Chapter One: Fall and Rise

The Year 1556 Anno Salvatoris
15 Years After the Invasion

At some point, the rain became torrential. She couldn’t say precisely when.

Rainwater pooled beneath Sen’s feet, a stream of red running into the puddles of dark mud. Her heart pounding and head swirling, she lurched forward, held up only by the bonds still fastening her to the wall. Panicked breaths of air heaved from her mouth in exasperated eruptions as pained tears continued to pour down her cheeks. Her hair, long since undone from its customary braid, fell in front of her face, drenched from the sudden downpour and clinging to her face.

She could only focus on the ground beneath her. Directly in front of her still stood this woman. This Tribeswoman in disguise. Kamataa, she had called herself. She claimed she was a fellow Eclipseborn. They should have been considered kin, and yet, she was the one holding a Deatharm, disguised as an Invader.

An Invader who had shot Brin dead.

Sen couldn’t bear to look to her right. It wouldn’t be true if she didn’t look. She had already lost so much in the past few days.

And Brin’s face, frozen in shock, was too much to look upon.

Her brother was motionlessly slumped forward, just as she was, crimson rivers flowing from his lips and the entry wounds on his torso. His tribal garments, not yet discarded from his brief time as one of the Invaders’ slaves, were in tatters, stained in both grime and blood as the rain continued to pound down on him.

Hopelessly, Sen wished for a sudden, shocked breath to escape Brin’s lips. Some sign of life to prove that she did not, once again, fail. But she knew better than to put faith in such blind hopes. Her father… her Narva… and now, her brother. They all were gone. And it’s all because of me, she repeated in her mind. She didn’t fire the Deatharm, true. But I may as well have. This is the curse that follows me.

The curse that so many in the Stone Tribe insisted she carried. The foul circumstances of her birth, of being branded Eclipseborn. Her entire life was built upon that burden, and though she had sought to escape it for so long, it was only a matter of time before her time would run out. Before her Luck would run out.

And yet. Despite that, despite losing the three men most dear and important to her in a matter of days, there she still stood. Alive, her own execution escaped, through no will or desire of her own.

And this woman before her? This other Eclipseborn? She had saved Sen’s life, shooting dead two of the Invaders who were intent on killing her. Only after she killed Brin, though.

But there was something in this woman’s eyes, a familial warmth that, if she had been hiding amongst the Invaders for who knows how long, she had to have kept hidden. Warmth was not something the Invaders could exhibit. They only knew slaughter and death, pain and destruction. In Kamataa’s eyes and along the contours of her wrinkled, weathered face, there was a sincerity mixed with intensity, a ferocity mixed with contentment.

Sen could hardly describe it. Regardless of the contents of the old woman’s eyes, she knew one thing for certain. She was on the other end of a Deatharm not ten minutes ago. Gods, there was no way in hell she would offer up her trust.

The sound of Kamataa’s feet shifting in the mud bristled in Sen’s ears, the woman’s boots squishing in the combination of dirt and blood. Gently, she placed a bony hand on her counterpart’s shoulder, sending a sensation through Sen that was somehow simultaneously warm and chilling. For all her efforts to look the old woman in the eye, Sen was blinded by her own tears, the mists of her own emotion impeding her vision just as much as the torrential rain. Her pilfered clothing, at one point dried by the sun, clung tightly to her body as the fabrics soaked through.

Kamataa, for her part, appeared unbothered. She continued to stare wordlessly at Sen, accompanied only by heady breaths and far-off commotion of a citizenry apparently appalled by a sudden rainstorm. “Have you given my offer a passing thought?” the old woman whispered to her as though anything other than her dead family could possibly pass through her mind.

“Have you gotten a chance to fuck off?” Sen croaked, her voice a grizzly rasp.

Kamataa grinned, holding out her hand in some sort of conciliatory gesture. “Many times, child, yes. But it’s simply a chance I’ve never taken up. Now, hold still.” The old woman fished in her jacket pocket and pulled out a small key, glistening already from the rainfall. Her face betraying nothing, she quietly undid the locks on each of the chains holding Sen to the wall, an indescribable weight releasing from her limbs.

In her split moment of freedom, Sen saw fit to take Kamataa by the throat and slam her against the wall. If not for the anxious adrenaline sending tremors up her arms, she probably could have held the woman with a tighter grip. But as it stood, Sen had to settle for a snarling growl, ragged breaths puffing from her nose with increasing ferocity.

Still, Kamataa’s expression exuded nothing. Only the same satisfaction she had maintained the entire time.

“Give me one reason,” Sen slowly spoke through gritted teeth, “why I shouldn’t dash your brains against this wall.”

Something clicked behind her.

From the corner of her eye, Sen could see Kamataa raise her hand, palm facing outward. “That would be one reason,” she said with a smile, pointing a gesturing finger behind Sen, at her fellow compatriot bearing the long Deatharm. Sen had forgotten about him entirely. “Hold, Hollow. She won’t do me any harm.”

Regardless of whether Kamataa’s partner heeded the dismissal—Sen was far too seething to pay any attention—the air remained no less tense. Every instinct in Sen’s mind screamed at her to grip harder, despite her hand finding not the capacity to do so. “What makes you so damn sure I won’t do anything?” she grumbled, dark eyes narrowed with bright fury.

