his arms. She let out a small complaint at the separation, but Stratum ignored it.

  “I feel like that means you have bad news. And what do we say about bad news, my Flower?” Stratum raised Vyra out of his arms and out in front of him. She gave a toothy grin as she launched her arms in the air, causing the leather tunic she wore to ride up slightly.

  “No bad news at home!” She shouted proudly, puffing her chest out as much as she could and giving a toothy grin. Stratum genuinely laughed as he brought her close again, looking back at Ylva.

  She did not look impressed, “Stratum, they’re moving.”

  “What?” his smile dropped and he tensed, “How many? Were you seen?”

  “No, I wasn’t seen. But it’s a fair amount of Ba’griegen this time. I couldn’t count them all before I had to come back,” Ylva started unpacking fully, unclasping the rucksacks from the saddle.

  Vyra looked up at her father in confusion, “Ba’griegen?”

  “Aye,” Stratum looked down at her with a disarming smile, “Ba’griegen. It means beastman in Dvastein.”

  “Monsters! I can fight them, like Ma!” The small blonde child squirmed in his grip and Stratum held tighter.

  “No, Vyra, you can’t fight them. Maybe,” He began with hesitation, “Maybe I will teach you later, but not this time.”

  “Aw,” Vyra pouted and slumped. Stratum pushed her into the crook of his neck and rubbed her back. Looking back towards Ylva, who was now untacking Hersén, he walked over next to her. The former housecarl absentmindedly handed him a rucksack without looking at him, and he took it in his right.

  He sighed, “Will they let us settle within the village walls?”

  Ylva snorted, “What do you think? We’re outsiders here, Stratum. The only reason they share crops is because we have a child with us. We were lucky some of the woodworkers decided to help us build the house here. If not for that, we’d have to leave otherwise.”

  “Kukaj,” he cursed, “I know, I just… I can only do so much to make this place safe.”

  “You’ve done more than that. The beastmen will come down from the north and hit Hlavasturn first. We’re south of the village, so we will have time to leave if we need to.” Another rucksack was dropped on the ground, causing a tuft of dirt to shoot into the air.

  “Or be cornered against the ocean.”

  Ocean was the big water that never stopped moving. Mountains were the sharp dark things to the north that made Da stare too long. Wall was the tall wood in Hlavasturn that kept other people inside where it was safer. Their house wasn’t inside. Their house was where the wind smelled like salt.

  “Should that happen, then you can fall on your blade. Not a moment before.” Ylva said dryly, hoisting the saddle over her shoulder. Hersén knickered before walking off towards some grass, Ylva letting a hand brush through the horse’s mane.

  “You’re so dark, Ylva, even when you jest,” Stratum shook his head, “let’s get inside, then we can continue talking.”

  Stratum set Vyra down and looked at her, smiling brightly, “Come, my Flower. Let’s go inside and get some dried meats to snack on.”

  Vyra nodded and walked behind Stratum with her little legs, before stopping at the large oak door. A glint of light had caught her attention as she saw what lay against the frame.

  “Sword!” She shouted as she moved forward and stopped in front of it, looking up at the handle a full few stones above her head.

  It was a simple thing. A long, straight blade that held a dull greyness to it. It was shiny but not polished. One edge specifically seemed to have chips in it, and the leather handle was worn around the edges of the overlaid straps. The blade alone was taller than Vyra, which meant the handle was even higher. She scrunched her face and reached a hand out to try and grab the leather-bound handle with one hand, then two. When unsuccessful – like reaching for the clouds earlier – she let out a huffed and looked back towards Stratum and Ylva.

  They were standing at a large table, talking in depth. Vyra picked up some adult words, some that sounded familiar to what her father used when he told her stories of the awesome battles he was a part of, but she began to ignore them when they ignored her. She looked back up at the handle and thought hard. So hard, her head felt like a rock! Then, with a tiny gasp, she whipped her head around.

  There was a little box about half her size pushed up against a wall. She waddled over and grabbed the edges, and pulled with her little frame, the box scraping across the wood floor. When it was far enough from the wall, she went behind it and pushed hard, moving the box and stopping once it was right next to the great sword. Vyra smirked as she flung her body on top of it, flailing her legs to find purchase on its topside. A bang came from the direction of her father, but she ignored it. She was eventually successful, standing upright with a wobbly balance. The hilt was still above her head, but she reached out anyways, grasping at air in another attempt.

  As she did so she felt arms come over and grab her, lifting her up off the box and away from the shiny weapon. She let out a grumble of disappointment.

  “Vyra. I’ve told you, no sword,” Stratum’s voice quietly scolded as he set her down on the ground. Vyra crossed her arms and let out a small whine once again as she whipped her head away from her father.

  “Sword,” she whimpered out in her small voice. Stratum let out a tired sigh.

  “Only when you’re older, my Little Flower. When I can be assured you won’t hurt yourself,” He reached down and tussled her blonde hair, earning another whimper from her.

  Her father chuckled, “For now, why don’t you go and bring me a few wood wedges from the forge. One of the table legs broke and I need to fix it real fast.”

  Vyra beamed, her frustration over the forbidden sword already forgotten, “Okay!”

  She ran off towards a side door, pushing it open quickly and tripping on the earthy ground. It did not deter her as she just laughed with dirt on her face, turning to her right and following the wood wall of the house until she came across the covered area of the forge.

  It was warm there, a large stone mountain plumed with smoke in front of her. Da must have been doing that thing with the ore – she was trying to recall. When she couldn’t, Vyra ignored it and looked around for the L?feur’rické, the leather rack – Da always put the brown things near the leather rack. Her eyes found the rack, a small tower of wood with some pieces of leather squeezed between them. She looked to the table next to the small tower and lit up as she saw them. Three cut wood wedges about three times the size of her hand. She grabbed them with a celebratory giggle, turned on her heel, and paused. Once again, she looked at the large stone mountain not too far from her. Vyra opened and closed her mouth, tasting a word on her small tongue, “Sma, sma, Smalting? Smaltyinging!”

  The little blonde girl smiled in acceptance, as that must be the correct way to say it, and scampered back inside the house. Her bare feet pattered their way over the wood floor boards.

  The noise caught both Stratum’s and Ylva’s attention and they both looked to see her holding the wedges, “Da, I got you the wedges.”

