Prologue: A Beginning, and an End 

The Year 1581 Anno Salvatoris 

40 Years After the Settling 

Sea winds abounded amidst an air rich upon Aritz’s tongue with the taste of salt. As gulls called, circling the depths of the Ocean of Catelina in search of food, his magnificent galleon, draped with sails of Acrarian regalia, pulled into port. A host of attendants waited for him along the dock, lined in parallel rows of six apiece. The ship was a marvel of engineering, the auspices of the Years of Industry benefiting it greatly. Up close, it nearly resembled a fortress. Ten cannons jutted out from each side, promising hellfire with the slightest of provocations. The blue and white coat-of-arms of the royal family adorned the sails, though it was a lordly variant of that emblem. She sailed alone into the port, but that was hardly anything new. No sailor worth their salt dared challenge the might of the Chariot in open waters. Any man lacking the salt merely would find themselves returned to the salt in short order. 

The Chariot was a symbol. Of power, of wealth, of status. And, of course, of Aritz himself. 

Distantly, he could hear an exclamation of, “He has arrived!” from one of the attendants, a portly and aged man adorned in solid blue robes of dyed hides sporting a deep V-shape in the front to accommodate the warm southern air.  

Aritz took a handful of steps forward along the creaking wooden dock, crystalline waves splashing in intermittent bursts. As his shoes soaked in the puddles of salt water, he watched as a servant aboard the Chariot pushed a ramp down to the walkway below, bowing out of the way to graciously allow Aritz passage.  

“He has arrived!” the attendant said again. “Lord Aritz is returned!” 

The pomp and circumstance were nothing new for Aritz. For over two decades, this was his charge, his reality. And to tell the truth? He was quite all right with that. 

As he prepared to descend the ramp, he drew a deep breath and collected himself, fixing and straightening his adornments. He removed his cloak, far too peppered by the lingering aroma of ocean and fish from the three-month sea voyage, and, without a glance, handed it off to some unseen boy. They came in droves whenever they were needed. He liked that about them. Underneath the cloak lay one of his finest leather tunics, solid blue as was the custom. A white cape was draped over one shoulder, symbolizing a man of status and means. His trousers and shoes were of more simple taste, however. Simple for a Lord, at any rate. 

With the plank groaning underneath his weight, Aritz descended to the level of the eager throng of attendants. To his eyes, they were always men of wealth, though only by virtue of their position as lecturers at the University. On this land, that was quite something. Back home in his native Acraria…not so much. Aritz looked them over individually, all gatekeepers, individuals holding the key to a higher realm of understanding, all of it hiding behind such odd and baseless smiles. Sycophants and arse-kissers, the lot of them, he thought. Always eager for something. 

The first attendant greeted him heartily from the first half-step he took on the dock, reaching out and shaking his hand with the vigor of the mightiest of earthquakes. “Oh, Lord Aritz! Welcome! Welcome back to Ferranda! You are always missed here!” 

Managing a half-hearted smile, Aritz removed his hand from the eager man. “A pleasure as always, Master Horatio,” he said. 

“Beg pardon, my Lord, but I am Master Hernan,” the man said with a sheepish chuckle. “Master Horatio passed some years ago.” 

“Ah yes, of course,” Aritz said, passing Hernan by with a pat on the shoulder. “My mistake, Master Herman.” 

Hernan did not make any further corrections. Unless inane blathering and stuttering counted for such. While the rows of silent scholars bowed their heads in respectful silence, the portly attendant shuffled quickly after the Lord, seemingly eager to continue the welcome.  “It has been quite some time since you returned to Ferranda, my Lord, has it not?” 

Surely, they’re awaiting an opportunity for a boon to be granted them, as though my coming here was not enough, Aritz thought with a grunt. “Four, five years, I’d wager.” The way Hernan walked behind him was frankly irritating. Hardly a plump step, just a shaky shuffle, almost like he was afraid his heavy footsteps would punch a hole through the dock. I’d enjoy seeing that, honestly. 

“Such a long time, my Lord. You must miss your time here dearly.” 

“I spent the first half of my adult years here. Now I’ve a family.” Aritz shrugged, the three months at sea suddenly bearing down upon his joints. He was no longer the spry man he was all those years ago. He had seen almost sixty years, after all. That was more than evident on his face. Wrinkles had long since set deeply in cavernous formations along his forehead and cheeks, and where his rows of curly hair once shimmered with shades of auburn-brown, they were now peppered with at least six shades of grey. 

“And how are your lady wife and children, my Lord? They must live in wondrous comfort back in the homeland.” 

“They must, yes.” Am I even allowed a moment’s rest and restoration, or is this braggart intent on following me to the privy, too? 

Hernan hummed an acknowledgment and shuffle-shuffle-shuffled quicker to maintain Aritz’s pace. Savior Above, he was an unsightly man. Every orifice of his body just seemed to drip sweat.  

I’m rather regretting shaking his hand now, Artiz thought. 

“At any rate, my Lord,” Hernan said, heartily clearing his throat as though to announce his intention to speak further, “it is a tremendous honor and privilege that you have come all this way. The students will be immensely thrilled.” 

Well, at least someone is thrilled I am here. “I’m delighted to hear so.” So long as we do not have a repeat of last time. Where did that girl get so many eggs? “I trust they are still being instructed well.” And those that aren’t are gaoled appropriately, I trust. “Have they word of my arrival?” 

“Ho-ho, oh no, my Lord. We wanted it to be a surprise for them.” 

“Oh, goody.” 

“Yes, yes, ‘good-ee,’ my Lord! ‘Good-ee’ for them that the Founder himself is about to provide a special guest lecture!” He sighed longingly, shades of hopefulness adorning his breath. Hopefulness smelled like shite coming out of him. 

The Founder. Sometimes Aritz would forget that title. Strange thing, memory is. After all, he had been a Lord for some time now because of it. Everything he was, it was built upon Ferranda’s foundation. That was always worth remembering. 

The precipices of industry loomed over the horizon, heralding the arrival into view of Ferrand City, the capital of this island nation. The very tip of smokestacks spewing out production became visible as the wooden docks gave way to dry land.  

It was always such a treat for Aritz to see how much further this island progressed in his absences, and after spending a quarter of a year on a ship, walking that much further on a rickety dock above water, with terra firma just barely in sight, was such a torturous tease. Aritz didn’t think he could ever be so enthralled by the sight of stone-lain pathways, but they looked so enticing that he could kiss them.  

His entourage-in-tow would probably have worshiped the very ground had he done so. 

The satisfaction of that mental image wasn’t worth the dirt and grime getting into his mouth, so he decided against it. 

Relishing the solid ground beneath his feet, Aritz eyed the city of his own creation with satisfaction. A reminder of great days. Turning his gaze loosely to Hernan, whose piercing green eyes were ever-vigilant and ever-disturbing, he asked, “So, when am I expected to be at the University?” He looked up at the sky, the sun in a position to indicate high noon. 

Nervously, Hernan coughed and ran his plump fingers through his diminishing hair. He was sweating even more profusely now, if that were possible. “Ah, well. It’s near midday now, my Lord, so I would wager…ah, well…” 

“Out with it, man,” Aritz said impatiently. 

“Ahem, well. Near on ten minutes from now.” 

“Ten minutes?!” His eyes widened, an untapped frustration burning in his irises. At that moment, he felt he could melt the sniveling Hernan to the ground with just a glare. If anything, that dampness in the scholar’s trousers likely wasn’t from sweat anymore. Didn’t smell like it, either. 

“A-a-ah, w-well, my Lord.” Repeatedly, Hernan ran his hands through the thin strands of hair atop his head, such that half of the hair was sticking straight up and the other half was being pulled out in clumps. Maybe that’s why he was half-bald. A nervous tick, apparently. “We had expected you a day or two past, and assumed that would be plenty of time for you to gain your bearings, relax, ah…accommodate yourself, and—” 

“Well, beg pardon for the winds not playing to your favor, Master Berman!” Truthfully, Aritz was slightly annoyed but not as angry as he was making himself out to be. It does my heart well to knock this man down a peg, though. “It will take fifteen minutes just to walk to Ferrand City, for I see you’ve neglected to prepare a horse for my arrival. Is this how you welcome your Lord?!” 