“Because, child, then you become everything they claim you to be.” Kamataa shifted effortlessly in Sen’s grip, straightening her back against the wall. “The horrific Curseborn of the Stone Tribe, mercilessly crushing an old woman’s skull against the walls of stone? Why, it’d be only too fitting. But, no. You don’t want to be seen in such a way, do you, Sennalhat?”

Ears perking, Sen focused her attention even closer. “How do you know my name? Who the hell are you?”

“I told you. My name is Kamataa.” Somehow, she maintained an air of innocence in her expression. “And did you think I’d be unaware of my own kin? Of my own flock? We must keep together, after all.”

“You’re no kin of mine,” Sen warned. Before the woman’s companion could say otherwise, she reached to Kamataa’s thigh and drew the small Deatharm, which lay in its holster, holding it close to the crone’s chest. “No one of my blood would ever side with the Invaders. The things they’ve done to our Land, to our people! And you would throw it all in with them…and for what!” Her thumb found the clip at the top of the weapon, the same one she saw the leader of the Invaders pull back just before he shot her father down. “Maybe you’d like this straight to the heart, just as my father did. And then maybe…then maybe you’d understand what it’s like…” She trailed off, the memory too painful to reflect upon. The thunderclap still echoing in her head.

Softly, Kamataa began to chuckle despite the weapon still held to her chest. “Dear child—”

“I am not your child.”

“—if only you knew how many times my heart has been ripped from my body.” She shook her head, somewhat losing that semblance of innocence. Replaced with…regret, perhaps? Sadness? Sen couldn’t quite make it out.

“Is that my cue to feel pity for you? I never did take direction well.”

“I would wager it is more your cue to drop the gun before you lose your own head.”

“You said it yourself, bitch. Who could be more fortunate than me?” The words tasted of ash on her tongue. She was already disgusted at herself for acknowledging them. But how could she deny them? I am a lady of Luck, she thought. For all the misfortune it’s brought.

Kamataa grinned once more. “And already, you’re learning.” She looked past Sen’s shoulder, to the direction of her companion. “Hollow. Release the boy.”

That grabbed Sen’s attention. Immediately, she turned her head back toward the second person, the man called “Hollow.” In her lapse of concentration, Kamataa snatched the Deatharm—or “gun,” as it was called—but Sen didn’t care. She didn’t even feel it pressed against her. From the sound of the rustling of leather, it seemed like the old woman returned it to the holster, for whatever reason.

Loosing her steel grip from Kamataa’s weathered skin, Sen’s eyes followed Hollow as he slowly made his way to Brin’s unmoving corpse. She wanted nothing more than to see him drop dead for even looking at her brother. She wanted to see pain in his eyes rather than the emptiness synonymous with his name. But such wasn’t her Luck, apparently. She couldn’t wish things into reality. Her life would have been far easier had that been so.

The key turned in four respective latches as Brin’s body fell in a heap, plopping unimpeded in the viscous mud. As though on instinct, Sen jumped after him, pushing Hollow out of the way, uncaring for the active weapon he still had in his hands. She rolled Brin onto his back, holding his head in her hands, brushing aside what mud and muck she could from his face. The tears came again, heavy and overbearing. It should have been me, she thought, her cloudy vision locked with her brother. It never should have been you, Brin. You were the best of all of us. You brought out the best in me…which I guess was never much.

There were a million and one things she wanted to say to him in these final moments, but not a one came to her lips. How proud she was of him, how much she would miss him, how unfair this world was to him. She was grateful enough that something, at last, had the prescience to pass from brain to mouth. “Keep Father and Narva company. I’ll see you all soon.” She wanted to melt into the mud as the rain continued to pound down. If ever there was a time to dissolve into nothing, now would be it. She knew she was never going to see her family again, her people. She staked everything on this one mission, and she lost. It was either to fall to nothing now and be a fallen remnant to the throes of time or return home a failure and be banished off to who-knows-where, only to suffer the same fate. At least now, she could get it over with.

“So, what are you waiting for?” she called out, still holding tightly to Brin. “Just get on with it.” Faintly, she could hear the rustling in the mud behind her.

“I don’t think you quite understand why you still breathe, Sennalhat.” Kamataa’s voice. It was already grating on her, like gravel churning through a braying goat. The woman approached and grabbed Sen by the arm. “Now, come, we must—”

“Let go of me,” Sen nearly screamed, swatting the wrinkled hand away from her. There must have been some claw to the swipe—a faint line of red trailed down the back of Kamataa’s hand. She felt no remorse for that. Call her an animal for blooding an elderly woman, but she was not moving from this spot. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Sennalhat.” Kamataa’s voice was commandeering, like a parent about to offer a stern lecture to their child. “Whether you realize it or not, we have saved you this night. The least you can do is—”

“You…killed…Brin.” Sharply, she turned to face her so-called rescuers, all the malice in the world roaring in her eyes. “Tell me again why I should feel godsdamned grateful.”

“You’re still breathing,” spoke a deep voice. Hollow. His eyes were sunken and near-soulless, his dark hair cropped short, almost to the scalp. “You still live.”

“What a mercy,” Sen said, rolling her eyes. “Pardon me for not having any gratitude for that.”