  “Aha, thank you little one! Just what I needed!” Stratum took them from Vyra and patted her head, which earned a giggle from her. She looked up, eyes as blue as the sky staring at him with wonder and excitement. Stratum’s own gaze was glued to his daughter’s, a small twinge of something mixed in with the warmth present in his gaze before being snuffed out.

  Vyra was the first to break with a yawn. She clenched her eyes shut and rubbed at them as Stratum laughed a lightheartedly, “Does someone need to go to bed? Is it time for a nap?”

  “No, no nap,” Vyra mewled out, still rubbing her eyes. Her father slowly picked her up and held her, gently bobbing up and down.

  “I don’t know, you were playing all day after helping me in the forge,” A look from Ylva seemed to make Stratum sweat a little, “Small things, handing me small things.”

  Ylva huffed just as Vyra spoke up tiredly, “Smalyinging…”

  “Ah, no, it’s called Smelting, Vyra. Da was smelting ores earlier and…” He paused, eyes widening in slight panic. Stratum looked at Ylva, who looked back at him incredulously. He sighed harshly before walking towards his friend.

  “Ylva, please put Vyra down for a rest. I need to go back to the forge,” Stratum pleaded. Ylva rolled her eyes and grabbed Stratum’s daughter from him, though she was less gentle than he. Throwing Vyra over her shoulder, she walked across the room towards a small pallet bed as Stratum headed back out towards the forge.

  Laying Vyra down atop the straw stuffed mattress, she looked her up and down. The child was already asleep, drool falling from mouth. Ylva didn’t smile. She felt tears well in her eyes at the familiar face in front of her, so like her mother’s.

  She quickly wiped them as she stood up from her knelt position, mumbling “You look so much like your mother, little one.”

  “Time to scold your useless husband, my lady,” Ylva sighed as she stared into the ceiling. Exhaling, she walked across the room and to the side door, heading out back towards the forge.

  Ylva closed the door behind her softly before exhaling. Turning about, she walked back towards the forge at the back of the house. It wasn’t the best building in the world, thrown together over the course of only two months, but it was better than a tent in the middle of the meadow. She remembered, vividly, watching little Vyra crawl around in the grass as Stratum and some woodworkers from Hlavasturn worked at making the hovel. Thatch roofing and roughshod woodwork that was just good enough. A mixture of darker oaks and birch, along with only two shutters for windows.

  She didn’t explicitly like the people of Hlavasturn, but she knew that was unreasonable. Ylva hadn’t gotten much experience with them, but Safruuma taught her how to see people: us and not-us. And out here, she was ‘not-us’. She knew that, though, when she fled with Stratum four years ago.

  She vowed to follow Stratum and protect both him and the child. It was only because Her Charge, Menícula, had made her swear it. She did so as if giving a simple order, cold and concise. As if she knew that Stratum would try to take a knife to himself, and that her siblings would whisper venomous schemes into their father's ear with Menícula gone. Both came true after her death.

  Ylva loved Menícula like a younger sister loves an older one. The awe and inspiring presence of the High Captain was something you only understood by being side-by-side with her in battle. She looked up to her and thereafter worshipped her legend. Menícula should not have died to the curse. Her gaze darkened slightly as the old thoughts slithered in.

  Stratum should have done the deed properly.

  In a way, Ylva blamed him for Her Charge’s death. If he had slit his throat sooner, the day Vyra was born, the High-Captain would still be alive. He would have saved his wife and child, and the family would not have rotted the way it did. She would never blame Menícula; she loved her husband to death. But she could and would blame Stratum – for he did not love his wife enough. She knew it to be untrue, yet she thought of it from time to time.

  Ylva rounded the corner and stood under the thatch roofing covering the forge area, all the while watching Stratum fling an incantation at the smelter. When his incantation fizzled and died, he threw his hands up into the air.

  “Skukaj!” He shouted in frustration, immediately grabbing metal tongs and pulling out a metal billet. It was still red hot in most parts, but the dead giveaway of his failure was the quickly blackening exterior. Slag.

  “That,” Ylva spoke up, pointing at the hunk of glassy slag he quickly quenched, “was the only iron I was able to get from the local smith.”

  “I know, Ylva. I know,” Stratum snapped, dropping onto the stool by the leather rack and holding his face in his hands. Ylva snorted.

  “No, you don’t. I had to lie with him to get that.”

  She turned and spat into the dirt. Stratum froze up for a moment before shrinking into himself a little more at that, “I’m sorry, Ylva. Really, I am. I have no excuses.”

  “I wish you did. It would make it easier to hate you.” The former housecarl sighed with fatigue.

  She slowly walked over to him and rested a hand on his back in a strange move of reassurance. She looked at him, then the slag, then back at him, and let out an explosive breath, “I’m not good at this, Hersir. I know you have a daughter you’re raising, but I cannot do everything at once – play nice in Hlavasturn for scraps and then go scout the mountains for movement.”

  “I know…it’s just…Vyra…”

  “You need to understand that Vyra is the daughter of Menícula. For four winters old, she’s smarter than most men I served under. She will be fine on her own while you run errands. She listens to you.”

  Ylva watched Stratum gain some of his posture back as he took a few deep breaths. She let her eyes meet his, steely grey to his brown, and nodded. Ylva removed her hand before walking over to the leather working table and began absentmindedly organizing it, her back to Stratum.

  “So, the beastmen up north: what do you have on them exactly?” Stratum asked her. She bobbed her head as she thought through what she had seen, parsing through what was most important.

  “They’re a big pack, a mixture of Hya’neh and Li’gan grouping together. I couldn’t count them, but based on their encampments, I’d say there were close to one hundred in total. Noticed a good portion of them were skinny, so winter must not have been particularly kind to them. They were packing their tents and sharpening weapons, weapons I assume they acquired from small hit-and-run parties.” She listed out what she saw as she bundled some leather strips together and set them aside.

  Stratum let out a low hum in thought, “Hya’neh and Li’gan? Those are two kingdoms you don’t see together often.”

  “What does that mean?” Ylva asked, pausing for a moment before placing her hands on her hips, satisfied with the job she had done organizing the table.

  “Li’gan are natural predators of Hya’neh, they should be eating each other, not hunting together. And a hundred is much too many to be living as neighbors. Eight years ago, when the Safruum Guard was deployed to help Hlavasturn and the village further north, Ki’gilan, against them, they numbered only forty. And they were only Li’gan.” Ylva turned as Stratum spoke and saw his eyes. They were narrow, hardened. He was not thinking of a father now, but rather as the tactician he was known to be in the Safruum Guard.