“No, no, please, my Lord! A thousand apologies! All fault belongs to me! Please, if I may—” 

“What you may do, Master, is delay the day’s lecture.” Aritz eyed the retinue behind him, all averting their gazes to the vast and empty unknowns around them. Fascinating discoveries, these scholars must be having. I wonder if they’ve at last learnt to see the wind. “At the very least, gentlemen, I would like some time alone in my chambers. Allow me that time, and I shall ready myself within the hour.” And all the more to get this lecture over with. “Is that satisfactory for you lot?” 

Hernan looked nearly on the point of tears as he emphatically nodded his head in agreement. The nameless scholars—well, they had names, of course. Aritz just didn’t care to know them—likewise voiced their gratitude in united measures, a choral harmony seeming to indicate appreciation to the Savior that they still had their necks. 

“Wonderful. I know the rest of the way, gentlemen. I can show myself to my manor. I shall see you boys at the University.” Aritz doubled his pace, wanting precious little to do with the group any further. With a final glance over his shoulder, he eyed Hernan, still trembling in shock, a stark contrast to the overbearing and undue confidence he had just a few moments ago. Smiling at the sight, Aritz called out, “And be sure to change your trousers before class, pisspot!” 

The sight of a warm bed not accompanied by the rank and odor of eighty other men-at-sea was immensely appealing. What Aritz wouldn’t have given to just kick his feet up, sleep away the past three months, and call it a day. But the longer he put off this lecture, the longer it would take to be done with it. Within the hour. Pheh, I should have said within the week. 

His chambers were more or less as he left them five years back, save for the routine maintenance the manor staff so kindly kept up with. How heartwarming it was that he could leave his treasures and trophies unattended for years at a time, and they would not mysteriously go missing. Something about consequences, surely. 

A quick eye’s glance confirmed that it was still the home away from home, the home before the home. A personal kingdom he had crafted and dwelt in for two decades, back when the Kingdom he served had yet to become the Kingdom he’d create.  

Banners were draped along the walls, one of the blue-and-white heralding Acraria, another with the variant depicting the crest of his House, a red bear, fierce and proud.  

Familiar sights remained in the middle: a large table displaying a map of Ferranda, from the southern shores of Ferrand City to the secluded peaks of the Northern Mountains, a cartographer’s gift which once functioned as a war map; off by the large-paned windows, an ornate desk of the finest woods, carved delicately by the finest woodsmiths the Kingdom could offer; to the side, shelving housing treasures and trophies, memories of a time long past, all flanking his cherished flintlock pistol, an heirloom he’d no longer a need for, but came well in handy during the founding of Ferranda. 

It was almost worth the voyage east just for the rekindling of memories. Almost. As enticing as nostalgia strove to be, Aritz did have a task to get out of the way. 

Retreating to his wardrobe, he discarded the sea-tainted leathers of his journey and replaced them with identical—more or less—garments of similar grandeur, the only difference being the trims of white-gold fringe along the sleeves and collar. He was invited as something befitting royalty, and he intended to look the part. 

Bidding a final glance to the glory days, Aritz barged out from his chambers, paying little regard to the attendants awaiting his intent to leave, and strode out of his manor and onto the streets of Ferrand City, the unheeded beckoning of his guards faintly following in his step. 

The capital had come a long way since its first inception almost forty years past. Seeing the advent of progress made it hard to believe that this once was just an expanse of fields with hardly any development to its name. Parsing the panoramic view before him put a smile on his tired face.  

Beyond the gate leading to his manor, stone streetways laid the path, sidewalks of smooth granite directing foot traffic. The pitter-patter of horseshoes clicked along the streets, leaving him to ponder whether they were carrying lovelorn hopefuls by carriage to what was probably their next coital activity at this time of day. A steady commotion littered the air as inquisitions of the day’s coming attractions rang out, passive conversations about when to visit the open markets against aggressive arguments about Madame Whoever’s philandering husband. Poetry to Aritz’s ears. A modern society. 

As he walked past the gates and turned the corner, still offering little mind to the attendants who were technically meant to be his bodyguards, Aritz breathed in the refreshing sea breeze, a remarkable change of pace from the urban stink of his homeland. Buildings of various compositions flanked his periphery, a sign of the early days when homes were haphazardly thrown together with whatever wood and stone they could salvage. There was a certain charm to it, at any rate. Puffs of smoke billowed out from atop chimney pipes, the subtle aroma of cooking coals wafting out from the assorted houses. It smelled like someone was charring a steak to perfection. I’ll have to come by afterwards for a bite. What are they going to say to me, “No?” 

The University stood tall at the end of the road on the right-hand side. Save for his own manor, it was the largest building in the city. That was by his own design. It needed to express its importance while not overshadowing his own grandeur.  

Regardless, he was willing to allow some more expansive worship to be given to the factory, which acted as the University’s cross-street neighbor. After all, without the factory, Ferrand City—and the whole of Ferranda, for that matter—would not be where it was. The advent of industry back home in Acraria allowed the development of this small nation to hit the ground running, with everything from the smallest of tools to the most intricate of engines holding some manner of inception within the walls of that place of creation. When Ferranda was but a mere stopover on a much larger trade route to the west, the building was vital for storing precious goods for barter. Soon enough, it became the source of those goods such that the entire island became sufficient on its own. 

It didn’t take long in Aritz’s saunter of marveling at his own creations for citizens to take notice. Hushed whispers rumbled in growing excitement as more and more people came to realize just who was walking the streets of Ferrand City. Murmurs proclaiming the return of the Founder echoed through the city, and it would not be long before the entirety of the populace was in an uproar over his return. Any time Aritz showed his face was a momentous occasion, for one reason or another. 

With the furor of excitement reaching a zenith, Aritz could only barely hear the warning cries from his attendants, however far behind him they were. He wasn’t much concerned, regardless. So, people knew he was back in Ferranda? No bother. The whole lot of them would only stare and gawk. For a people so reverent of the teachings of the Savior, they certainly seemed to offer Aritz the same degree of platitude. He paid them no mind either way. In his peripheral vision, men pumped their fists in a bastardization of the Acrarian salute while women shrieked and swooned after him. Over the din of fanfare, Aritz could, at last, hear a discernible voice saying, “Sir, we should really be moving along.” The concern that these upstart bodyguards elected to show was wonderful. 

It matters very little, though, Aritz thought. Here, I am untouchable. 

Leaving the roar of the crowd behind him, offering them nothing but a parting glance, Aritz at last arrived at the University, the hub of learning on this small island nation. Its architecture was gaudy, an embellishment of sculpted marble imported from the mainland and pristine stonework originating from the Mountains. The intent was to model the building after the arcane structures of the great philosophers to the south of Acraria. With this Age of Industry also came an Age of Knowledge, and suddenly looking back to the past and learning the obscure thoughts of men smarter than he was in vogue. More power to everyone, then.  

The centerpiece to the University, however, in Aritz’s most humble opinion, was the victorious statue in the middle of the courtyard depicting his image. Bearing a sword and pistol, a mantle atop his head, and a star across his chest, his was a caricature of how Ferranda was founded: through strength and progress, for Crown and Savior. The sword was a bit tacky, though. He had never used one before. 

Once again eager to see Aritz was Master Hernan, at last removed from his streaks of sweat and soiled trousers. The portage to the Main Hall was wide open, the scholar extending an arm inwards as a means of welcome. “The uproar of the crowd was signal enough of your arrival, my Lord,” he said, much more calmly than he had at the docks. “Please, follow me. I shall show you the way to the lecture hall.” 

With a shrug and a nod, Aritz allowed the shuffling feet to guide the way. The hallways were nothing short of impressive. Elaborate artwork adorned the walls, imports from some of the greatest artistic minds in the Acrarian Kingdom. Prominent voices resembling those sullen, murmuring tones of his welcoming party at the docks echoed through the corridor, doing their best to captivate a disinterested audience. What a pity, that, Aritz thought. Those students will not be blessed by my presence. 

Upon reaching the lecture hall, Master Hernan humbly requested Aritz to stay put and await his introduction. Enough of a commotion was apparently drawn from the portly scholar’s shuffle-steps that heads began to poke out from adjacent classrooms, intrigued by what could possibly have instilled in the man such fleetness of foot.  

Listlessly, Aritz raised an acknowledging eyebrow to the passersby and glances of curiosity. Something to brighten their day, at the least. 

