Author: Sofya Starling

The Woodswise fire crackled merrily, sending up sparks to spar with the snowflakes that were beginning to come down from gloomy skies. Spirits were high, the gaggle around the flame unphased by the wandering cloaked figures, drawn in by the revelry. Songs and stories were shared, merry spirits doing more to stave off the cold than the fire itself.

For once, Reason did not feel inclined to share in the fun. The weight of their decisions lay heavy upon them, the burdens of the day stacking like bricks on their back. They were tired, tired that every time an opportunity arose to help some, others around them got hurt. Each little victory came with its own shadow, haunting their footsteps with a vicious smirk.

The fire, at least, provided some temporary comfort to their clouded thoughts. They were reminded of recent travels with Rhyme, huddled over a small flame conjured in the palm of their other half’s hand as they rested before the next step of their journey, humming a song together.

Reason mulled on if their recent political appointment would actually help assuage the continually rising tensions, tensions they were at least in part responsible for. They would have no doubt refused the proposal from the nobles had they not pointed out that it would do well to symbolize Runeheim’s respect for the Dunnick people. With no desire to lead their fellow Duns to inevitable bloodshed, Reason had accepted. For once, it felt the path to offer aid and respite to their people was clear.

Still, Reason was aware how this was just another sign of the inability of nobles to change their ways. They suspected the number of Duns joining the freedom fighters would continue to grow regardless. Fighting may be inevitable, but Reason was of the opinion that it was a short term solution. It hurt a deep part of their fragmented soul that their countrymen had lost so much hope of a free Dunland that they were driven to find Home somewhere else.

Worse was the question if their newfound role would strip them of the title of hero of Dunland in the eyes of their people. How funny, that Reason had just started to feel the lightness of freedom, being no longer chained to a contract or a mage’s guild.

And Rhyme… So many times, Rhyme had gotten hurt. It did not help that in their fervor they would always push through their pain, endlessly seeking the answers that they thought would bring them clarity. And who was Reason to stop that? After all, the answers compelled them too. The deep, secretive part of them that remained O’shea ached to uncover all that was hidden from him. Ultimately, they felt the costs incurred were worth it.

Any cost, except for that of Rhyme.

△ △ △

Reason could still hear the fresh snow crunching beneath their feet as they and Sygurn raced through the streets of the forum after Rhyme. Wisps of smoke rose up from small, charred spots upon the ground, evidence of the demon’s power surging through the hapless fire mage.

Somehow able to catch up, Reason had latched onto Rhyme, helplessly begging them to resist the demon’s hold, ignoring Rhyme’s own pleas for Reason to get away. They struggled to still Rhyme’s hands as a horrified crowd looked on, wishing for the onlookers to be safe, for the demonic entity to quit puppeting Rhyme. And then –

“Deflagrate Ignis et Auctorita…”

△ △ △

“I was but a maid, doin’ me job.”

Reason whipped around, the horrifying memory still flitting in their thoughts, the phantom sensation of flame magic hot on their arms. In their fidgeting, they had shuffled further from the crowd and away from the safety of the fire. A pale figure hovered uncomfortably close, staring straight through the carpenter at the blazing fire.

Reason gauged it carefully, curiously even. It made no move to threaten them.

“I never harmed no soul in me life. Jus’ tryin’ to provide for me kiddos,” the Malefic uttered, its gravely voice hardly audible.

“And then the whole house collapsed on me.”

Reason’s blood ran cold.

The Woodswise folk broke into a howl, and a cluster of ghosts that had gotten too close to the fire rushed past Reason with a hiss. The Malefic’s gaze flicked to meet Reason’s, then vanished.

Reason stood at the edge of an abyss.

Not physically. Physically, they were set up in a dusty workshop — more of a repurposed barn than anything — so graciously lent for use to Runeheim by the Rogalian lord. Luckily, between the tools they’d brought with them and after patching up a few things in the shop, Reason was able to quickly get to work.

Reason had fallen into an easy rhythm of sawing through the unprocessed lumber. The scent of pine that hung in the workshop had a toasted note to it, singed by the friction of the saw, so fervently was Reason absorbed in their task. The work was not effortless, though, and sweat beaded under the carpenter’s fiery, disheveled locks.