  He was good – not as good as Menícula – and smart enough to look at a situation and derive the why from it quickly. Stratum was called upon for some of the main battles and skirmishes of the Iskalda-Yvakian conflict. She remembered going over The Battle of Kilgro Village. It was awe-inspiring to learn about the versatility, on-the-fly thinking, and split-front warfare that Stratum employed there. Ylva remembered sitting through that lecture and being in awe at the retelling. During that battle, he had garnered a name for himself.

  The Mind Eye.

  “Only Li’gan? So, the Hya’neh moved in recently?” Ylva inquired. Stratum nodded.

  “The Hya’neh are from the plains, and are – or were – a particular problem for The Grün Hold to the east of Galvio. Being here means that they migrated, or are migrating. But to leave from their home like that over the winter and stop in a place that is not their territory is… strange.” Stratum stood and began to pace around the forge, and Ylva leaned back against the table to watch him.

  “What if they were driven out?”

  “Possible…” The father tapped his lip as he entertained the thought. He clenched his eyes for a moment before swatting the air, “I’m getting wrapped up in the wrong thing right now. You said they’re moving. Were you able to see a direction?”

  Ylva froze for a second. Did he think that she was simply reporting that they were moving locations? Because that was not what she meant at all, “Stratum, they weren’t migrating.”

  “What?” His head swung in her direction, eyes widening slightly. Ylva stood up from leaning on the table, bearing her incredulous gaze into his.

  “They’re moving towards Hlavasturn, Stratum. All of them.”

  “Fuck!” Stratum shouted in common, punching the stone smelter and causing one of the stones to dislodge, “How soon will they be here?”

  “Given that it took me about a week to get back here, I’d assume a little over twelve dawns. Many are starving and on foot. Against a town of roughly one thousand, though, I doubt it’ll be that much trouble,” Ylva snorted out.

  “No, Ylva, you don’t understand,” Stratum walked up and stood in front of her, staring up at the taller woman. She sometimes forgot that he was short for a Varathian.

  “The raid that had Trestan asking for Safruuma’s aid was just for forty-odd Li’gan. They decimated Ki’gilan before we could get there, and they were barely held back here by the Safruuma Guard.” His eyes were sharp as he said this, causing Ylva to take a step back.

  Ylva struggled to think through what it meant, “What? How could only forty of them decimate an entire village and give the Safruum Guard trouble?”

  Stratum ran a hand through his hair, “They used ritual and dream casting. The full extent is unknown to me, but we had soldiers and citizens in dazed trances attacking our own before gutting themselves, and only when we lost twenty of our number did they jump from the shadows of the tree line. We were in disarray the entire time.”

  Ylva swallowed. Dream casting wasn’t rare by any means. What was rare was hearing of monsters using it so effectively, “You said ritual casting as well? I thought these were feral monsters?”

  “Ha! No, far from it,” Stratum chuckled dryly, “They are intelligent, a people. Though, a people that have a thirst for newborn blood and will do so by any means necessary. They used dream casting to throw us into a panic on the inside, then ritual casting to make us weaker and draw attention away from our own ritual work. It was only once ten others and I went into the woods to hunt their casters that we were able to push back at all.”

  “That sounds horrifying,” Ylva stated with shock, but also a twinge of something else. It took her a moment to identify the feeling. Excitement.

  A battle was drawing near. She and her blade had not drawn blood in a few years. She had silently been itching for a good fight, blade against blade, for far too long.

  Stratum narrowed his eyes at her, “I know we have not fought a battle for years. We cannot afford to allow this raid to come to pass on Hlavasturn without warning them, simply because you want a fight, Ylva.”

  “Do you think me daft? Of course, we cannot sit idly by. But we owe little to the town of Hlavasturn. The Jarl in Trestan will send his troops when he gets word. Gods know the troupe here will not last.” She said as she brushed her black hair out of her face.

  Stratum shook his head, “No, we must take warning to Trestan as quickly as we can. I will need you to go there and bring as many of the Trestan Guard here.”

  “I am not going on that errand.”

  “I need you to.”

  “I said no, Stratum!” Ylva shouted harshly, “I have been going back and forth between villages, mountains, and here for the better part of four seasons. I need rest, and I need stability.”

  “I will not leave my daughter alone,” Stratum stated, standing taller but still being smaller than Ylva. It almost made her laugh.

  “She won’t be alone, Hersir,” Ylva’s tone softened slightly as she rested a hand on her chest, “She would have me. I need you to trust me.”

  Silence stood between the two of them as they glared each other down. Time had slowed to a crawl as they both fought a battle unseen between them, before Stratum relaxed and began walking back towards the house.

  “Fine. I will go.” He said tersely.

  Ylva fell in behind him as he walked through the side door of the little cabin, sliding through it before it shut. She turned to the left and started packing a satchel with essentials – waterskin, dried meats, a few bundles of straw, some charcoal, and a lantern. The charcoal and straw were for quick ritual straes in a pinch, just some simpler ones. He wouldn’t be staying to fight anything, but trying to make his way to Trestan as fast as possible. She slung the satchel over her shoulder as she looked around for anything else, humming an old warrior’s hymn as she did so. She spotted a fur bedroll and grabbed that, and found a backpack with a fur tent roll already on its underside.

  “I’ve got your tent and bedroll, Stratum,” Ylva said as she walked out of the small room to him shifting through a box. He had a few more ritual reagents sitting on the center table, which had maps sprawled across it from earlier.

  He closed the box and took the pack from her, “Thank you, Ylva. Did you put some reagents in there as well?”

  “Aye,” She affirmed, “And some dried meats and a waterskin.”

  “I’ll take another waterskin with me. Filling up two will be better. Less stops.”

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Ylva nodded at that while she slapped herself in her mind. Of course, multiple waterskins would be better for a trip made in haste. Why didn’t she think of that? She shook her head and walked towards the front door.

  “I’ll grab Hersén for you,” she said quietly, having caught a glimpse of the still sleeping Vyra. She quietly closed the door before heading over to the horse.

  Hersén slowly whipped his head her direction before letting out a huff. She let a small smile fall on her face. He was older than her by eight winters, so he was something of an older brother in a way. Not really, but she cared for the stallion.