Listening closely, Aritz quickly realized that Hernan’s voice was muffled. Either that was a lecturing style unique to Ferrand City, or the man was just mumbling into his bouncing jowls again. Not intent on waiting for some dramatic pause or silence, the Acrarian Lord burst into the classroom, shades of regality glistening in the eyes of those present. 

Hernan didn’t seem to take notice of the grand entrance. Instead he was intent on going over some logistical gubbins about this or that. “—and as a reminder, the Feast of the Savior is slated for three days hence, by invitation only. I do not want a repeat of last…what is it? What the blazes are you all looking…oh.”  

Oh, indeed, Aritz thought. Aren’t I meant to be the man of the hour today?  

Nervously, the scholar began sweating again and aggressively rummaging through his hair.  

Aritz barely skipped a beat and continued to descend the steps to the lecture podium, eager to remove Hernan from his esteemed duties.  

“Ah, yes. Ladies and gentlemen, as promised, a special guest! I thank you all for your patience and flexibility in accommodating our most special guest. Here to speak, having just traveled this way all the way from Acraria, is Lord Aritz a Mata!” 

Stunned gasps and exuberant faces were the only response with which Aritz was met. A smattering of claps rang out while various excited whispers rumbled through the room. 

“The Founder? I can’t believe it.” 

“I can’t believe the Founder is here!” 

“What do you think he’s going to talk about?” 

“It’s about time. My father’s paid an arm and a leg to send me here for stuff like this.” 

“My father paid my servant’s arms and legs to send me here.” 

“Incredible! I can’t believe it.” 

“Do you think he’ll like my idea?” 

“No, literally no one thinks catapulting gulls at people is a good idea.” 

“Shh, he’s waiting to speak!” 

Raising his arms to quell the mood, Hernan appeared to have regained his composure by the time Aritz reached the podium. “Now, now, everyone. Please be silent. Lord Aritz has traveled for three months to be here. Please offer him the respect and gratitude deserving of him.” Gesturing an arm to the Lord, he offered a polite nod, perhaps too aggressive a nod at that, given the beads of sweat that shot forward like bullets. And I had just tidied up, too.  

“Lord Aritz, the floor is yours.” 

Taking his cue, Aritz strode before the eager faces, all with expressions of exuberance and hopefulness. Bright, youthful, naïve hopefulness. He remembered those days, long ago. “My thanks, Master Sherman.” A handful of stifled scoffs and snickers whispered through the crowd. Hernan merely took it without objection. “Good afternoon, students. Thank you for your time and for granting me the wonderful privilege of speaking with you, the future of our fair nation, and of our great Kingdom.” A smattering of polite applause. “I’m sure, as much as it is to your surprise and delight to have me here, it is equally a wonder as to why I have come. For what purpose am I here to speak with you?” He turned his gaze toward a still-nervous Hernan. “Master, would you please care to introduce today’s topic of discussion?” Because your request to “be a living history for our minds of the future” was both ambiguous and pompous. 

Clearing his throat and nodding briskly, Hernan shuffled forward. “Class, today, we will be discussing the call to adventure, service to the Crown, and the founding of our nation. And who better to discuss it than the living history of our nation, the man who built Ferranda from nothing and turned it into the wondrous community it is today?” 

Aritz slowly blinked for one second, two seconds, three. You asked me here for a bloody history lesson? Did you forget how to print a history book? Too late to back out now, then. What was done was done. “Yes, who better, indeed, Master? Class, forgive me if this may seem duplicitous of the histories you have learned whilst growing up. I suppose this will be great practice for when I at last draft my memoirs.” A few chuckles littered the room, a handful of smiles, and one stern, unamused expression upon a girl in the middle rows. Can’t please them all, apparently. 

“Right then, let’s get on with it,” Aritz began. “Growing up in Acraria, I lived in the shadow of a dream of my father, Lord Nofre a Mata, a dream to see the world and prove our family’s worth to the Crown. We were a family of means, mind—my father was a spice trader, and we had possessed a small fortune by regional standards. But ah, that’s neither here nor there.” He paused, taking an extended moment to reflect on those halcyon days.  

“At any rate, an opportunity arose when it was posited that lands far to the west of the Continent existed. The possibilities ran through my father’s head. The opening of trade routes, of spice routes, a way to prove our family’s worth to Their Royal Highnesses. My father entered a bidding war of sorts to lay claim to the route in the name of the Kingdom. Eventually, he won that war and was granted the opportunity to create a route before any of our neighbors did. 

“Unfortunately, my Lord Father passed away before beginning his journey, but I refused to allow his dream to die with him.” Aritz scanned the crowd, clenching his fist at chest height in a symbol of defiance. A few faces nodded intently at the sentiment. 

With an embellished breath for the sake of composure he did not need to regain, Aritz continued. “I mourned my father the requisite two years, and boldly, as but a young man not much older than yourselves, still just a boy of twenty, truthfully, I embarked on the quest he so desperately wanted to undertake himself. In my travels, after a quarter of a year at sea, I stumbled upon this wonderful island. In my excitement, I admittedly mistook it for this mysterious West we had heard of.” He raised his arms out to his side as though offering a sermon, a sly and amused grin creasing his lips. “Quick was I to discover my error,” he added with a chuckle. Several students shared in the laughter.  

“But at the same time, it seemed the most wonderful stopover for the larger trade routes. My men and I built makeshift ports and set out further west, and thank the Savior, we found that great West. Our route was established. We succeeded.” Again, Aritz rose his fist to his chest. But this time, it was not in defiance but rather in victory. 

“But, what to do with this small island?” He turned about the room as though presenting a grand landscape, even if he was merely at the front of a lavish lecture hall. “It seemed a pity to have it go by the wayside. It seemed a waste to allow the prospect of natural resources to go unused. And, most of all, it would have been a shame not to spread the blessings and teachings of our wonderful Savior to new territories. Why, He is responsible for all of us living, of course.” Aritz caught a glance of a handful of students bowing their heads at the mention of the Savior. “But the thought that so few beyond our Continent potentially knew that? I couldn’t allow that to pass, either.  

“So, we did what seemed natural. We built. Our Age of Industry has treated us so magnificently, and within fifteen years, we had a model city, a precursor to our great Ferrand City. We were no longer just a stopover, a holding ground for resources meant to be sent one direction or another. We were making those resources. Suddenly, what would become our Ferranda became of vital importance.” 

Aritz took a moment to pause and sip at a glass of water that had at some point appeared before him. Wiping his damp lips with the back of his hand, his eyes continued to parse through the scattered faces before him. All enthralled by his words and deeds save for that one girl in the middle rows who remained unimpressed, not even pretending to take notes. 

“Thanks to my forward-thinking,” he continued, “the King and Queen were able to expand their reach far beyond simple trading posts in a foreign land. They have established full-fledged colonies, self-sufficient yet ever dedicated. What was once a Kingdom was on the verge of becoming an Empire. And in the name of the Savior, it was done. It all began on this island, a mere afterthought in the grand scheme of things, but a beginning, nonetheless. A beginning for an Empire, and an end for a Kingdom. 

“But our scope on this island was limited in those early years. We maintained our territory to the lands south of the Mata Forest, but beyond that, those plains reaching to the Northern Mountains, those were precious resources that we had yet to claim for Crown and Savior. We felt comfortable in ourselves as a sufficient people to claim those lands. A unified land. A single nation. Under the light of the Savior and by the rule of King Ferrand and Queen Catelina. I had to credit this land in their name, and so I bequeathed upon it the name of Ferranda, and the ocean which carried us here the Ocean of Catelina. 

“And in those ensuing years, the years so proudly served as a man of an empire, I was bestowed a Lordship, a sizable homestead, and this. Ferranda.” I would have expected nothing less for all that I did for the Kingdom, Aritz thought. “They dubbed me ‘Founder’ and sent me along to the history books. The very books from which you all learn.” And the very books written by my own hand, of course. 

Aritz sighed, taking an extended moment to appreciate all he had accomplished. He relished in the satisfaction. It did bring a smile to his face.  

“I suppose that shall be lesson enough for today.” Audible disappointment rose from a collective voice at the announcement. Smirking, Aritz pointed a finger to the crowd, ready to impart upon them golden words of wisdom to stew in their minds. “When the call to adventure rings in your ears, answer it. For Crown and Savior, answer it,” he concluded, taking a final step backward and nodding his head. 