With grandmotherly presence, Kamataa knelt beside her, now paying heed not to extend her hand toward her. “You play a greater role than you know, Senalhat.” She raised a wispy white eyebrow, bearing a sage expression. “Though you may refuse to accept that, now. Your brother’s passing is… unfortunate. But, with us, you may—”

“Gods above, woman. Look around you.” Sen gestured broadly, first to the two dead Invaders pooling blood in the mud, then at Brin, then at the greater City beyond. “What even is this? You’re standing here, Deatharms at the ready, disguised like you’re mounting some rescue mission only to say nuts to the rescue. And now you’re trying to hand me a pile of your own shit and tell me it’s a flower arrangement I should be grateful for. Spare me the horseshit and start making sense. Who are you? And don’t just say ‘Kamataa’ because that means shit-all to me. You’re Tribe, both of you. But what Tribe? Neither of you has any distinctive markings or adornments or—”

“I would think that’d mean precious little to you, Sennalhat,” Kamataa interrupted. “You have gone your whole life without the markings of the Stone Tribe.”

“Answer the damn question.” Sen’s patience was running thinner and thinner. “What Tribe are you?”

With a soft smile, Kamataa shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I do not belong to a Tribe. Not anymore. Those days have long since passed. No, I am of a collective far greater, of far more consequence than our petty squabbles and Tribal customs.”

“Straight answer, you bag of bones.”

“Heh.” She was silent for an uncomfortable while, never breaking eye contact with Sen. Seemingly unperturbed by the storm swelling atop her, she exuded confidence and control. It was unsettling. “You still don’t understand. You have your own part to play in this, as well.”

“If only someone would be kind enough to tell me that part.”

“If only someone would listen.” Kamataa was past the point of respecting boundaries and reached out to grab Sen by the arm. With a flinch, Sen tried to pull back, but the old crone was deceptively strong. A faint and familiar glimmer shone beneath Kamataa’s shirt, visible only for the encroaching darkness amidst the storm. “Trust me when I say I’ve ignored every opportunity to kill you. I would wager that there have been many who were stopped for reasons superseding their personal desires.”

Sen frowned. In part because she was right. In part because she may have lost her chance at driving a stake through Koelhe’s heart.

“Though our walks of life were different,” Kamataa continued, “I, too, know that pain. Of course, I did not have the fortune of being born to the Chief of my Tribe. But all of us present are survivors. Despite the world’s intentions, we are still here breathing.”

“You must realize how tone-deaf you must be to say that after you shot my brother dead.”

“A mercy, truly.” Kamataa’s tone was blunt and to the point.

“Excuse me?” Sen’s eyes grew wide, disbelieving. If not for the old woman’s impossible strength, she’d have already pounced at her. But it was clear that Kamataa had reason for it beyond physical submission.

“You saw the state of the slaves in the camp, did you not?” A snarl, both disgusting and remorseful, creased the woman’s lips. “Mindless, worn, and altogether gone, the lot of them. It would not have been long before he was broken just as they were.”

That did little to quell Sen’s anger. She gestured her free arm toward Brin’s corpse, struggling to keep it steady from the tremors. “My brother seems altogether gone now.”

“To be Eclipseborn is to know loss,” Kamataa murmured plainly. “But to know loss is to know when best to let go. I have lived with our burden long enough to know this.”

This time, Sen did break away, snatching her arm back from Kamataa’s grip, the force nearly knocking her onto her backside and into the pool of Brin’s muddied blood. “And you expect me to accept that? To just accept that killing Brin was a godsdamned kindness?!”

Unmoved, Kamataa gestured her arms out to her side in a near-shrug and nodded. “Should you live to my age, you’ll come to understand what is a kindness and what is a punishment. You thought yourself fortunate for the status of your birth, but it blinded you to the harsh realities of what we as kin face.”

“We are not—”

“We are. Trust me. We are few in number, but it means we look out for our own. Accept it or not, but that extends to you.”

Sen had heard enough. In her life, she had faced the ire of her own Tribe, willfully driving her to a life borne only of misery. She had drawn disappointment from her family simply because she could no longer cope with the life forced on her by those who wished her dead. She was an outcast, a loner, and to many, a plague and disease upon her people.

And yet, this was the worst of it all. To be dangled acceptance—though it was guised behind a thin veil of deceit. “I choose not to accept it,” she spoke assuredly, slowly rising to her feet. “I existed on my own before. I don’t need anyone now. And certainly not you. I’m taking my brother and going home.”

Kamataa was clearly unaffected by Sen’s decision. In fact, it seemed she expected it. She rose to her own feet in kind, surprisingly nimbly for her age. Folding her hands at her waist, she looked at Sen with suddenly kind eyes. The speed at which she could change from stern to controlling to accepting was frankly unsettling. “Of course. That is your decision to make.”

Sen didn’t need to hear anything further. She knelt in the mud, shuffling her arms deep into the earth to get a hold of Brin.

Kamataa quickly cleared her throat. “But then again…” Her tone of voice changed sharply once more.

Distantly, the thunder roared and the wind howled. A chill rushed up Sen’s spine.

“You traveled all this way to rescue your dear brother, and for what? Acceptance? Redemption? And now…two bodies are bloodied in your wake.”