  “I’m sorry, friend, but you’re going on another adventure,” She quietly murmured, rubbing his neck gently. He seemed to understand, rolling his eyes slightly before leaning down again to eat the grass at his feet. Ylva let a hand remain on his coat before pulling away and grabbing the saddle, hoisting it up, and laying it on his withers.

  She continued to tack him up as Stratum came out of his home, a pack on his back and satchel on his side. He wore a fur cloak over an uncolored gambeson, and had a single axe hooked on his right side. The man struck an imposing figure when in battle garment.

  “Preparing for a war? It’s just going back and forth between two places. Speed will be your best bet.” Ylva observed, tightening the halter on Hersén.

  Stratum tutted, “I expect to arrive to either a standing village or one in combat. I hope for before, expect to arrive during, and dread to arrive after.”

  He was smart for that, Ylva would grant him that much. It wouldn’t do to go with hope clouding your judgment of the journey. For all they knew, he could go up and request aid, and instead be denied it.

  “It’s about five days to get there at his fastest, which means ten days round trip. I can only estimate that the beastmen will hit here around the thirteenth of first fallegg. That’s around twelve days from now,” Ylva chuckled as she helped Stratum up onto Hersén, “You folk who speak Dvastein, you have strange names for your seasons. Fallegg for Spring?”

  “It’s not that strange. Spring brings about waterfalls and eggs after the winter!” Stratum laughed out, ensuring his tack was tight enough on Hersén. He rubbed the neck of the horse a bit as he turned and started moving towards the front gate. Ylva snorted after thinking about what he said for a moment.

  “Is that really why you call Spring, Fallegg?” She shouted out as he began to head north.

  He called back, “No, it’s not!”

  Third Era, Year 280, Tarsdein, Twelfth of First Fallegg

  Outskirts of Hlavasturn, Stratum’s Cabin, Just Before Noon

  Ylva let out a sigh as she sat on a stool with her head in her hands, the loud banging of boxes followed by a child’s laughter seeping its way into her tired frame. It had been ten dawns since Stratum had left to bring a guard detail from Trestan, which meant he should be close—if the roads were kind and the Jarl wasn’t a fool. In his absence, Vyra had drained Ylva’s stamina in ways she couldn’t grasp. She thought it’d be simple to stay and watch after Menícula’s daughter, that she’d be able to see some of the discipline and calm that Her Charge had displayed in life reflected in her offspring.

  She was wrong.

  Vyra bounced up and down with an empty sack in her hands, flinging it around with ferocity. The thwapping and ruffling noise was loud and obnoxious, and any attempts to tell Vyra to calm down were met with ignorance. Ylva split her fingers to look through her hand at the platinum blonde child, her mind split between gently prying away the bag from Vyra’s grip, and tying the child up with rope and putting her to bed.

  She kept her gaze on the child a little longer. Physically, she was like a smaller Menícula. Truly, she was. The only thing Vyra seemed to take from Stratum would be his height, but that was even hard to say with confidence at this age.

  Ylva hadn’t met a Varathian smaller than her before Stratum. In the Guard, even the quiet ones stood like walls, all long bone and hard posture, built for the weight of Varathia as if the realm had hammered them into shape. Menícula had been taller still, the kind of height that made other folk look up before they remembered to speak. And then there was Stratum, and now his daughter, small enough that some outlander would see her and think the word before they thought her name. Ylva felt her jaw tighten at the memory of it. “Giant,” the small races liked to say, as if that was all a Varathian was. As if their blood, their oaths, their spite, their pride could be measured in stone and not in what they endured.

  A loud bang had Ylva standing up immediately, looking around wide-eyed. Little Vyra had escaped her and gone off somewhere, “Vyra! Little one! Where did you go?”

  She felt so stupid to be calling out to a child in such panic, but she swore to Her Lady that she’d protect that child to her death. Ylva would damn herself should she fail it now, in the safety of a home.

  Another loud bang, and Ylva moved towards it. It came from the left, the little closed room where Stratum typically kept his effects – most of which went with him on his errand north to Trestan. Ylva walked over to the little wooden room and saw his daughter. She had a large grin on her face as she lay on the ground, an iron helmet on her head. It looked like an awkward fit, considering the helm was three times bigger than her head. Ylva groaned loudly as she leaned down to take it off the child, only to stop in her tracks with wide eyes. She knew this helmet.

  This was Menícula’s.

  Specifically, it was the helm that she’d have worn when she entered the field herself. It was iron, with silver runic engravings around the eyelets. Ylva let out a soft, sorrowful chuckle. It provided nothing more than to make the helm slightly weaker than it would normally be. The runes held no ritual straes in them, no magic of any kind. Purely decoration.

  She gently grabbed the helmet and pulled it off young Vyra, much to the child’s disappointment, “Come, little one, you are much too young to have such weight upon your head.”

  “But! I wanna be like Ma!” Vyra shouted indignantly as she crossed her arms in that childish way while still lying on the ground.

  Ylva smiled, “And one day you will be. On my honor as your mother’s housecarl, I shall endeavor to teach you the things she once taught to me, and more.”

  “Really?” Vyra gaped in excitement. Ylva nodded, “Tank you, Auntie Ylva!”

  “Nay, I’m not your auntie darling. How many times do I have to keep telling you that?” Ylva said as she gently wrapped her knuckle on Vyra’s forehead. The child let out a little squeal of laughter as she covered her face. The former housecarl stood up, holding the helmet in her hands, and looked around the little room a bit more.

  She’d never bothered to look through everything here. It was Stratum’s belongings, so she just assumed it would be typical things – tools, prepacked travel effects, and some smaller memorabilia. Those were there, and she was thankful Vyra hadn’t knocked those atop herself. However, with the discovery of Menícula’s helm here, she wondered if there were more. There were a few things that, after The Lady’s death, had gone missing. Her helm was one of them. Her sword was another, along with her knife and ring. Were they all here, stowed away by Stratum, to prevent their misuse by the serpents now present in House Safruum?

  “Auntie, can you tell me about Ma?” Young Vyra’s voice broke through her thoughts, causing her to jump a little.

  “W-what…Hasn’t your father told you of her battles?” Ylva tried to hide her surprise at that. She’d thought Stratum would be all for telling his daughter about her mother. Apparently, he hadn’t done enough of that. Ylva’s face darkened. Another failure to add to his list of many.