Eagerly, Master Hernan led enthusiastic applause, which most of the students happily joined. Most. There was still that one unamused expression amidst the throng.  

I may be opening up a box of horrors here, but I’ve run out of things to talk about. “I am happy to field any questions from the crowd. How about…”  

A sea of excited hands rose, a wave of emotional beckons and pleas for undue attention cascading through the air. A gathering of young adults reduced to children in an instant.  

Making a show of it, Aritz drifted a pointed finger along the perimeter of the crowd, before settling—as he had intended all along—on the face of that unamused girl. She’d barely registered a modicum of interest during his entire tangent. How dare she. “…you, Miss? Surely, the most silent voice is the most thoughtful.” 

The young girl raised her eyebrows with some degree of annoyance, arms crossed, a scowl settling onto her olive-skinned face. Reluctantly, she rose to her feet, as was the custom. “I suppose my question would be this: what became of the native population on this island whose land you stole?” 

Where once there was a clamor of excitement, a din of stunned and shocked silence fell into place. It was deathly quiet, as though the most grievous of insults was spoken. Master Hernan was sweating profusely again, shuffling in place, apparently unsure in what direction he should move his feet. Rows of students clenched their teeth in fearful displays as though apprehensive of the public consequences of questioning the Lord of Ferranda directly to his face.  

For his part, though, Aritz was calm and collected. It wasn’t the first time he had been asked something like this before. 

“And where, Miss, did you hear of such nonsense?” 

The girl remained unfazed. Her arms stayed crossed about her chest, hair tied back in a braid draped over her shoulder. Aritz tried to discern some sort of tick to denote nerves—a trembling lip, a twitch of the eye, something. But she looked calm and collected. It was as though she had been waiting for this moment for a long time. “There are history books written by those other than the victors if you know where to find them.” 

“If they weren’t victors, what’s the point of even learning their history?” muttered one student under his breath. 

“Now, now, permit her to speak,” commanded Aritz to the disgruntled student. With grace, he extended his hand in front of him. “Now, as you were, Miss.” 

“There were entire tribes on this land once,” she continued. “Entire cultures. Now there aren’t. Yet we don’t learn about them. Why?” 

Aritz smiled. What harm could a couple kernels of truth do? “I will concede this to you, Miss. Upon our first arrival, we were shown great hospitality by a tribe along the eastern coast. They provided us food and lodging for our troubles, and though we were barred by the grips of language, we managed to communicate. We explained our purpose, our needs. We came as humble travelers, merchants, not conquerors, after all. Kindly, they showed us to open land where we may settle for our needs, which is where we are all standing now. As our needs grew, we expanded, as is the price of progress. But they understood, and they, too, felt the price of progress for themselves and expanded elsewhere.” 

She continued to stand, unblinking, unconvinced. “Progress. Expansion. Sounds like subjugation and elimination to my ears.” 

“Have a care, girl!” exclaimed a student from the back row. “You can’t talk to Lord Aritz like that!” 

“If you don’t like Ferranda, you can get the hell out!” exclaimed another. 

“Maybe think for yourselves, for once,” the girl coldly retorted. Finally, inclinations of emotion were visible upon her face. Frustration. Annoyance. Anger. “Is it not strange that a small island nation comprising barely ten-thousand people became one of the crowning achievements of Acraria in a relative overnight? Where once there was nothing, suddenly there was progress?” 

“Ugh, these are the idiots my father warned me about…” muttered a gruff voice from up front. 

Aritz raised his arms, attempting (half-heartedly) to dissuade the furor beginning to take over the lecture hall. It helped. A little bit, anyway. “Now, Miss. I did say that the tribes were gracious. They helped us find suitable land for our needs, and yes, we did indeed receive their assistance. We could not have built Ferranda to what it is today without their help.” 

“Was it all of Ferranda, then?” she asked, eyebrow raised once again, arms still folded across her body. “You seemed to imply that it was only Ferrand City that they ‘helped’ with. And if they ‘expanded’ and went elsewhere…where was that? I’ve seen no trace of them.” 

“Because they retreated to the Mountains, girl.” Aritz snapped at her a bit more fiercely than he had intended. But what were a bunch of students going to do about it, anyway? 

“They ‘retreated,’ then. Not expansion. Retreat. Those seem different terms entirely.” 

“Yes, they retreated, off to the far reaches of who-knows-where!”  

“How curious that they would up and leave like that.” More and more, her expression was becoming irritating. “Curious still that there remain those who say you, yourself, led a tribal attack on this city, just so that you could play the role of heroic savior later.” 

The tumultuous din quieted to cautious silence. Any semblance of calmness was now bereft in Aritz. He didn’t need to be questioned like this by some anonymous University student. He was the Founder. “Tell me, girl. What do you know of these tribal people?” The last word came out of his mouth with disgust, a poison escaping his tongue. 

“Well, they—” 

“Let me tell you all about them,” he interrupted. “These tribes were a group of nomadic spellbinders who thought that animals bestowed upon them strength and wisdom. They worshiped animals like gods, despite being born under the Light of the Savior. They openly practiced in wicked rituals, killing people with but a single touch, seeing a hand offering life and offering only death in return. Would you feel safe in allowing such savagery to wander among us? These lands do not belong to them. They belong to the Savior, and any who would reject His light render themselves undeserving of his glow. But I am a kind man, just the same. Surely, there is the opportunity that they may see the errors of their ways, and so they still remain, far to the north, deep within the Mountains. If you’re so inclined, perhaps you may wish to conduct your research there. If they don’t slaughter you first.” 

The classroom burst into an uproar, the majority swayed by Aritz’s words. The girl, still, appeared unconvinced. She had more to say. “Were they apt to ‘slaughter,’ as you say, because it was supposedly in their nature,” she said, “or were they just defending their land from a foreign invader?” 

Seeing an opportunity to raise himself in Aritz’s eyes, Hernan stepped forward, a big step up from shuffling forward. “That’s enough! Now, Miss, um…I’m sorry, I don’t recall your name…but anyway. Are there any questions other than this…um, drivel and slander?” 

Hands shot back up through the air, and the girl sat back down. She did not look dejected by any means.  

If anything, Aritz had to respect that about her. In those brief moments between questions, they locked eyes with one another, verbal sparring foes wanting to duel on equal footing. But there was no such footing to be given on Aritz’s part. He spent the remainder of class time fielding questions from various points of interest, from war stories to life as it was back in Acraria to a strange conversation about launching gulls via catapult because of reasons. From there, it was a thorough, clean, and engaging hour of discussion.  

But all things must come to an end, and eventually, the students conceded the remainder of their time and filed out of the classroom, Master Hernan following closely behind, not wanting to be further embarrassed by Lord Aritz. Clearly, he had learned his lesson. 

As the students cleared the lecture hall, Aritz had expected his sparring partner to remain, and so she did. She had yet to move from her seat, arms still crossed, a look of sullen satisfaction plastered across her face.  

Aritz took a few steps toward her, hands locked behind his back, looking every bit the image of a regal man. “Are you quite pleased?” he said to her, softly. 

A sly smile creased her lips. “Quite.” 

“Most would concede that they had lost a battle.” 

“That’s true,” she said. “Why haven’t you, then?” 

Aritz chuckled. “Look around you, girl. Does it appear that I have lost anything?” 

“Maybe you haven’t. But many did. And a people and culture do not cease to exist simply because your eyes have shut.” 

He furrowed his brow and looked away in silent consideration for a quick moment. Profound words. But who’s to say my eyes have shut? They have remained open all along. 

When he turned to face his opponent again, she was already gone. “Curious,” he scoffed. “Very curious.” 

_________________

Chapter One: Absence 

The Year 1556 Anno Salvatoris 

15 Years After the Invasion 

Brin closed his eyes. And then they were open. 

As pulses of warmth radiated from the center of his forehead, his vision adjusted to the ethereal landscape before him. The mountain range still extended far beyond where his eyesight could take him, but gone were his companions, gone were the Keepers, gone were the sun and the wind, the mountainous chill and the radiant heat. There was nothing around him, and yet, there was everything around him. A mist enveloped him, massaging his smooth red-brown skin, tickling his neck where his dark braid met the nape, like the morning haze covering a verdant moor. Nothing could quite prepare him for his first arrival in the Otherworld. 