The rain grew ice-cold. Sen’s skin prickled, her head a fog. She looked down at Brin’s face, frozen in lifelessness, and all she could hear was the desperate pleas of a frightened and helpless boy facing down the shadow which threatened to engulf him. The boy’s voice was joined by a man, loud and boisterous, a warrior bellowing his final challenge.

That sound, that nightmare—it had haunted her since the night both her father and brother were taken from her. She had first heard it—felt it—when she laid her father to rest, shocking her so profoundly that she was unable to recite any parting words to him. When she traveled through the treacherous darkness of the Forest, she saw it—a shadow bearing her face striking down a man and boy alike before very nearly consuming her.

It was Narva who saved her that time. But as two voices cried for peace and mercy, a third suddenly joined their ranks. So familiar and gentle, yet collective and combative. And clear as day, Sen could feel it caress her ear, as fleeting as a passing breeze, encompassing her in a passionate embrace. The voice became hot breath and whispered, “Did you not love me?”

Bang. A gasp of pain, and a collapse. The shadow crept ever forward.

Sen shuddered, hardly aware that she had long since removed her arms from beneath Brin and curled into a trembling ball, burying herself deeper into the mud and muck.

And standing high above her, proud and commanding, remained Kamataa. “They would only blame you if you returned empty-handed. If you returned simply on your own.” All kindness had departed the woman’s voice yet again. “There is a lesson in this, remember. Your brother’s death should have taught you this. To know loss is to know when best to let go. Can you truly face your family, your Tribe, knowing that you failed?” She quieted, pacing two steps back and forward, gesturing her hands to dictate her own points to herself. “Hmm, but no. It is not your failure. It is the failure that your Tribe would impart on you. It was foolish to think that you would succeed, Sennalhat. Surely, you must know that. But your Tribe will be looking for any reason to expel you—not just from your Tribe, but from this earth—and returning with naught by the blood of two of the Tribe’s sons will spell only pain for you. More pain that you feel now.

“It needn’t be as that, however. I have said already, I no longer concern myself with the petty squabbles of our Land’s Tribes. I exist as part of something greater. As do you, and as does Hollow over there. We have all lost, but we have lived far removed from the concerns of our previous lives that we have learned to live and cope with that loss. It has hardened us, made us stronger. And that would be your first lesson amongst us. To learn to let go.”

Why would I let go? Sen thought. Why should I let go? She clenched her eyes shut, her fingers digging into the mud beneath her.

“I don’t expect you to say yes immediately.” Warmth returned to Kamataa’s presence, and she knelt, her knee resting near Sen’s face, her hand rummaging through the Stone woman’s drenched hair. “But at least allow us to get you out of the rain.”

Still shaking, Sen glanced her eyes up, not quite looking Kamataa in the face. The heavy rain peppered her eyes; she hardly registered the pain anymore. “W…w-where?” she asked feebly.

“Our barracks. Where our Tribe lives. Where your Tribe lives.”

Indoors. That sounded nice. Where else could she go? She was days away from home, if she even managed to make it through the Forest alive this time. The Wood Tribe’s Chieftain hardly had warm parting words for her the last they met; that was when she wasn’t alone. Being inside, out of the rain—that was all she wanted to focus on right now. The screaming in her head had begun to quell. But there was one matter further which plagued her. “B-b…but Brin,” she muttered. “What…what about…?”

A bony thumb caressed her shoulder, a strange comfort somehow found with it. She could feel Kamataa’s kind smile above her. “We will ensure that your brother receives the burial deserving of him. Now, come. To your feet. We’ve spent too much time here already. We must return before suspicions arise.”

Lifting her head off the dirt, Sen wiped residue from her face and chanced a final look at her brother. “Can I…say goodbye?”

Briskly, Kamataa shook her head. “There’s no time. I’m sorry.”

Sen dug her fingers into the mud, head lowered, and tearfully nodded to her departed brother. From the corner of her eye, she could see Kamataa shuffle forward and reach out toward the wall, where something glinted against the rain. She picked it up and held it out, and the weight of the world crushed Sen’s shoulders once more.

Brin’s pendant. The rune of Memory glistened with a different sheen than the rest of the ornament.

“Take it,” Kamataa offered. “This way, he will always be with you.”

Unable to hide her shock, Sen fell back, appalled at the thought. “Surely, you must know that that’s taboo! I can’t take another’s pendant. That goes against all Tribal traditions!”

“So did you being allowed to remain in your Tribe—you are not particularly a follower of precedent, child.” There was a hint of amusement in her tone. Nearly playfully, she tossed the pendant over.

After briefly fumbling with it in the air, Sen at last grasped it by the chain, letting it dangle in front of her. Despite accepting Kamataa’s defiance as accurate, it still felt wrong to hold another’s adornment. She held it only with the tips of her forefinger and thumb, as she would a newborn’s fouled undergarments.

“No one’s going to banish you for holding it, Sennalhat,” Kamataa asserted, arms open wide. “It’s your brother’s memento. It’s going to do very little buried in the ground. Keep it as a symbol of pride for his life.” Obviously noticing Sen’s lingering apprehension, she approached gently, again placing an affirming hand atop her shoulder. “You’re among kin here. You’re among your fellow Eclipseborn. You needn’t worry.”