  “How about this,” Ylva set Menícula’s helmet down on a box with utmost care, ensuring it wouldn’t fall over, “I will regale you with some of the best battles your mother has ever partaken in, if you come sit with me to do so.”

  Vyra jumped up from her position on the floor and immediately pushed between Ylva’s legs, the sound of her bare feet slapping on the wood floor audible in the otherwise silent home. Ylva’s smile grew when she turned and saw that Vyra had hopped onto her bed, legs swinging back and forth above the floor, looking at her intently.

  The former housecarl walked to meet her, grabbing a shoddy wood along her way, and sat. She thought for a moment. She sifted through her own memories to pick the most potent story to tell first.

  “Ah, let me start with the Battle of Ivarness. This was long before you were born, around six winters before. There was a town named Ivarness. It sat on a riverbank, a beautiful village on the border between Iskalda Hold – our territory – and Yvakia Hold, our foes. Yvakia had pushed past the border one day that Fall…”

  “Fall?” Vyra tilted her head, confusion on her face.

  Ylva nodded, “Your father would say ‘Helvítis’. Anyway. The warriors of Yvakia had pushed into our territory and occupied the village of Ivarness with a troop of one hundred. It took over two weeks for one of the villagers to arrive at our gate, beaten and bloodied, before we knew what had happened.

  When Menícula had heard, she had gathered Stratum, me, and about twenty of our best warriors and head out towards the village that same day. The Jarl of Safruuma, in the meantime, began pulling together a larger force that would arrive just behind us to help take the village back.

  It was one of our biggest logging villages. Wood is important for weaponry, fires, and housing, so the Yvakian’s were very bad folk for taking it from us. It took us eight dawns to arrive at the far outskirts of the village. The forest was dense, with many places to hide. Menícula created a strategy almost immediately in that moment: we shall draw few of their warriors into the woods, and kill them. Then take their clothes to disguise ourselves and pretend to be on their side.

  As much as it lacked honor, it would be remiss of me to deny its effectiveness. When the fighting started, I was awestruck by your mother. She would grab any weapon and know how to use it. She killed a man with his own sword before turning and killing another, just to take that man’s axe and throw it into the back of yet another.

  She was an amazing warrior then, and the strategy we implemented would continue for three days, when the main force arrived. Sneak in, kill seven or eight foes, then retreat into the woods and wait. Over time, they’d tighten patrols and mark each other more effectively, so we would have to hide in the trees longer and strike less frequently, but we whittled them down to around sixty.”

  Vyra was paying full attention, and her eyes were filled with more wonder than she had ever seen. It was the liveliest thing Ylva had seen in a while, and she silently pondered on her own reservation to spend time with her.

  “Ma was that good? She could uti-util-use any weapon?” Vyra tried using a bigger word, but the failure caused Ylva to giggle.

  “Yes, your mother could use any weapon she came across. She told me she trained for years to master as many as she could.” Ylva shook her head. “Where did you learn such big words, little one? Utilize is not something one as young as you should have learned.”

  “Da reads me big books he writes sometimes! They u-til-lize big words!”

  Ylva’s eyes widened a bit. She had been away a good portion of the time, but it still hadn’t dawned on her how smart Vyra had been turning out, that it might be Stratum’s doing. The more she thought about it, the more it made sense. Vyra’s father was The Mind Eye of all people. Of course, he would make it a point to educate her from a young age.

  “That’s great, little one. And you should have your father continue to read those big books to you,” Ylva said with a proud smile.

  She continued, “Your mother, Menícula, was amazing Vyra. She was able to deal a crippling blow to the Yvakian forces during that time. Were it not for her own intellect and bravery, we would have had a much tougher time taking back Ivarness.”

  “Ma was amazing! Ma was amazing!” Vyra leapt off her bed and started jumping up and down, a wide smile on her face. Ylva’s own face broke into a smile at the display of reverence from Her Charges’ daughter.

  Ylva smiled widely, for the first time in a long time, “Yes, she was. Very much so.”

  Her smile slowly turned sad as she looked towards the ceiling, “I wish she were here to see you, little one.”

  The jumping stopped, and Ylva looked down at Vyra. Her face showed a sort of puzzlement. “Auntie Ylva, how did Ma die?”

  “H-hasn’t your father told you, little one?” The suddenness of the question had caught her off guard. This would be the second time she had done that.

  Vyra shrunk into herself, “Da gets really quiet about it, and doesn’t ela-bor-ate. He just says she died and is in the clouds now.”

  Ylva glanced away from Vyra as tears threatened her. It felt like a moment where Menícula would be over her shoulder, expecting her not to flinch. Ylva took a deep breath.

  “I can tell you about her death, little one,” Ylva made sure she was seated, as standing would reveal her shaking legs, “But I will ask you a question first: Do you know of Varathia?”

  “That’s the name of the realm, right?” Vyra asked more than answered.

  Ylva nodded, “Yes, but not just the realm. Varathia is the Goddess who made this realm and its people. You and I are Varathians, or Vara’ians, made to be like her. She is the Goddess of Stone, of Trial, and of Love.”

  “Oh!” Vyra drew out. Ylva wondered if she truly understood, but continued.

  “It is said, through old scriptures from the Second Era, that Varathia was once like us. She wasn’t a Goddess capable of making people and realms, but just a normal warrior. She went on lots and lots of adventures, and she fell in love. However, during a great battle, she was horribly injured. So horribly, that she could no longer have children. This made Varathia extremely sad. So sad that she had to live with it the rest of her life.

  When she eventually became a Goddess and created the realm, her grief was woven into the people – us. This became known as the Curse of Varathia.” Ylva stopped to breathe, her hands beginning to shake ever so slightly.

  “She couldn’t have babe-ees?” Vyra asked.

  Ylva nodded, “Yes, Varathia couldn’t have babies.”

  “And this became a curse?” Vyra again asked.

  Ylva let out a sad chuckle, “Yes, it became a curse.”

  “What does the curse do?”

  Ylva choked on her words. She couldn’t think of a pleasant and safe way to explain this to a child. Maybe Stratum wasn’t wrong for not going into the details of it. Maybe it was her folly for trying to.

  “T-the curse,” her throat felt like sand, “The curse makes it that, should a mother and father have a child, one of them will die. Either the mother, the father, or the child. Menícula became pregnant with you just before the Birthing Festival at the end of second summer. When the time came closer, the Safruum family sent out for the special mages to help prevent the curse from taking either you, your father, or your mother.”

