THE LANDS FORSAKEN | ??? | FOREST EDGE

  600

  Two hours later, the procession was still at the edge of the forest.

  The captives stood in a loose, shivering line, faces drawn and hollow. Despair had long since stripped them of the energy to cry or curse; now they only breathed, a slow, synchronized wheeze that sounded more like wind through dead reeds than human life.

  Solvanel was placed at the front this time. Beneath the layers of grime and dried blood, his skin was a mural of bruises. Some still throbbed from the torturer’s hooks; others had already settled into the pale yellow of half-healed memory.

  Each scar told its own story of restraint—of when he smothered his screams in his own throat. There were places where his flesh had hardened over rope burns, and others where it had not yet decided whether to close or rot. He looked like a thing stitched together only to be unmade again, each breath reminding him how much of himself had been left behind.

  His balance was unsteady, maintained only by a crook that dug into the mud.

  The morning after the dream, Solvanel woke paralyzed from the neck down—a lifetime of foreign sensations swirling unprocessed within him. His body needed time to adjust.

  When he looked someone in the eye, it wasn’t just about seeing their story. At least, not from his own perspective. No. Events, memories, and emotions—there was no differentiating what he’d seen from what he was. And he’d seen it all through the eyes of the other party. All the way back to that first memory of suffocating in his mother’s blood.

  And like a newborn, he’d grown up beneath those conditions, forging himself in the flame of another life. During that dream, Solvanel was a man named Oscar. And his earlier outburst had only been a symptom of that new birth. Even now, he found it difficult to hold his tongue.

  It was one of many reasons he chose to keep his eyes sealed. For even if he wanted to see another’s life—if even to understand them, to forge a bond—there was no guarantee that he would still be himself afterward.

  But that was the least of his troubles.

  The body, after all, is a network—and what infects one branch spreads to the others. The mind sickens the flesh. The flesh poisons the soul. The soul wounds them both. And of all the things to have absorbed from another’s flame, Solvanel now carried the old man’s limp.

  Deep down, he was sickened by his sudden dependence.

  Were it not for his grandmother’s note, the words of the second stele, and ‘not’, the old man’s temper would have broken the thing in two.

  As the procession waited for the boulder brothers’ return, he took a deep breath and reminded himself of his purpose. The Heavens were unwilling to see this world come to light, but the darkness of this world was undeniable.

  Fifteen years ago, he was born in a village named Dunreach.

  Its inhabitants jokingly called it Homchienne, the village of men and dogs. Land of countless many battles where they were forced to band together and emerged vowing never to tell the tale. Legacy of a lone priestess tasked with keeping the human heart at bay.

  He was raised to think its current state a tragedy.

  One of the last bastions of the once great and indomitable humanity living on a minuscule, inconsequential scrap of this boundless and unforgiving earth. And for the majority of his youth, he looked down on it. He hated it. According to “divine” revelation, he was going to live for it.

  But now, he missed the little pittance my grandparents rebuilt.

  One where people ate together, starved together, and planted various things that were doomed to bear no fruit. One where they can’t see past today, cheering for the brother with the sword while scorning the one that learns to read. Home of a prodigal son who jumped off a fence and never looked back.

  Home he was no longer certain he would make it back to.

  He wondered what his grandfather felt all those years ago, watching his brothers fall severed under the superior craftsmanship of a lusterless blade.

  A wandering man of steel against a nomad of flesh and bone.

  No.

  No use thinking about that now.

  Not when the end was right before him.

  Despite everything, he was still Solvanel, The Light That Came From The Heavens.

  So if not he, then who?

  The purpose of the procession was in the middle of the Forsaken Land of the Gods. Somewhere within that eternal darkness, the prophecy of light would burn a mark across the empty heavens.

  The child of prophecy would lay down his life to protect a nameless band of captives.

  And then, everything would be fine.

  A pair of brutes emerged from a dense thicket of shrubbery, their expressions solemn. “No sign of ‘em, boss,” the shorter one said. “Went about ten ren deep like you said it, but there wasn’t a lick of silver far as the eye could see.”

  “Mm. That’s not a good sign,” responded Jonah, sharpening the same gilded dagger. “It isn’t like the toy soldiers to go off plan. Pack up what you need and leave the rest behind. It doesn’t matter too much what’s gotten into them. If we don’t make it to the impact crater, we can kiss our riches and our necks goodbye.”

  The mercenary leader stood, prompting all of his men to do the same.

  “I got something to say to you, boss,” Albus muttered, barely meeting his gaze. He flicked a glance toward the Eunuch, then lowered his voice. “Me and the boys been talkin’… and, uh, we just noticed you been actin’ different. Ever since you and that little missy locked yourselves behind that door.

  “But I know the great swindler can smell an out when it’s ripe. Steel boys are gone. We’ve already got a year’s distance over that uppity cunt and her soy-weaned husband. And I’ve been keeping our scent trail cold just in case they send the hounds.”

  He steps closer, tone dropping to something conspiratorial. “So why don’t we make a break for it, eh? Stab no-dick, take some of these women, and start our own kingdom right here. Are we really gonna die for some little lady’s hidden ambition? Can’t even be sure she’ll be true to her word, now can we?”

  In the silence that followed, Jonah glanced over his comrade as if he hadn’t said a word.

  “Whole point of me hopping the fence is that I don’t want nothin’ that’s assured to me,” he responded eventually. “If yer so concerned about ‘sure’, you might as well take a peek at what’s under that guy’s bandages. Because as far as I know, death is the only thing that’s certain in a world like this.”