Sen wanted to find belief in those words. But, she allowed herself to grip the pendant, her eyes wandered past Kamataa and could not break from the stains of blood adorning the alley walls.

Someone had told him of the commotion earlier in the evening. He was so engrossed in his work that he hardly registered it.

The lingering echo of multiple shots was enough to briefly break him from his trance. Strange that it took that many. There must have been many examples to be made.

Regardless, Aritz remained focused on his evening task. On his map.

He had spent much of his time since his return filling in the gaps on his map, past that range of trees that had for years acted as a natural deterrent to his people’s needs. He knew the southern half of this island like the back of his hand. But the north? That was a frontier he greatly looked forward to exploring.

Already, he looked forward to returning.

A narrow pass was filled in to chart the route he had taken while retrieving the bodies he lost. Not the exact bodies, mind, but bodies, nonetheless. It was easy enough to put to paper. Those northernlands—or what little he saw of it—were mostly plain green fields. He had spent enough time learning that tongue his workers used to know word-of-mouth descriptions of the ranges beyond the trees and enough to know that his path took him roughly through the middle of that range. There were not many significant landmarks to denote. A couple trees here and there, a rolling dune or two, but nothing substantial.

Nothing until the village he visited and the mountain range beyond.

His cartographers had charted enough of the island’s shape for him to know that the mountains extended northward all the way to the sea. It was a geographical marvel, the northern part of the island, truly. It naturally rose further and further above sea level, so creating seaports in that region would be impossible. Trade routes would have to be crafted through that forest at some point. Trees knocked down, roads constructed. It was all a matter of when and how.

The mountains particularly intrigued him. How deep did they go? What resources lay within them? Could it be settled? This city was beginning to grow cramped. It had been for a few years now. Here and his people’s settlement to the east were the only areas with any strategic value. There had to be more to the north, to the mountains. If these heathens decided to sit themselves there, then they must have had a reason for it.

Meticulously, Aritz continued to fill in the ranges and plains when he heard a knock at his door. “Yes,” he said plainly, the single syllable enough to burst the doors open on command.

Two servants walked in to hold the door, followed by a host of four soldiers, all self-assured and confident. They were a handful of the group who followed him to the north, heeding his every call. It was thanks in part to them their expedition was such a success. Aritz trusted them dearly.

Though, truthfully, he never bothered to remember any of their names.

Without a word between them, Aritz’s trusted lieutenants filed in around the table, hands folded at the waist, awaiting orders and instructions.

The general waited for his attendants to close the door and listened for the welcoming patter of footsteps disappearing into the distance. He always preferred his attendants to remove themselves from earshot of his meetings. Not that he feared anything; he simply didn’t deem it necessary for their ears to hear. “Gentlemen,” Aritz spoke with a soft nod. “My thanks for your assistance on our northern voyage and my appreciation for arriving again on such short notice.” Of course, they know to arrive without a second thought, regardless of whether they are in the middle of a meal, middle of a shit, or middle of a woman. “I trust the taverns have welcomed your return.”

A dark-haired man with intense eyes nodded his head. “We are their best-paying clients,” he said plainly. Aritz always liked this one. He had a glare that could shoot daggers and a hand that could wield them. And he hardly said anything.

Next to him, a wide-armed blondie with a scar along the length of his neck grinned. Placing a hand firmly on his firm-faced colleague, he said with a chuckle, “And how they love when we return from expedition. They treat us damn near like heroes.”

Putting a hand to his chest, Aritz returned the grin. “You are all heroes to our Kingdom, as far as Their Majesties are concerned.” Only as far as they are concerned, I must stress. “And I must insist that you remain heroes still.”

Flanked all the way to the right, the pock-marked lieutenant stroked his chin. His complexion was pallid, his eyes sunken. He had survived some sort of wasting sickness years ago, and yet he ensured he was well enough to serve in this coterie. He actually had Aritz’s respect for that. He didn’t begrudge him his notions of heroism, that was for certain.

“What would you have us do, General?” asked the fourth lieutenant, who stood to the left of the pock-faced lad. He was a bruiser of a man long in need of a visible neck, a wall of muscle and probably not much else. But Aritz didn’t need him for much else. Maybe laughs—a flintlock looked comically small in his enormous hand.

An air of satisfaction visible on his face, Aritz outstretched his arms over his map, gesturing broadly over the loose outline of the northern territories. They all hovered over the map, varying degrees of intrigue nestling in their brows. “This, gentlemen. I want this.”

No-Neck scratched at his temple. “You want us to fill in the map for you, sir?”

“If you’ve a photographic memory of places you’ve not yet seen, then please, yes,” Aritz said with amusement, derision grating in his tone.

No-Neck’s face turned a shade of red darker.

“We’re going back, then,” Pock-Face said. “To fill in these blank spaces.” He maintained a thoughtful look in his eyes as though he had a stroke of genius.

Aritz stood back a pace, staring intently at the blank reaches of the map. An empty swath leading to a larger settlement, but nothing besides. “Look at this map, gentlemen,” he said. “Look at it and tell me what you see.”

No-Neck, Pock-Face, and Blondie had blank expressions on their faces. They looked to one another, trying to surmise an adequate answer with their eyes, presumably. When one couldn’t be found, Pock-Face looked back to Aritz with a frown and a shrug, shaking his head slightly as he murmured, “I apologize, sir, but we don’t understand what you are asking.”