  “Did they come in time?” Vyra asked with an unknowing innocence. Ylva froze as she felt something well up in her chest.

  “No. They were delayed, and by the time they had arrived, it had been too long since you came into the world to prevent her from leaving it.” The former housecarl’s voice shrank as she spoke, the tightness in her chest causing her to grasp her tunic with an ironlike grip.

  Vyra went silent for a moment, her eyes focusing on her feet as she processed what she was being told. Ylva could feel it, how she thought through it.

  “So,” Vyra started slowly, “mom was so awesome, only the Gods could kill her?!”

  Silence stood between Ylva and Vyra as the child looked at the former housecarl with awe, a wide smile on her face. Ylva stared, mouth agape and eyes wide, at the conclusion Vyra came to. Once her brain caught up with what was said, she burst into a fit of laughter.

  It was just raucous, helpless laughter. Ylva tried to swallow it down but was unable to. Her shoulders trembled as she pressed a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound. It was messy and honest, cracking between a painful laugh and a sob. The former housecarl felt warmth run down her cheeks as tears spilled over, and her tongue went numb. She had never thought of it that way. She had never let herself think of it that way. That Menícula was so great that only the curse could take her. Not a sword, not a man. Not herself. That was the extent of Her Charges' greatness. She dragged in a breath that felt like the first she had taken since the day Menícula died.

  She could think of no better compliment for her Menícula.

  Ylva lay there on the ground for a few more minutes, letting the child poke and prod her until, at last, she had gathered herself.

  “I…” She drank in a breath, “I’m okay, little one. I’m fine.”

  “Auntie Ylva was crying?” Vyra asked more than stated, a cute little tilt to her head.

  Ylva nodded with a trembling smile, hands clutching her sides like a hug, “Auntie Ylva misses your mother, little Vyra. She was an amazing warrior and friend, and I hope to – one day – see her again.”

  Ylva sat up from her position on the floor, using the stool to brace herself as she took three deep breaths. After the third, she stood up fully to her height of seven stone, and smiled down on Vyra. The child did something for her, and so now she would do something for the child.

  “You did well, little one. How about we go into town and have a look around?” Ylva asked, face relaxed and eyes red.

  Vyra’s jaw dropped, and she started bouncing around, arms flailing in the air, “Town! Town! Town!”

  It drew a chuckle from Ylva as the former housecarl turned to her own area in the cabin and grabbed her arming sword and its sheath. She pulled a leather belt around her waist, hooked the sheath to it, and let it drop, checking the clasp to ensure a sturdy fit before she slid the sword into the sheath.

  She let her thumb gently massage the handle to relax and bring herself back into reality as Vyra continued bouncing in the background. It was something she’d done after hard-fought battles and felt was required. Ylva knelt and grabbed her shoes, slipping them on and tightening them. She shook her feet to check for any looseness, and there was none. Satisfied, she turned toward little Vyra.

  “Come, Vyra – your shoes, on, now,” She snapped, but not with the stoicism that she held earlier, that she’d been holding onto for years now. Instead, it was now with excitement.

  “Okay!” Vyra pulled her shoes out from under her bed and put them on her feet. When she struggled to tie the leather strips around her ankles to secure them, Ylva leaned down to help her.

  Making sure they were tight, Ylva walked towards the door and opened it, letting the sunlight bounce off the snow outside onto her form.

  “Come, little one. Let’s go show you the world.”

  Third Era, Year 280, Tarsdein, Twelfth of First Fallegg

  Hlavasturn Proper, Just After Noon

  Ylva’s legs ached a bit from the foot travel to reach Hlavasturn proper. It was a long walk down unkempt paths, but she knew the general direction enough not to get lost. About a quarter of the way through the drag paths, foliage, and around trees, Vyra wanted to stop. Ylva instead carried her on her shoulders.

  It was no different from carrying a pack, something Ylva had done multiple times when going on long treks to the main combat lines between Yvakia and Iskálda Hold. If anything, it brought back some of the more pleasant memories she held onto, traveling with her bond brothers and sisters to the next glorious battlefield, and returning with trophies and proof of their success.

  When they finally reached the front gates of Hlavasturn, the guards—though seemingly lazy—immediately stopped them. One adjusted his spear to the correct position, while the other, who had been lounging against a palisade, straightened up. They didn’t hesitate upon seeing Vyra on Ylva’s shoulders, granting them access inside. Ylva shook her head, disappointed by the guardworks’ laxness, especially considering the village’s size. Although she didn’t know the exact population, she estimated around 1,000 residents based on comparisons with Safruuma, which had about 5,000 heads and was twice as big.

  Vyra jumped down from her perched position on Ylva’s shoulders, bouncing onto the cobblestone below. She swung her head around every which way, eagerly drinking in the things around her. Ylva had seen it all before, but wouldn’t pull Vyra from the treat. It was the first village the child had ever seen.

  Ylva watched as Vyra stared at the stone paths that twisted and turned into the distance. The large, to her, buildings with stone bases and wood, shingled rooftops towering over her like artificial clouds. There were firelight posts scattered throughout, the faint glowing of ritual magic present in the long wooden stems. Magic wasn’t a rarity, but rather a regular, everyday occurrence. Ylva didn’t use it much, but she could see that the ritual was a self-enabled cast. It was probably meant to light a Straes Light when the sun set.

  Ylva quickly grabbed Vyra by the hand, preventing the young one from bounding off towards the people she was seeing. Specifically, the different races going about in their everyday life. The former housecarl’s eyes followed Vyra’s head. She was focusing on the Dwarf and Gnome chatting in front of a doorway.

  Of course, she wouldn’t have been taught about the other races in the realm. They were common enough when you were out in the world, but being brought up only knowing the cabin in the meadow would come with drawbacks.

  “That’s a dwarf and a gnome,” Ylva leaned down and whispered in Vyra’s ear, “In your father’s tongue, I believe they’re called Dvaste and Gniré.”

  “Dvaste? Like Dvastein?” Vyra drew a connection. Ylva nodded.

  “Aye, your father speaks the language of the Dwarves. Almost all smaller villages in the realm speak it, as Dwarves are the fathers and mothers of craft.”

  Ylva pointed towards the dwarf subtly, “He could probably make an amazing sword. You see the checkered azure-and-argent-colored shield on his shoulder? That’s the coat of arms for the Forge Master’s Guild that resides in Trestan, where your father went.”