Their mind, however, was far away from their humble station.

Though the autumn air was warm and humid, the memory of last night’s walk brought a chill to Reason’s limbs and chest. They could still feel the entity’s voice, frigid— like the icy rattle of a chain wrapped around their body and soul — and how helpless they felt in its presence.

It promised to give them anything they wanted.

Anything. /Anything./ Magic, power, adoration, success.

They had always desired more, in this life and in the past; always wanting things that were just out of reach, thirsting for the things that knowledge brought.

Surely such promises couldn’t be real.

A part of them hoped they were true, though. The two dreamed so big, worked so hard, and did everything in their power to inch them closer to their goals.

Reason could still feel the horrific sensation when it poured into their body and endeavored to push out their essence, and would have still given it all up were it not for the terrifying inability to touch Rhyme without burning themselves. It was that alone, that deep-set fear of losing the other, that had pulled the two of them out of the lullaby of promises it wove.

It was the one thing they could not bear lose.

Even with how spotty their memory was, Reason could painfully remember how lonely it was to be O’shea. There was no warmth in books, no buddies in the Rogalian war camp, no allies in the Fire Guild. Ripped from his roots as a child, and never allowed to plant any. There was only cruelty in Torchgutter, and even those closest to him, like Celandine, at best maintained a professional arms-length distance. Always surrounded by people, yet only had himself for warmth.

Still, the thought would not leave their mind, buzzing like a persistent cicada with the unyielding question of “what if?”

‘What if what was offered to us was real?’ Reason thought. ‘What if we could have all of it: magic, and love, and purpose?’

‘What if Rhyme could have anything their heart desired?’

Crack!

The wood snapped under Reason’s plane, crumbling in a puff of sawdust at a weak point at the knot. Reason swore loudly as they recoiled from the break, feeling a stinging feeling on their wrist from where the splintered wood scraped them. Damned Renett lumber, they should have known. The forests here were shriveling under the lord’s purview.

Reason sighed and wiped away the swirls of wood shavings off their workstation, taking a moment to gauge the snapped plank to try and work out how they could still salvage it. Perhaps if they had time they could at least do something decorative with it.

They returned to their work, their thoughts still adrift on the murky wind.

“You were appointed what?”

“That’s right,” Valko hummed, chest puffed out. “Reeve of Trade.”

Ianthe rolled her eyes. “Ugh.”

“Aw, don’t be like that. It means someone recognized my importance around here.”

“Teles certainly is generous…or desperate.”

Valko only sounded a little indignant. “Well, there’s been a growing need to organize the trickle of outsiders passing through Luisant, what with the Mists growing weaker.”

“At least you won’t go wandering off in them again.” Ianthe scoffed under her breath before admitting, “It is troubling, though.”

“Yeah,” Valko fretted. “Things have been rather hectic.”

Even if he believed he was competent enough, there was still a thread of insecurity that wove itself through him. Yet he clung to the feeling of being helpful, wishing to contribute all he could, especially when his superiors were busy with more pressing matters.

“Well maybe it will finally manage to keep you out of trouble. You may even come to be respectable– if you’re not careful.” Ianthe teased before a realization dawned on her. “Aren’t you not supposed to handle coin?”

Valko was, unfortunately, often in the habit of embracing the new, especially with so much change happening around him. He sought it out frequently. His passion had always oscillated between the archaic wisdoms of the past and those that the future held out as a lure. Presently, his inner pendulum had swung to the latter. It wasn’t like he was the only Vecatran to find allure in the modern, either. So much change wouldn’t really affect him, would it?

Still, Valko was not keen on losing his mind this early in life. He’d at least hoped for another decade or so before that happened.

“Uhm, well, technically yes. I mean, I can handle things in a pinch, but if it becomes a regular thing, I could really use-“

“My help?” Ianthe asked. “After everything, you want me to do favors for you?”

“Yes, exactly, you get it!”

“I don’t know,” Ianthe mused, checking her nails. “Why should I?”