“Is that right,” Aritz muttered, unimpressed. He stepped back to the map, placing a firm palm on the unfilled regions. He traveled his hand through the northern territories, trying to illustrate his point more obviously. “In here, gentlemen. What do you see here?”

“Land,” Blondie said quickly.

“Land,” No-Neck repeated, trying to time his words to come off as having the same idea as Blondie rather than remain dumbly silent.

“Opportunity…?” Pock-Face said hesitantly, his tone offering no illusions of understanding behind the word.

If not for Pock-Face’s half-handed suggestion, Aritz would have admonished them further, but the man was on the right track. “Opportunity, yes. But more than that, we are looking at—”

“Resources.”

So shocked was he that Dark-Hair’s speaking that Aritz actually stuttered a step. Affirmatively, he pointed at the intense-eyed soldier, gesturing positively at him. “Resources,” he repeated. He tapped at the map again, shades of a grin curling his lip. “An untapped well, ripe for the harvesting.”

Pock-Face started stroking his face inquisitively again. “Have we an idea of what resources lay in this region, though? I was under the impression that we were in great supplies now. It seems a risk.”

“Our being here was borne of risk,” Aritz reminded him. “Had we not deemed this worth the risk, Their Majesties would never have expanded the Kingdom into what it has become already.” That quieted Pock-Face, who resumed an assumption of thoughtfulness.

“I think he is right to be cautious, though,” No-Neck offered, his brow scrunching. “We’re only a few days removed from first venturing that far north, and we weren’t exactly welcomed.”

Aritz leaned further on the map, meeting No-Neck’s eyes with his own. “Then we are fortunate not to seek neither welcomes nor hospitality.” He stood back upright, folding his arms with a shake of the head. “Caution is never ill-advised; I grant you both that. And I would be remiss not to heed wise counsel.” Or the babbling of men whose jobs are only to shoot where I tell them to shoot. “For well over a decade, we have been sufficient in our survival. We have performed well as a trading route stopover to and from the Far West. We offer lodging and earn a cut of the resources, and we have built a settlement worth of Their Majesties as a result. We have prospered off every inch of land we could adequately and strategically live upon in these reaches. In the name of Their Majesties and the Acrarian Kingdom, we control the seas, the ports, the comings and goings.

“But increasingly, our countrymen see the value in remaining in our settlement. With each trading ship that passes, a handful more decide to remain. And the more that people remain, the greater the need for space. We can build more and more in our city, true, but why limit ourselves to just this one space?”

He backed away from the map, hands clasped behind his back, chin jutting out as he soaked in a confident air, watching his men listening expectantly to his every word.

“If there is one thing I heeded from those first savages we met fifteen years ago,” he continued, “it was to avoid that forest to the north. Had they only warned of wicked spirits or haunted passages, I’d have thought little of it. But they warned of a violent people instead. Wanting not to subject our people to blood so quickly, I listened to that advice. There was more than enough land to the south of the forest to lay claim to a new home for our people.

“Now, though, we know there is little to fear of that forest. The savages are violent and territorial, true. But, more important than that, they are weak. We have put them to rout twice now. We needn’t fear the wrath of what sits hidden in the trees. Ours is a might far greater than theirs. And now that we know we can reach the north with hardly a scratch upon us, we can finally expand Their Majesties’ reach.

“So, yes, I see opportunity in these far reaches. The opportunity for our people to expand, to grow, to settle. In that short span we spent up there, I saw bountiful resources. There is enough wood in that forest to build an entire nation’s worth of homes. That village we stopped in clearly had a wealth of stone and grains upon which they’ve subsisted. And in that range of mountains beyond? Think of the natural ores we could harvest. The possibilities are endless. Our opportunities are boundless.”

Aritz leaned back over the map, slapping a firm hand against the uncharted northern lands. He grinned as the act prompted a brief startle from Pock-Face.

“This is the defining moment of our history, gentlemen. These are the days when we will become more than merely a trading outpost, a stopover. These are the days when we will become a nation.”

The four lieutenants nodded to themselves, satisfaction visible on each of their faces, hesitant though their eyes appeared.

Aritz fully expected them to file out without any further objection or affirmation. But Dark-Hair leaned forward on the map, pointing first at the forest, then at the blank regions. “That is well and good, sir, but we must take into account resistance.”

That caught Aritz’s attention. “Resistance?”

Dark-Hair nodded. “There were thousands dwelling in that village to the north. That is just in one filled-in space on the map. What about to the east and west? We are looking at perhaps thousands more. I have my doubts that they will simply give up willingly.”

Acknowledging the point with a grin, Aritz leaned back on his heels, the pitter-patter of rain against his window relaxing him and seemingly him alone. “How many were we when traversing the forest?” he asked.

“Ten,” Dark-Hair answered plainly, shrugging.

“Ten,” Aritz repeated. “Against that number. And we survived with hardly a drop of our blood shed. We need not worry. It matters not their numbers. Never have they faced the full might of our people. They will not stand a chance. Their options are simple: surrender or destruction.”

Silence stilled the air. He anticipated Dark-Hair might voice a final objection, but he seemed pleased enough. “When do we begin, then?” he asked, the faintest of glimmers shining in his intense eyes.