Flexing his fingers through the loose grips of the mists, Brin felt peace and comfort, a tranquil feeling of permanent calm. If he could stay here forever, he would. The stresses of the days and weeks leading to this moment could be a fleeting memory. 

Today was his moment. But he was scared, nonetheless. 

Breathing deep, Brin took a cautious step forward, heading forth into the shimmering monochromatic shades of white before him. Even as his feet touched solid ground, he felt as though he was floating, gliding to where he needed to be. Though no one told him where it was that he needed to be. He was under the assumption that it would be clear, but he was beginning to wonder whether he should have inquired about that a bit further. 

Hollow echoes vibrated through the glistening landscape as he took one step forward, two steps, three. Panning the endless horizon offered him no inkling one way or the other. Every direction he turned revealed only the identical expanse of peaks and valleys, absent of life beyond himself. Have I failed? he wondered to himself. Is this just like it was for…? 

You have not failed, Brinnolhat, son of Fannalhen and Dennalhir. 

That feeling of calm immediately left Brin’s skin. The voice startled him to attention, sending him in a frantic span of double-takes and shaken regards. “Who…who is that?” he asked. “Who’s there?” 

The air before him began to ripple, tricks of light taking the shape of something corporeal, something real. He wasn’t alone anymore. The mists gathered and receded in pulsating rhythms, the ripple seeming to draw the essence of the mists into a physical embodiment. Gradually, the shape became more defined. Talons formed first, long and frightening, capable of tearing a man to shreds without a thought. A distinctive oblong shape grew atop the talons, eminent wings expanding from its sides. Eyes and a beak then became apparent, forming a discernible face as luminous feathers began to coat the body. 

As the construction of the form completed, Brin dropped to his knees, bowing in reverence to it. The image before him was still nothing more than a construct of light and mist, but there was no mistaking who was before him. “Almighty Owl,” he said, softly yet boldly. 

The Owl, one of the triumvirate of Animal Deities along with the Bear and the Wolf, stretched its wings long and proud. Its form descended to the ground, towering over Brin as the god it was. It arced its head back and forth, curious at the young man. Brin remained with his head down, his hands shaking from nerves, some of the mountainous cold returning to send chills running along his spine. Something about coming face to face with a god will do that to a young man. 

Young Brinnolhat, the Owl spoke in a voice commanding yet calm, authoritative yet wise. For what purpose have you come to this domain? 

Brin raised his head cautiously, trying his utmost not to betray any inclinations of cowardice through his expression. Given the pit forming deep in his stomach and the nerves nearly bringing tears to his eyes, it was not a particularly easy task. “I—” He stopped, his voice already cracking. Shaking his head to regain some modicum of composure, he clenched his teeth and started anew. “I have come to complete my Trial,” he said with more confidence. 

The Owl nodded its head, regarding the young man with interest. It spoke no words, instead only staring deep into Brin’s eyes. For his part, Brin did not break eye contact, unsure if this was merely a means for a god to stare into his soul or something to that effect. If that was part of the Trial, it was something for which Brin would have greatly preferred a forewarning. Eye contact with his Tribe made him nervous enough as it was. Never mind having to maintain such with a deity. 

As the silence extended for an uncomfortable length of time—whether it was but a second or an hour, Brin had no idea anymore—the Owl spread its wings broadly, feathers falling off its form in luminous trickles before returning to mist. A rumble vibrated in its throat, not quite a hooting— 

Would a god even hoot? Brin thought.  

—but far from a human noise, as well. At last, the Owl relaxed its form, seeming to sigh and breathe deeply. It has been eighteen years since you were born under my Sign, it said. My Sign, the Sign of the Owl, the mark of wisdom. Eighteen years it has been since the stars proclaimed that you would belong to me. This is your charge. Yours is not the way of the spear, nor the way of the pack. Yours is the way of the mind. It is to me you were born, and it will be to me that you shall pass along to the next life. Are you ready, Brinnolhat, son of Fannalhen and Dennalhir? It paused, once again staring deep into Brin’s eyes, so intently that Brin was confident it could read each and every thought running through his head. Are you ready to undertake the Trial? 

With a deep breath, Brin nodded. Adrenaline began to course through his veins, the nerves starting to recede out with the flow of the mists. A cautious gulp traveling down his throat, Brin managed to rise to his feet, flex his shoulders and fingers, and finally breathed out, his eyes locking with those of the Owl. “I’m ready,” he said, confidence at last within his grasp. “Let’s begin.” 

Trilling from its throat, the Owl turned side-face to Brin, its gaze panning to the vast and absent emptiness beyond. Yours is a Trial of mental acuity, young Brinnolhat. A test of your capacity to create solutions using only your mind. It is your greatest weapon, your most revered ally. Remember that, and you will succeed. Do not…and you will fail. Remember, Brinnolhat. Remember. 

The final words echoing through his ears, Brin closed his eyes once again. When once more he opened them, he no longer could see the world before him. He wasn’t blind, necessarily. His body before him was still clear as day. But gone were the Owl and the mists which comprised it. Gone were the beauteous ranges of lifeless mountains, their haunting silence having drifted into nothingness along with them. Gone were the sensations of peace and calm, the dearth of emotions, the absence of everything. Now, there was an absence of absence itself. 

Grinding his teeth, Brin tried to move forward. But despite his best efforts, his body would not permit him. He was still as an idol, sculpted out of immaterial clay and stone. He wanted to panic, but even that appeared to have been disallowed. All that was not frozen in place were his eyes and his wits. 

His wits…his mind. Of course, he thought. I am armed with only my mind. My most revered ally. But what do I do with it? 

His lungs drew in a breath, but the air began to constrict in his chest. He had a time limit, apparently. Whatever puzzle he needed to solve had to be solved before he lost himself to asphyxiation. But could it even be? What was he meant to do in a world of nothingness, where everything had disappeared before him? 

My mind…my greatest ally. But what does that have to do with anything? What am I meant to figure out? Someone, tell me. Please! 

The silence was deafening, an echo of all that never was and could never be. His mind called out, for it was all it could do, and the absence of everything roared in its stark quiet. His immobile form continued to restrict, the fire in his lungs growing in intensity in response. He wanted to scream, but he did not know how. He wanted to cry, but his body had forgotten how to generate tears. And he wanted to breathe, but there was a lapse in everything in his mind, a complete gap in his memory. 

Remember, Brinnolhat. Remember… 

The Owl’s final words continued to echo in his head. It was all he could remember. What am I supposed to remember? What good will it even do? Someone, answer me! His mind began to flicker, on and off, the echo of the Owl’s voice cutting in and out in intermittent bursts. A fog was clouding his head, a dense mist overcoming all of his extremities. The inferno raged in his lungs. He was out of time. Where once he felt nothing, now he was beginning to feel everything. Pain, anguish, anger. It was consuming him. All because he couldn’t remember how to breathe. Come on…you…idiot…Br…Breathe…Re—mem—ber…Breathe…Breathe! 

Suddenly, the mist dissipated, his eyes widening, a vast universe of possibilities exploding in his mind. He remembered how to breathe. His lungs at last filled with air again, the fire quelling. In ragged, tattered wheezes, tears began to leak from his eyes, all the heat traveling through his face as oxygen was restored to his brain. Never had Brin felt so relieved, but there was a solemn anger to his expression all the same as desperate hacks tore at his throat. Did…did the Owl do this to me? Did it try to kill me? …No. That’s impossible. This is…it’s part of the Trial. Remember…what else can I remember? 

The memory of his body surged through him. The feeling of his toes against soft ground, the sensation of warmth and cold on his skin, the thrill of the chase, running through the open fields of the Stone Territory with his sisters. It was all coming back to him.  

Remember, Brinnolhat. Remember. 

With a steady motion, his legs began to function properly once again. Then his arms. His toes and fingers, wiggling in and out of place. His head and neck, turning to survey the open and empty landscape. With an abundance of caution, he took a step forward. Then another. And another. And soon enough, he was running, feeling the thrill of everything and the sensation of nothing once again, all at once. A confident smile creased his lips, followed by an exuberant burst of laughter. What else? he thought. What else can I remember? 