  “Whoa!” Vyra’s mouth hadn’t closed yet from the sights before her.

  Ylva placed a hand under her chin and gently closed it, “Careful, you don’t want to catch a fly.”

  “Can I go talk to him?!” Vyra turned towards Ylva with great, beady eyes, begging to go and talk to the short, rotund man.

  Ylva shook her head with a smile, “No, but we can walk through town towards the markets and trade square, if you like.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah!” Vyra shouted excitedly. An elven couple walking by brought their hands up to their mouths and giggled. Ylva nodded to the two women before taking Vyra up to her shoulders again.

  “You’re so tall, Auntie!” Vyra observed for the fourth time this afternoon. Every time, Ylva had to hold in a laugh.

  They walked further into Hlavasturn, Vyra high above the ground on Ylva’s shoulders. The stone path eventually opened into a large stone clearing, with a statue in the center and a sign inlaid in the ground reading ‘Trade Square’.

  Contrary to the name, it was a large circle. Merchant booths and tents littered the entire area, creating tight corridors for foot traffic. Brilliant blues and reds painted the tops of each, and various flags decorated in the heralds of guilds and traders’ unions flew in the sky. There was an even sprawl of people, but it was not crowded like it would have been in Safruuma. It must not be the market day; likely before or after.

  Vyra gasped as she saw a flag with the coat of arms from earlier again, “That’s the Forge Master’s Guild! Can we go? Can we go?”

  Ylva ignored the pulling of her hair, “Vyra, calm. Yes, we can go look at the wares of the Forge Master’s.”

  Vyra let out a squeal as she walked towards the tent, pushing her way through the small crowd. She eventually made it up, and was met with a sight even she didn’t expect.

  Standing in front of her, in a blue and white checkered tabard and simple leather underneath, was a dark elf. A Drak’den. They weren’t often seen during the day and were typically very reclusive as a people. He was taking to a smaller woman, a dwarf by the looks, before handing her a small gutting knife. It was pristine and new. His sharp yellow eyes met Ylva’s steely grey before traveling to Vyra, then met hers once again.

  “Good evening, my ladies, how are you on this fine day?” His voice was soft and light as he let out a little bow.

  Vyra leaned forward dangerously, “Whoa, what are you?!”

  Ylva felt her stomach flip at the offensive question from the child on her shoulders. However, the man just gaped slightly before he turned his head up and let out a smooth laugh. Ylva’s own cheeks warmed as embarrassment made her want to throw the child and leave the village.

  “I am sorry, sir. She’s just learning about the races of the realm, and we hadn’t gotten to drak’den yet.” Ylva quickly said, hoping to avert any damage.

  “Ah,” the dark elf breathed out air and moved his white hair out of his face, “I haven’t laughed like that for a few dawns. My personal projects have taken much joy from me.”

  He started taking his hair, shoulder-length and white, and pulling it into a bun as Vyra leaned a bit further, “Your ears are so pointy! Can you hear beteter?”

  “Non, little one. I can hear as well as you. My name is Elendiro, most call me Elen,” Elendiro did another small, performative bow, “I am a dark elf, little one. One of the many races of the realm.”

  Vyra tried leaning forward but was yanked back by Ylva, “Dark elf? Is that why you have dark skin?”

  “Yes, and pointy ears,” Elendiro answered.

  “Whoa, that’s so cool!” Vyra gawked.

  Ylva let out a sigh, “I apologize for her insensitivity, Elendiro.”

  He waved his hands in front of him, “Oh no, tis quite alright. I’m glad to be her first experience with one of my people.”

  The dark elf smiled with bright white teeth up at Vyra, before his eyes widened slightly. He quickly ducked back into his tent for a moment, sounds of a chest of some kind clanking open, before returning to the front.

  “I have a surprise for you…” He paused as he looked Vyra in the eyes, his hand held out and clasped around something.

  “My name’s Vyra!” She shouted proudly, Ylva countering the shift in weight on her shoulders. Elendiro laughed.

  “I have a surprise for you, Vyra. This is a little trinket I made for brave warriors who come by,” He slowly opened his hand, and the child grabbed Ylva’s skull and shook with surprising might.

  It was an iron horse, made with irregularly fine detail. It appeared on its hind legs, its body rising into the air, its mouth agape. Vyra gasped and reached a hand down in front of Ylva’s face to grab it, opening and closing like a mouth trying to speak. Elendiro brought his dark hand to meet hers and let her take it. She quickly pushed it against her chest, holding it close with both hands.

  “Thank you mister Elendiro!” Vyra laughed out, and the dark elf smiled.

  “Of course, little one,” he moved his gaze to Ylva, “Your daughter is quite lively.”

  Ylva felt her throat tighten, “She’s not…”

  “This is my Auntie Ylva! She’s a warrior!” Vyra interrupted loudly, grabbing Ylva’s hair again tightly. She felt her face grow red again.

  “Ah, a warrior? Why, that’s grand,” His tone was appreciative.

  “I was, in the past. Not much anymore,” Ylva corrected with a straight face.

  Elendiro smiled, “Aren’t we all? I’ve been working a forge for almost eighty winters, and it’s a battle I still almost lose.”

  “Aye, most battles in life are harder the more you fight them,” Ylva nodded. She knew this dark elf would be older than herself, and wasn’t surprised when that was confirmed. She looked the man up and down again.

  His eyes sparkled with vigor, “What can I do for you, though, today?”

  “Ah,” Ylva shook her head, regaining herself, “I was simply bringing Vyra over to look at your wares. She saw one of your compatriots and I taught her about your guild’s crest. She grew interested.”

  Elendiro laughed, “That was probably ólegen, my partner. He had a delivery here, and I figured we’d bring the tent along with it.”

  Silence fell between them briefly, and Elendiro stared at Ylva. She stared in turn, her eyes roving up and down. She saw a brief flash in his eyes and felt the magical energy around her vibrate slightly, before she did the same. His eyes widened a fraction before he smiled at her.

  That was when Elendiro leaned down and shuffled beneath his table, coming up and producing a wooden and silver post, about the size of a thumb. Two small nails stuck out at either end, and he pressed his thumb against one of them. Blood dripped from the puncture as he handed it to Ylva. Her eyes were wide as the ritual straes carved into the little thing glowed a dim blue, her mouth agape in surprise.