Amused, Aritz chuckled and passed one more approving grin to his lieutenants. “The moment we have readied.”

Onlookers hardly gave Sen a second look as she trudged through the rain and mud. For all they knew, one of the City guards was just helping her back home after a frightful encounter.

Hollow tended to Brin’s body. Sen didn’t get to see what exactly was done, but she had to trust it was better than being left to rot in a bloodied alleyway with two others.

Kamataa had resumed her disguise, restoring her younger appearance and red hair. That appearance instantly sent Sen seething once more, but she was hardly in a position to voice her anger. It was the longest day of her life—the longest handful of days, truthfully—and she just wanted to be out of the rain and to a bed.

With luck, she hoped her next sleep would be her last. But Luck stopped being on her side a while ago.

Wordlessly, Kamataa led Sen through the nighttime streets, discretely gripping her by the forearm to ensure she would not slip away. She wouldn’t dream of stealing back into the night, though. Not now. Not anymore.

The rain had started to let up a bit, not that it really mattered. Sen’s pilfered clothing was completely soaked through, fraying at the seams. She felt twice her weight in these waterlogged garments. And Kamataa wasn’t in any rush to get back inside.

She was still trying to get a read on the old woman. Friend, foe, or something in between? She had killed Brin but spared Sen out of a wish for kinship or some such nonsense. It was too exhaustive a day to ponder on these things. She just wanted not to be staring death in the face any longer.

Though judging from Kamataa’s age, it seemed like she was older than death itself.

Time passed, and Sen’s vision and mind were roused in equally blurred fogs as Kamataa jerked her this way and that. Her ears flared with what sounded like the last calls at the nearby taverns, accompanied by resultant choruses of protest for another round or two. She thought back to her promise to Brin, her promise to herself, to quit her excessive drinking, to be a better sister and a better person.

What good was that promise now? Who did she need to prove herself to anymore? She must have been pondering that with enough pull to force her toward a tavern—a sharp jerk at the arm from Kamataa roused her back to her senses. What remained of them anyway.

Only one thing remained clear inside that fog. Sen knew that if any of her people were to see her now, cavorting with Invaders—disguised or otherwise—with two dead kin in her wake… Well, it wasn’t worth thinking about. They only wanted to see her either as a foe or deep beneath the earth, regardless.

“Welcome home,” Kamataa said eventually.

Sen blinked back to reality, the fog lifting, and she found four Invader soldiers staring back at her. She drew in a sharp breath, aware of Kamataa’s tightening grip on her arm. Despite her every inclination to pull away, she froze, a chill running the length of her body, her heartbeat pulsing loudly in her ears. Only a slight tensing of her shoulders betrayed any indication of her nerves, but it was clearly enough for Kamataa to take notice.

“Calm, Sennalhat,” she said softly. “I said that we were among kin.”

They took a handful of steps forward and the doors closed behind them. Faintly, Sen recalled Kamataa calling this place a “barracks,” which she gathered was where the City guards stayed. Eight beds lined the room, four to a side, each with a chest resting at the foot of the bed. All but one looked like they had been slept in.

To Sen, each of the four present looked equally ready to snap her neck at a moment’s notice. All bore the typical appearances of any Invader she had met in the last few days—lighter complexion than she, a wide palette of hair colors ranging from auburn-brown to light-yellow, all sporting more or less the same scowling and shit-eating facial expressions.

But then, one by one, a glimmer shone from beneath their respective shirts, all reading the same rune: Illusion. Sen grimaced just as she had when Kamataa and Hollow dispelled their Illusions—it just felt dirty and wrong to see that ability used to blend with Invaders of all people.

Those feelings of disgust only marginally diminished when each fake-Invader restored their natural appearance as people of Tribe. Only marginally.

“Sennalhat,” called Kamataa from behind, who had restored her natural appearance when she wasn’t looking. “You may relax yourself. Untense your shoulders.”

Sen did as requested, unaware of how tense her shoulders had been. A hushed silence fell over them, and she was unsure whether she should even say anything to these people, whether she should just up and walk away, or whether she should ignore them all and fall into that unoccupied bed.

“Introductions are in order,” Kamataa continued, paying no heed to Sen’s desires otherwise. As you can see plainly, Sennalhat, we are not so unlike one another. Each of us bears a common lineage. We all are borne of this land. We were just born under a sign none wish to acknowledge. We hold no allegiances but to each other, and we have no—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sen interrupted, waving her hand at the old crone with disinterest. “Just…just get on with it. Who the hell is who?” She was dimly aware of Kamataa’s raised eyebrow—whether there was actual offense given, she didn’t know nor care—but paid some degree of attention as the old woman stepped forward and pointed to each present.

First, all the way to the left was a young woman Sen’s age, the shaved sides of her head and tuft of hair tied tightly back signaling that she was originally of the Lake Tribe.

“This is Zara,” Kamataa said, and Zara nodded wordlessly, her eyes intense and wild. Naturally, Sen expected that from a Lake Tribeswoman—they weren’t exactly a friendly people.

Continuing, Kamataa pointed to Zara’s immediate left, another woman Sen’s age, sporting the rows of tied locks emblematic of the Sun Tribe. “She is Sha’a, quite possibly one of the fiercest fighters I have encountered, kin or not.”