The landscape. That empty, haunting, ethereal landscape in which he awoke. There was something so vibrant yet dull in that view. The absence of color, yet the promise of it to come. The endless expanse of nature, unburdened and unperturbed by the simultaneous purity and impurity of life. He wanted to envision it all. He could envision it all. As Brin closed his eyes, the stark image of a mountaintop birthed itself from the ground. As the groundless ground shook in silence, the solitary mountaintop was joined by a brother, a friend, a companion. More and more joined in cooperation with one another, filling that vast expanse that once gripped Brin’s eye. 

But there were more than just mountains. He pictured valleys and rivers, naked trees and hollow crevasses, cavernous chasms and dense clouds. Like a painting come to life, every detail of his memory took shape. In his mind’s eye, his heart of hearts, he envisioned a luminous landscape, an infinite reach, and when he opened his eyes again, it was there. Everything as he remembered it. As a smile crept in once more, those enveloping mists, the herald of daybreak amidst a verdant moor, slithered again beneath his feet, crawling beneath him, interplaying with the flashes of light which he himself created. He remembered. 

He remembered. 

Brinnolhat, echoed the voice of the Owl. You have succeeded. 

There were no other congratulatory or revelatory words, no sensation of victory. No image of a returning god. Just an expanse of mist covering him, intent on returning him to the place he belonged. 

Brin opened his eyes, and once again they were closed. 

He returned to where he was, basking in the radiance of the sun as the chills of the mountains prickled his skin. The sensation of mist was gone, replaced only with the commanding finger still affixed to his forehead. 

Focusing his vision, a figure came more clearly into view before him. Ko Zaran, one of the wisest of the Keepers, the Tribe that ruled over the vast northern mountain ranges called the Heart of the Land. The old man had a stern yet welcoming expression upon his face, a lifetime of wear and tear settling into the valleys comprising his skin. In traditional Keeper fashion, he wore heavy robes carved from the pelts of the mysterious snow leopards that dwelt deep within the mountains. His long white locks of hair flowed freely in the brisk winds, untied and unstyled as was the norm for this Tribe. 

As Ko Zaran removed his hand from Brin’s forehead, he could still feel the remnants of the path traced into his skin. Two circles, one encircling the other, a punctuated dot in the middle of it all. The mark which sent him to that different plane of existence. The mark which presented him his Trial. The further Ko Zaran’s hand drifted away from Brin, the wider the smile adorning the elder’s face stretched. He was satisfied. He was pleased. 

“Young Brinnolhat,” spoke the man. “You wandered into the depths of our domain, our mountains, the Heart of the Land. Since time immemorial, we Keepers have acted as scions for our revered gods, the bridge between planes. It has always been through us that young people of the Tribes have come to pass through to adulthood. Today, you presented yourself as a child. Now, rise, as a man.” He extended a firm hand outward, steady and assured despite his years.  

Brin did as he was bid, allowing the Keeper to pull him to his feet.  

Ko Zaran placed his hand atop Brin’s shoulders, squeezing them tightly, the smile upon his face still just as broad as ever. “Today, in completing your Trial, you have been granted a special gift. You are now a member of our order, the order of Owlsigns. By the grace of the reverent Owl, we hold the depths of wisdom of the Tribes. We are the history, the language, the knowledge. In completing your Trial, you have been bestowed the Boon of Memory. Bear it well, for you are the depository of our histories. Yours is a new chapter in the lineage of our Tribes, of our Land.” 

Backing away, Ko Zaran extended his arms, another Keeper appearing behind him, holding an undecorated pendant in his hand. The elder Keeper grabbed it and held it out to Brin ceremoniously. “Thank you, Ko Endra,” he said to the second Keeper, his steward. “Brinnolhat, it is with this pendant that you shall be at one with your Memory. When you return to your village, the ceremony shall begin in truth. But, for now, please accept this as recognition of your accomplishment.” 

Graciously, Brin accepted the pendant, that nervous smile finally eroding completely, his heart filling with pride.  

Ko Zaran gripped his shoulders once again and turned the boy around, turned the man around, to face the companions and figures behind him.  

Brin recognized a few of the miscellaneous Keepers from different orders who had come to watch—Ne Shanne, a huntress of the Wolfsigns, and An Rhan, a warrior of the Bearsigns. And behind them, his family, overflowing with pride. His parents, beaming and strong. His sister, Tez, her expression a well of emotion. And…where was…? 

“All before us, behold under the sight of our reverent Owl!” called Ko Zaran, his voice echoing over the valleys of the Heart. “Today, we welcome another of our flock into the realm of adulthood. May I present Brinnolhat, son of Fannalhen and Dennalhir, an Owlsign of the Stone Tribe!” 

As applause erupted, Brin grew slightly overwhelmed again. He was unused to such adulation and praise. The ceremony over at last, he was rushed by his family, his father, Fannalhen, gripping him tightly within burly tree trunks of arms. Even amidst this cold air, his skin had somehow managed to glisten with nervous sweat. Red paint was beginning to smear off his father’s face, the red-brown skin tone gradually being revealed underneath. 

As Fannalhen released him, Brin was then met in short order by his mother and sister, who hugged him simultaneously for all he was worth, the red markings upon their faces beginning to streak as well. The air constricted in his lungs once more from the intensity and strength of their embraces. He was fearful that his Trial had started anew. 

Once again released, Fannalhen placed a firm hand on Brin’s shoulders, a wide row of shining though crooked teeth gleaming in the radiant sunlight. “I am so proud of you, son,” he said. “It seemed you had struggled with the Trial initially, but I knew you would recover. My wise Owl!” 

Though immensely appreciative of his father’s words, Brin still found himself peering around the shoulders of his mother and sister. 

“What is it, Brin?” his mother asked. 

Brin furrowed his brow, narrowing his gaze, trying all he could to see if anyone was standing beyond them. “Um, where…” he began. “Where is…?” 

Quickly, Dennalhir turned her head, met with the same confusion as her young son. “What in…” she muttered. “Where is Sen? Tez, where did your sister go?” 

Tez’s gaze told a tale of more significant frustration. With a roll of the eyes, she muttered, “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding.” 

And slowly, that once exuberant and joyful expression upon Brin’s face turned to one of dejection and disappointment. 

Raucous laughter and the clash of glassware on wooden tables punctuated the tavern’s atmosphere. In the stiff, dense air of the mountain pub, conversations overlapped, creating an everflowing din of noise. Orders for refills of corn beer sang in consistent droves, the bartender moving in a whirlwind of activity, his hands never ceasing, but his face never exuding a modicum of stress. This was his business, and business at this tavern was always booming. 

One particular table requested round after round with no end in sight. Three people sat in a triangular fashion, three large mugs in front of each of them, all empty as though they were never filled, the last remnants of foam glistening against the interior of the mugs all that remained of a delicious brew.  

Sen sat with an air of satisfaction upon her face, hardly feeling a bit of the alcohol coursing through her. Her head was mildly in a fog, but that was quite alright. Nothing she couldn’t handle. 

“So you’re telling me,” she said to the man in front of her, his heavy robes opened more garrulously than normal to account for the warmth of the tavern air. “You’re telling me, every day, you’re here? Forget your hunting trips, forget your…I don’t know, your food hunting? And you just stay here all day?” She may have been a bit woozier than she thought initially. Words weren’t coming to her as easily as they usually did. “Who pissed in your breakfast to get you so bitter?” A teasing smile creased her lips, a wide row of teeth showing all the emotion that her unfocused gaze could not. 

“Who said I was bitter?” the man said. Turning to the bartender, he held up his empty mug after knocking it on the table a handful of times for the sake of attention. “Hey, Seln! Another o’ these! Whaddya think I’m paying you for?” 

“Arsah, you’ve not paid me in five years!” Seln, the bartender, said in response. Both were very young in appearance, probably no more than mid- to late-twenties. “I already lose half my stock every night because Nara never gets drunk!” 

The woman across the table, who had introduced herself as Nara, raised her glass to that. Her expression was as steadfast and assured as it had been upon first arriving at the tavern. There was no wavering in her gait, no lack of focus in her gaze. Just a confident smile and a clear desire for more drink. “But just think of all the exposure you get here, Seln!” she called. “‘Home to the Woman of the Indestructible Liver!’ Come watch the freak at work! Hah!” 

Seln muttered something, but it couldn’t be heard over the laughter at Nara’s sales pitch.  