Valko stooped just enough to look up pleadingly at Ianthe. “Pleaaaase? I can make sure you get your pick of fine goods before anyone else.”

Ianthe raised a brow.

“After the town is provided for. Great spirits, you think so low of me?”

A beat of silence hung over the two for a moment.

“Okay, yes, fair point,” Valko waved his hand, before taking a more sincere tone. “Please? It would mean so much to me.”

Ianthe regarded him sternly before a smirk twitched her lips. “Fine, I can help you.” 

Valko lit up. “You always were such a peach! Thank you!”

He reached to embrace her, but Ianthe shoved him away, turning in a huff. “You owe me!”

Valko stood there stupidly as he watched her stomp away. More-so than any semblance of pride at his new responsibilities, it was the ever so subtle softer look in Ianthe’s eyes that truly lifted his spirits.

The midmorning sun shone through the near-barren trees, barely chasing away the lingering mists that clung to the forest floor. The running creek masked Valko’s footsteps, though he was already treading lightly – albeit leisurely – down the pathway through the ancient trees.

He’d intended, as usual, to skip over his daily responsibilities, though his pack was heavy with a few mining tools. They were something he’d tossed in there at the last minute before setting out, and certainly didn’t intend to use. Working on such a beautiful early-spring morning almost felt like a sin.

Had things in Luisant always been so complicated? As a youngster, he’d always tuned out the endless droning of the elders, only pricking up an ear when gossip was whispered. Politics bored him, and he cared little for the religious disputes clashing within the town as he found it easy to get along with most. If he really wished to weasel his way into an unfolding drama, he had no trouble batting his eyelashes to charm his way into a situation. He’d do anything (as long as he had an easy out) to leave with a good story.

Stories…

Perhaps he’s been searching in the wrong place.

The lofty fairy tales that he’d been seeking while he spent months at the edge of the Mists always seemed to elude him. He’d already perused most of the relevant tomes in the village and picked the brains of others in search of the stories that stirred his soul. Surely there was something beyond the borders of the village that was even more magical and profoundly inspiring. No responsibilities or obligations had been able to curb his incessant thirst for it, leading him into the swirling fog day after day, and late into the night. His soul yearned for the untouchable and mystical, something that would shake him to his core as if the very earth was rumbling beneath his feet.

But now, the world was quite literally rumbling beneath his feet – the stirring of an ancient being was a reality he’d have to now face, whether he was ready for it or not.

Stories, however lofty, are typically forged in some fact, event, or feeling. Even the tallest of tales carry wisdom, hope, victory. Did he really think he would find such a spark tucked away into a mountain crevice or trapped under a murky bog? That some benevolent creature of the woods would hand him a scroll for naught in exchange?

It wasn’t that he didn’t care for the others, though. He wanted– more-so now than ever– to give back to the town the life and sustenance that it had given him. And being there, in the midst of the action amongst his brethren, was the most inspired he’d felt in moons.

Perhaps, a quiet thought suggested, the reason he sought grandiose tales was due to how small he’d always felt. How mundane was the life of a textile monger, the daily drudgery of a merchant’s life. Yet was it really mundane, then, when those textiles protected those he loved from the cold or kept them cool in the late summer sun? When it protected them from the claws and fangs of the monsters that threatened them? When there was love darned into rips that needed repair, embroidery to show a little spark of the soul wearing the garment?

Even something as mundane as fabric holds stories, and it took the village splitting apart by the seams for him to realize that.

Valko felt a little miserable at the revelation, a rare frown creeping into his expression.

Ah, there!

Nestled into the bank was an excellent deposit of iron, just out of sight from the overgrown foliage it was tucked into. Even at a glance, Valko knew it’d provide good metal for armor or weaponry for one of the town’s protectors – and someday, perhaps even him. The thought dispelled the spiral of negative thoughts.

Gently, Valko scooped the moss that had been diligently growing over the stone, spreading the patch onto a nearby boulder to let it keep growing. He whispered a prayer of thanks to the forest for providing such a resource. He withdrew a small pick from his rucksack and crouched by the stone, settling, for the first time in a long while, into work.