“Good evening,” Sha’a said softly, betraying none of that supposed killer instinct that Kamataa was apparently fond of.

Next to Sha’a stood another young woman wearing twin shoulder-length braids bound in leather. Sen had never actually seen a person of the Arrow Tribe before—she had only heard them. “This is Vanta,” Kamataa continued. “A wonderful shot from any distance, with any weapon.” Not surprising, given the bow was a way of life for the Arrow Tribe. Figures that the first in the Tribe in generations not to be born under the Sign of the Wolf was Eclipseborn instead.

“And, lastly,” Kamataa started, and Sen was taken aback by the age of the fourth woman. She had to have been the same age as Kamataa—however old that was—but more than that, Sen’s eye was caught by their common braid, the long interlocking strands indicative of the Stone Tribe. “This is Ziiahlan, my oldest and closest friend. Our people are not often afforded the luxury of friendship or close relations, but I am fortunate to have her.”

Ziiahlan nodded to Sen, immediately noticing their shared background. “Please, call me Ziia,” she said.

I won’t call you anything if I can help it, Sen thought.

“Where’s Hollow?” Zara sharply asked, not intent on exchanging further pleasantries, which was fine with Sen.

“He had something to take care of,” Kamataa answered, stealing a brief glance at Sen from the corner of her eye, much to Sen’s disgust. “But he should be back with us shortly.” She paused briefly, then, without missing a second beat, asked, “Where’s Cin?”

Vanta chuckled. “He had something to take care of but should be back with us shortly.”

I guess this is what passes for humor, Sen wondered disdainfully.

A door opened behind her, her heart skipping a beat, but no one was alarmed. “And speak of the devil,” Ziia said with a smirk.

By the time Sen turned to face the new arrival, they had already dispelled their Illusion. He was a sturdy-looking young man with sharp eyes and a sharper nose, skin darker than Sen was accustomed to. Her mind flashed back to the two visitors who changed her life forever. Involuntarily, she snarled at him, to which he either paid no mind or didn’t care.

“Cin,” Kamataa said. “This is Sennalhat.”

Cin tossed her a passing glance, said, “Hi,” and kept walking to his bed.

Finally, someone with as much enthusiasm for this as myself.

“Any news?” Sha’a asked Cin, almost eagerly.

With a shrug, Cin had a look of disinterest on his face. “Soon enough, I suppose. Only a matter of time.”

“Excellent. I look forward to it.”

“Where’s Hollow?” Cin asked, echoing the previous question.

“He’ll be back soon,” Vanta and Ziia said almost simultaneously. They smirked at each other.

Sen shook her head in equal parts confusion and disbelief.

“Sennalhat,” Kamataa said with a nudge. “I am sure you must have a wealth of questions by now, yes?”

Plainly, Sen looked the old woman in the eye. “No.”

“Come now, Sennalhat, I must insist—”

“I must insist you don’t speak my name,” Sen growled.

There was a pregnant pause, a tense silence. And then Kamataa smiled and said, “Sennalhat.” She raised her hand before Sen could snarl another objection. “We all are under this roof the victims of terrible circumstances beyond our control. Such is your plight, too, whether you wish it or not. Each among us here was borne under different circumstances, in different lands, beholden to different Tribes. But each of us shares the same fate: we are all Eclipseborn, and as such, we are all Tribeless. We belong to no one but ourselves because it has only been ourselves with whom we have not been neither banished nor rejected.”

Kamataa paused and took a handful of elongated steps to the center of the barracks, eyeing each member of her Tribeless Tribe with a look of satisfaction. And, in turning back to Sen, she outstretched her arms by her side and smiled. “And so, we are our own Tribe. We are the Children of the Black Moon.”

There was another silence, and Sen was suddenly aware that they were expecting a response from her. She scratched absently at her head, pacing her eyes from corner to corner, meeting eyes both exuberant and disinterested. Her own eyes fell into the latter category. “That’s…great for you all. But I was never banished or rejected by my Tribe. I—”

Collectively, the gathering of Eclipseborn—the Children of the Black Moon—chuckled, and Kamataa raised her a disapproving yet amused grin. “Dear child,” she admonished mournfully, “you know that is false. Banished? Perhaps not? But rejected? Come now.” She shook her head as though she were scolding her.

Sen had no defense for that. And she likewise realized how tone-deaf it would have been to suggest that she still technically had a home to return to. She had it bad. But these people? If what Kamataa said was true…then they had it worse.

But despite that…

“More to the point,” Sen said, circumventing the previous argument. “Regardless of your birth, you were all still people of this Land. You’re all people born from the Tribes. And yet, here you are, standing on the side of the Invaders, living in housing given to their soldiers. How can you sit back so calmly while the Invaders displace our people and threaten to destroy our way of life?” She was growing more animated and upset with each passing word, the wounds of the past few days still fresh and raw.

Kamataa took a few steps over to her bed and rested on the edge, her hands outstretched behind her. “You say that as though it were a bad thing.”

The words froze her. Sen blinked quickly, staring at the old woman with confusion, disbelieving what she had heard. “Excuse me?”

Undeterred, Kamataa smiled and shrugged. “So, the Tribes may be displaced or even erased. What’s so wrong with that?”