  “What? Here? Now?” She rattled off the questions in a rush. Elendiro smirked as he shook his hand, a gesture for her to take it.

  “Ah, you are a warrior,” The dark elf said, “No, this is for a time later. Don’t worry, you’ll be paid for the job and be given enough notice. This is just so you don’t need to worry about travel.”

  Ylva still couldn’t find the words. She hadn’t been asked to be on a contract in over five winters, and even then, it had been twice as long since it required a blood teleportation ritual to summon her to the job site. She looked at the teleport tack in Elendiro’s hand, then at him, before taking it.

  “How long until the job, and how long is the job?” She felt the weight on her shoulders shift, and watched the fringes of Vyra’s hair drop into her vision

  “I do not know the length of the job, but in about a season, you will be called,” Elendiro said confidently, “I can see the years of experience within you, and deem you good enough for this venture.”

  Ylva’s mind raced. She hadn’t ever thought about trying to get back out into the field herself, much less as a contract warrior. The little ball of energy on her shoulders kept asking what it was she had, but she tuned out the noise as she gathered herself.

  It would be one contract, three months from now. Surely Stratum would be alright with that? Her fists clenched tight. Why was she even considering what Stratum would allow? He wasn’t her charge. The only reason she hadn’t gone off on her own, was because of what she vowed to Menícula and Vyra.

  Looking at the teleport tack, she kept thinking about it. It would take only her own blood to agree to the summons. It wasn’t an agreement to the job. It was an agreement to the summoning — and if she let a man keep a tether to her blood, she didn’t get to pretend it meant nothing. She felt her shoulders stiffen, then relax at the thought.

  Ylva fiddled with it in her hand a bit longer before pricking her finger on the other nail, “My gratitude for believing this warrior still has fight to give.”

  “I could feel it,” Elendiro said as he took the tack back, pocketing it, “In the way the Eós reacted around you. I hope you are fine with one such as me for this?”

  Ylva nodded, “Of course, I felt it with you as well. You’re much older than you let on.”

  “Right you are,” Elendiro chuckled slightly before looking back up at Vyra and smiling, “Should you come across any more of my people, little one, you can greet them in this way.”

  Elendiro brought his right hand up to his face and closed his eyes. With just his index finger, he trailed it from the center of his forehead down to the tip of his nose, turning his hand palm up as he removed it.

  Vyra tried to follow along, but ended up just mushing her hand into her own face and dragging it down to her torso. Elendiro let out a laugh while Ylva just smiled.

  “Well, Elendiro, we must be off. Thank you for your kindness,” Ylva spoke, giving a short bow.

  “It was my pleasure, Warrior Ylva. May we meet again in the following seasons.” He gave his own little bow as Ylva turned away, walking out of the Trade Square.

  They set out down towards one of the many cobblestone paths, a yawn coming from the top of Ylva’s shoulders. The warrior glanced up at the child and smiled when she saw drowsy blue eyes meet her own. It had been a long day for the two of them.

  “Stay awake, Vyra. Warriors must sometimes stay awake far longer than usual,” Ylva said as she focused forward again. She felt the child straighten up at the remark, most likely associating herself with that of a warrior.

  Ylva wanted to chuckle, only to find herself choking. Smoke filled the air around her and she couldn’t see. Her head felt dizzy out of nowhere, and the weight of Vyra on her shoulders was gone. She dropped to her knees and retched violently, bile and the earlier meal spilling onto the ground.

  She looked up and saw fires spread across thatch roofs and across the dirt roads in front of her. Ylva grasped at the ground to her right with fervor, reaching for a weapon that was not there. Ahead of her, a shape was coming from the fires of the inn, as the wailing of a child was suddenly cut short.

  She adjusted the helmet on her head before freezing. She was just in front of her, with Her Charge’s child on her shoulders. Why was she here, in this town? This battle? What was going on?

  “Ylva!” A familiar penetrated the roaring sounds of flames and the ringing in her ears. A voice that almost had her drop into tears right then and there. Ylva slowly turned around to face the voice, her face growing pale and eyes widening.

  “Ylva, they’re routing us! We must fall back to the defensive line!” Menícula shouted, her sword in her hand and a war axe in her other.

  Ylva tried to steady her breathing, but couldn’t. Air came in and out like how a child pumped bellows in the forge, unsteady and fast. She tried to cry, to scream, to just speak, and nothing came out. The taste of ash and smoke drowned her throat and dried her body as it fell from the sky. Flashes of light cast unnatural shadows around her, the darkness of night hanging over her head. She grabbed her knife at her hip, unsheathing it and bringing it up to her throat. She closed her eyes and pressed it in, the tip digging into her throat and drawing a pinprick of blood, before suddenly it was thrown from her hand.

  Ylva’s eyes snapped open as she looked around for the person who threw her weapon from her grip, but found one in the dancing fires around her.

  “…-Ylva!” a voice called out, from nowhere and everywhere at once. The warrior flipped her head around every direction, looking for the voice.

  Her legs were weak and bruised, broken. She could only crawl. The voice echoed again, “Auntie Ylva! Wake up!”

  Breathe rushed into her lungs as she opened her eyes. Ylva lurched up from the stone path, dragging in air as she whipped her head about her. She pat herself down as she did so. No fires. No blood. No broken legs.

  The next thing she did was look at the voice. At Vyra. The child was bruised, blood dripping from her nose, and dirt on her knees and palms. She had what could only be described as a worried look on her face. Ylva smelt the air, the smoke smell fading. Nay, she smelt again. Not going away, beginning.

  Gathering herself quickly, Ylva stumbled towards Her Charge’s child, “Vyra, what happened?”

  “I-I don’t know,” She whispered, “You suddenly fell over on the ground.”

  Ylva thought for only a second before frowning. Grabbing Vyra and hoisting her onto her shoulders, she quickly looked above the buildings. A sign. She needed a sign. Anything at all to convince herself it wasn’t the ghosts of her past coming to haunt her. She turned towards the North, and her fists clenched.

  Smoke, ashes and sparks flew up into the air in the distance – about as far away from them as the palisades were. Her mind tried to run through any way she could write it off, but it all resounded to the same conclusion. With the vision she saw of her past battle, a nightmare that had cursed her for years, appearing now? It could only be dream casting. The direction of the smoke to the north from within the village denoted an attacker hitting the north wall.

  The Ba’griegen were raiding the village.