Sen found it genuinely remarkable seeing someone pound down so much alcohol without even a waver. “Seeing how much you put down like that,” she said, hiccupping, “I gotta say, you’re my hero now. But why are you so bitter?” Her eyes stayed glued to Nara. 

“I’m not the one who’s bitter,” Nara said. “That was him you were talking to.” 

Sen pointed and laughed, adjusting herself in her seat with great exaggeration, positioning herself awkwardly as she stared back at Arsah. “So why are you so bitter?” she repeated. 

“I’m not bitter. I just don’t much like doing things,” muttered Arsah. “And Ne Shanne’s such a pain in my ass. ‘You’re skinning that leopard wrong, Ne Arsah. Don’t sneak up on me, Ne Arsah. You can’t use a bow like that, Ne Arsah. You can’t go to that tavern anymore, Ne Arsah.’ What a pain.” 

“Wow,” Sen said, elbows propped up on the table, her chin cupped in her hands. “The life of a Wolfsign. So mysterious, so adventurous.” 

“And so useful being so Stealthy, so wonderful being a Sneak. I can stow away behind Seln and steal all the beer I want without him noticing!” 

“It doesn’t work when you announce it, you idiot!” Seln called from behind the bar. 

Sen laughed again, snorting a bit too prominently than she intended. She pointed a finger back at Nara. “And you…why are you—” Hiccup. “Why are you my hero like that? How do—How do you do that?” She leaned forward, strands of hair growing more and more undone from her braid as her head bobbed back and forth. 

Nara chuckled. “Bearsign. Using Restoration. Suppose its intent was more for battle wounds, but being a Healer does clear out all that alcohol, so I can continue to bankrupt Seln. Beats getting gored by some wild beast out there.” 

“I hate you all,” muttered Seln. 

“But why are you, Seln?” Sen promptly asked. 

“What?” he questioned, matter-of-factly (and somewhat bitterly). 

“You, here. Why is that?” 

Seln shrugged. “Opened a tavern because this spot is good for business. Owlsign with a Language Boon—what better way to practice and communicate with all the Tribes when they come up this way than by being a Linguist?” He sighed and muttered under his breath, “Language hardly matters for shit with these drunks, though.” 

“And what about you, girl?” asked Nara. “Not much reason for someone of the Stone Tribe to be up here by herself. What’s your name?” 

“Oh, right. I’m—” Another hiccup. And another, followed by a sheepish smile. “I’m Sen. Stone Tribeswoman extraordinaire, at your service.” Hiccup. 

“And why’re you here, then,” Arsah muttered and mumbled, “Miss Extraordinaire?” 

“My brother. He’s got his, uh, thing,” Sen said, stuttering to find the appropriate words. She pointed her thumb nondescriptly over her shoulder, believing herself to be pointing at the door but, in truth, just directing it at someone’s bald head. “You know, the thing out there.” 

“His…Trial?” Nara said, raising her eyebrow. 

“Yeah, that’s the bastard!” Sen said with a smile. “That’s why. He just turned eighteen, so he’s gotta be a man now.” 

“Well, congratulations in order for him then,” Arsah said, raising his still-empty glass. First to Sen, then back to Seln. He really wanted that glass refilled. 

“Congratulations?” Sen questioned. 

“Well, you’re celebrating his success here, no?” Nara asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“Uhh…?” Sen trailed off, refocusing herself. She tried to remember. Brin had the…the thing…and then I was here … and… 

“Well, did he complete his Trial, right?” 

“I…don’t know.” More and more, she wished that her mug was not empty. 

“You…don’t know.” 

“Was it hard to tell,” Arsah started, “or did you just leave?” 

“I…” Sen suddenly felt a deep shame settling in. She held the mug up to Seln, trying to grab his attention. The bartender wasn’t looking at anywhere in particular, but it was clear he was trying to avoid their table. “Another round, Seln.” He waved his hand dismissively but grabbed three clean mugs regardless. 

“‘Nother thing I noticed,” Arsah continued. “Don’t normally see Stone folk up this way with no face markings. You know, the face paint. Why don’t you have yours on?” 

“Don’t worry about that,” Sen dismissed. Her composure still loose and flighty, she began to scour the tables near her, looking for something. “Now, where’d those cards go? Loser pays for the beers.” 

“Just somebody pay for them,” Seln muttered from across the way. 

Nara raised her hand, holding a deck. “I’ve been holding them literally since we finished the last game ten minutes ago.” She placed them down on the table, silently regarding Sen, clearly far from blind to the Stone woman’s suddenly irked demeanor and appearance. “Sore subject?” 

Immediately, Sen grabbed the pile of cards from the middle of the table and began dealing them out, the entire deck split evenly between the three of them, far from obliged to address Nara’s question. That should have given her all the answer she needed. “Okay, the name of the game is…” She trailed off, her mind blanking on the name of the game that they had played three times in the past forty minutes. “Well, you know what it is. First to get all the cards gets all the cards.” Hiccup. 

Sen blindly drew the first card from her pile, a six on its face. Arsah and Nara were hesitant at first, but when Seln plopped a trio of filled beer mugs, any apprehension went out the window and was instead replaced with an enthusiasm to make someone else pay for all of the day’s imbibements.  

Arsah drew next, placing a five down. Nara’s four was placed down next. Sen smirked, looking down at the mystery card next to be played from her pile. As an excitable tinge ran up her veins, her thumb and forefinger played along the edge of the card, revealing a three. Annoyed grunts escaped Nara and Arsah’s lips while Sen could only smile. She took the four cards in the middle and placed them at the bottom of her pile. “Another good start for me, then.” 

On the game went, much in the same fashion.  

With greater regularity than Arsah and Nara, she managed to capture runs of four, matching sets, an unprecedented run of face cards.  

Astonishment and frustration in equal parts ran up her opponents’ faces. They could only look at each other, seemingly perplexed at how such skill and cunning could be exhibited in a simple game of chance. 

Sen relished in the astonishment. She liked this game. It was easy, especially for her. It had been a while since she lost, and she wasn’t about to lose now when four rounds of drinks were on the line. 

Arsah and Nara were down to their last cards. Relinquishing his final card, Arsah placed a nine. Next in line, Nara, with two cards remaining, played a three.  

Arcing her head, intent on ending the game here and now, Sen haplessly drew a five. Not enough to knock Arsah out just yet.  

Drawing her final card, Nara breathed deep and frowned as she discovered that she was holding a seven.  

Sen smiled, the familiar tinge in her veins, and drew a nine. Just as quickly as she placed it down, her hand violently slapped the pile, beating out the slightest of twitches on Arsah’s end. 

Game, match, and tab. 

Cockily slipping the final cards to the bottom of her pile, Sen grinned widely, having regained some of her composure. “Well, looks like I’m not paying. Arsah ran out first, so maybe it’s time to whittle down that five-year tab.” Arsah groaned, a dejected expression glued to his face. Maybe he won’t pay. But I guess that’s nothing new. 

“How…?” Nara muttered. “You won four games with ease. It’s a game of luck!” 

Arsah pushed his frustrated gaze toward Nara, shaking his head. “Did you forget to shuffle from last time? Or is this deck just rigged?” 

Sen chuckled, shuffling the cards back and forth in her hand. “What can I say? Luck’s on my side, and my wallet is all the fuller for it.” 

She wanted nothing more than to revel in her victory, start another game, watch the hope disappear from confident faces. If there was anything that Sen had learned from the gambling crowd from her time in taverns, it was that the promise of “one more time” was enough to keep them going. 

But the desire was short-lived as natural light came beaming into the tavern, the front door hurling itself wide open.  

Sen turned, her expression turning sour as an imposing figure stood in the doorway. The man stood red-faced, and not just from the paint that covered it. The fumes of anger and disappointment colored him in equal parts. Sen averted her eyes as they locked with that of the man, and for his part, the man could only shake his head. 

“Chief Fannalhen,” said Seln from behind the bar. “Welcome to—” 

“Sennalhat,” said Fannalhen, ignoring the bartender entirely. “We’re leaving.” 

Dejectedly, Sen began to gather herself, drawing a deep breath before pushing herself off the table to her feet. “Thanks for the game and drink,” she muttered to Arsah and Nara. 

When she extended her hand to them, the two Keepers looked cautiously at one another.  

“The Stone chief’s daughter…” whispered Arsah. “And no face paint…Isn’t she…” 

Nara frowned, backing away from Sen’s hand. “I think she is,” she whispered back to Arsah. “She’s that one…” 

Sen retracted her hand, sighing deeply as the once-raucous bar began to stare her down in fearful silence. Even up here in the Heart, they had heard of her. Word travels far when you’re the daughter of a Tribal Chief. She wanted to smile upon one of the patrons’ faces, just to indicate she wasn’t some sort of monster. But every face she met only turned away in aversion.  

Even Seln bore her no mind, less than he had already. 

“You should leave,” he said. There wasn’t even annoyance remaining on his face. His expression didn’t particularly approach concerned, either. Just another face in a sea of them that suddenly wanted nothing to do with her. 

Solemnly, Sen trudged through the throng of once-eager tavern patrons, her steps echoing along the stone floor, the only face willing to stare upon her that of an angry and disappointed father. Some expressions were justified, and her father’s truly was, but for what it was worth, Sen would have much preferred remaining with the cast of folks who did not want her there. 

Sen and Fannalhen walked along the brisk mountain path, her father remaining in angry silence. The headwinds running through the Heart had caught Sen by shock, but they had knocked some sense back into her drunken head. Nevertheless, she was still operating in a bit of a fog, her vision not yet fully restored, her balance not perfect. All of which was a poor combination for the purpose of walking along an uneven footpath. 

The view was always breathtaking, though. She had been up this way twice, before—once eight years ago, and once on that day four years ago—and the view on the return journey was always worth the trip. From this height, one could see a significant portion of the Land, from the northern moors to the Big Lake, all the way up through the pastel red and orange leaves of the Forest. The view ended at the southern edge of the Forest, but past there was, by all accounts, not a place worth venturing anymore. Not for the past fifteen years, though Sen was far too young to remember those days after the fact. 

For all the beauty of the world before her, though, it did little to remedy the situation she now found herself in, stuck in a solitary conversation comprised of the absence of words. 

She couldn’t abide by that. Mustering up what diction she could, she cleared her throat to grab her father’s attention. “So, where are…” 

“Your mother and siblings went on ahead,” Fannalhen said. He was typically a very gentle and soft-spoken man, thoughtful in his words and humble in his tone. But when the need arose, he could become stern and disciplined. In recent years, that manner was often taken up with Sen. “I sent them along when I went to find you. It wasn’t particularly difficult to figure out where you went.” 

Sen hissed in a nervous breath of air, her teeth clenching. I made a mistake, she thought. I own up to it. But I just…I really needed… What words could even suffice as justification? Nothing was coming to mind. All that came to her was a wave of nausea that she could not be entirely sure was from the alcohol or from the pit forming in her stomach. Up in this thin mountain air, it was likely some combination of the two. 

“You have nothing to say, then.” Fannalhen wasn’t even looking at her, his cold, stern eyes remaining on the road ahead.  

Sen wanted desperately to see just what fire was within his gaze. If there was anger deep-set, remorse, sadness, anguish. Something. But perhaps she had done enough that there was no right for her to know exactly what was running through her father’s head. 

She shook her head. “I just…I needed…” Sen hadn’t intended her thoughts to be the words that would actually escape her lips, but it just happened to be that way. The wind bore down on her, sending chills along her exposed arms. Even nature was working against her, intent on sending her home with the mountain sickness. 

An exasperated and angry sigh escaped her father’s throat. “You needed what? A drink? At that very moment?” 

There was no denying it at that point. “I suppose so, yes.” 

“Of all times for you to feel the need to put yourself into a stupor, it had to be today of all days? Then of all times?” 

Closing her eyes, Sen searched within herself to find suitable words that could serve as an explanation. But she found none, and the temporary impairment of her vision only muddled her line of sight when she opened her eyes back up. Her balance wavered again, her head growing more muddled. “I just couldn’t—” 

“Couldn’t control yourself, yes. I gathered that much.” Fannalhen still had yet to break his stride. Were he a man of lesser environmental awareness, he likely would have no means of discerning what was running through his daughter’s mind. But he knew. He always knew. “But you could not work up even the slightest of control for today? For your brother’s big day? The most important moment of his life thus far?” 

“Brin…” Sen muttered. How could I do this to Brin…? 

“Needless to say, Brin was distraught at your absence. You should have seen him as he re-emerged. I had never seen so happy an expression on his face. How proud he was that he achieved what he did. It’s not always been easy for him.” 

“Because of me,” Sen said to herself. Her father did not seem to hear her. 

“But how quickly it changed when he realized that you weren’t even there for him. No less than a minute after he passed into adulthood, he was wondering where his sister had gone. What had been so important that she had to run off like that. Evidently, it was that she needed to drink, instead.” 

“You didn’t seem to stop me.” Sen had intended that only to be to herself, but it got her father’s attention. He stopped at last, turning to face her, the fumes of anger once again settling into his face. At last, she had her answer at what was visible in his eyes. It was rage. There was no doubt about it. Oh no. 

“You are blaming us for your absence?” His hands and body language accentuated each syllable. “Perhaps we were so intent on hoping the best for Brin that we didn’t deign to think that you would run off during the most important moment of your brother’s life!” 

“No, I—” 
“When did you decide to turn tail and run? When was it all just too much for you that you could not stand to be here? Can’t even be bothered to watch even a second of your brother’s—” 

“I was there at the start!” Sen yelled, her voice echoing over the valleys. Her fingers curled and uncurled into nervous fists, her body shaking in equal parts from the mountain chill and the nerves coursing through her. “Do you think I don’t feel anything about this? Do you really think that I don’t recognize how much this day meant to Brin and how much of a mess I’ve made?” The wave of nausea was traveling up again, the pit moving up her throat, an embarrassing display of gas just barely able to be pushed back down. “But when he went under, when Zaran sent him along—" 

“Ko Zaran,” Fannalhen corrected her, though she could care less about Keeper honorifics at the moment. 

“—I panicked. All I could think was…was…” 

“What?” her father said. “What was so tormenting that—” 

“What if he failed?!” Sen spat the words as though they were barbs on her tongue. “What if he failed and…he was like me?” 

Fannalhen sighed, his strong hands resting on his hips. “You had too little faith in your brother. Clearly, he didn’t fail, and clearly, he’s not like you, and—” 

“Thank you for wording it as that, Father,” Sen said spitefully. “Great to know that you see him as something entirely different from me.” 

“You know that’s not what I meant, Sennalhat.” 

“Isn’t it? You saw how they treated me in that tavern once they learned who I was. Once they learned what I was. You know how many people in the village treat me as such. All because of how I was born. Why should I suffer for that? Why did this system of the Trial reject me like it did? I grew up among the Stone Tribe just the same, but suddenly, I’m different. I’m worse. All the same, I’m just a pariah among our people.” 

“You are not a—” 

“Oh, don’t even deny it. Brin suffered for it all his life, too. Because of me. This was his big day. And here I thought I’d stand not to ruin it merely with my presence. Apparently, I did so with my absence.” Sen was breathing more heavily now, the thin air starting to get to her. Nausea once again began traveling up from her stomach, her head growing more and more dizzy and lightheaded. 

Fannalhen approached her, placing a firm hand on her shoulder. The anger seemed to have quelled somewhat—it was still visible, of course, but to a lesser degree—and had instead been joined with shades of empathy and earnestness. “I have told you many times, Sen. Those who would think of you so, they are wrong. You are my daughter. A daughter I love and cherish just as equally as all my children. And no matter what, you will always belong in our Tribe.” 

“Luck of the draw, being a Chief’s daughter,” she muttered. “I’d have been thrown to the wilds otherwise.” 

“Any parent who would discard their child in such a way has no right to call themselves a parent. Now come, we must be getting back to the village before—” 

She finally succumbed to the nausea as an eruption of vomit escaped her mouth in projectile chunks. It met the rocky mountain path in a disgusting splash, half-digested bits of bar food interspersed in the mess. 

“—before the mountain sickness sets in,” Fannalhen finished. 

Sen held up her hand as the wave finally passed. “Might be more the alcohol,” she groaned. 

“…How many did you drink?” 

“Uh, four?” I hope it was only that much. 

“In forty minutes?” 

“Guess so.” 

“Well, we’ll work on that, too. Now let’s return home.”