  There was an inferno building in his chest.

  “If you’re not about it, then I suggest you help your little brother hand out the lanterns. I’m sure he’d appreciate the help.”

  Albus’s hand clenched around the hilt of his sword as Jonah brushed past him without another word.

  Behind them, the rest of the mercenaries packed up what they needed and buried everything else.

  “Here, no see. Take.” A large, hairy hand clasped Solvanel’s wrist and dropped a marble-sized object onto his palm. “Make sure you no drop. Empty hands food for hungry tummies.”

  Solvanel’s brow furrowed in confusion.

  This item was neither a lantern nor an open flame. Rather than fire within a container, the rock itself produced a faint glow, visible to his eyes like silver. However, he perceived with awe as the color shifted inside the middle of his palm. It was… blue?

  He remembered the color blue from his childhood. It was his favorite one before he chose to cover my eyes.

  “What is this?” he asked, forgetting the man would sooner kill him than give an answer.

  But he did. “Soul lantern. Pretty girl-”

  “No, Albane,” interrupted Jonah. The mercenary leader snatched Solvanel’s palm clean. “We don’t know what kind of monstrosity’s waiting for us in the Forsaken Land. Undo his chains and give the kid a sword.”

  ‘Wait! What is that thing?! I want to-” He grabbed for the mote of light that was stolen from him.

  The larger of the two orange brutes clasped his wrist again. By the time he retroactively heard the earlier command, he’d already wrapped his fingers around a sword.

  The bustle of preparation ceased. “Jonah! Have you gone crazy?”

  “A whelp with a sword is still a whelp. You should know that better than anyone, Eunuch.”

  The other men stifled chortles.

  “For the last time, being the lady’s hand does not make me her eunuch! I am an observer of motifs and natural design. The proper word for such being—”

  “Yeah, yeah!” he dismissed. “Although any fool who thinks old Fang didn’t make the boy into a cutter will be sure to deserve the missing limb. Isn’t that right, little dreamer?”

  Without waiting for a response, the flame of his core disappeared from in front of Solvanel.

  “I don’t have to tell you what happens if you swing that sword in the wrong direction.”

  The cold indifference of a blade caressed Solvanel’s neck from behind. If there was the hope he held a soft spot for him, grace to loyalty for his once brother, this was the moment it fell flat. “Yes. I’ll be sure to sheathe my sword if I hear you scream.”

  ____________________

  Solvanel practiced his swings to get used to the weight of his weapon.

  Jonah was not pleased with his earlier comment. He hadn’t looked in his direction since.

  It seemed he’d decided to ignore Solvanel rather than kill him outright. If only because his eyes may play a role in the near future.

  A breeze kicked up in the forest, followed by a sudden outburst from one of the mercenaries.

  “Yay!” The larger brute, Albane, dropped one of his meaty hands upon Solvanel’s left shoulder.

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  With a burst of crude joy, he lifted Solvanel like a child and spun him through the humid air.

  “New brother?!”

  For a moment, Solvanel’s mind failed to keep pace with the motion. The world turning, faces blurring, weightlessness swallowing thought. What spurred him on, this time?

  Then came the sound—two sharp, hollow cracks. Albane’s flailing arms had collided with the temples of two older captives.

  “Brother!”

  “Brother!”

  “One new brother!”

  The last sparks of their arduous lives flickered and went dark. Solvanel could only assume their bodies had crumpled somewhere below the oaf's spinning feet.

  The other flames backed away instinctively.

  Even healthy burnings of his four companions created distance from the excited buffoon.

  One of them stepped forward, the fire in his chest blazing in anger. “You fool! How many times do I have to tell you to stop acting up? Two more of the vessels are dead because of you! You’re putting the rest of us in grave danger!”

  The younger giant stopped. “Dead?”

  He looked down.

  A strange tension hung in the air as the mercenary flames took another few steps back. Albane froze in place as he processed what he’d done.

  Solvanel heard a whimper building in the giant’s throat—a child’s sound trapped in a monster’s frame.

  At the same time, the temperature of his palms started rising.

  No. The heat of his entire body was undergoing a drastic change. Solvanel was left in awe, watching the flame inside his chest expand while slowly turning…

  Orange?

  “You fool! Calm yourself down before I really give you something to cry about!”

  Another bestowment?

  Solvanel’s thought process was cut short as the burning of his hold grew unbearable. He squirmed against the younger twin’s bear-like vise to no avail.

  Jonah’s voice then came like a doting mother.

  “Come now, Albane. Didn’t you say you’re done falling for your big brother’s tricks? These people aren’t dead!”

  “Yes th-” Solvanel bit his tongue to prevent his mouth from getting away again.

  He saw the flames go out. The two captives were dead.

  “They just fell asleep during your big brother’s boring speech!” He cut leaves from the nearest tree and covered the bodies up to the neck. “There, see? Look how comfortable these two lovebirds look, cuddled up in the same bed. If we don’t get outta here soon, we might see something dirty.”

  Instant. The giant’s temperature returned to normal as a juvenile blush spread across his face.

  “Ah! Freaky geezers, you can’t do that on the ground!” He spat on the head of one of the corpses and placed me on his shoulder. “Brother Albus, you play this same trick since we were kids! Why can’t you be nice to me?”

  The larger giant’s flame burned a concentrated rage.

  Before he could release it, the mercenary leader clasped his hands and stood up. “Alright, boys. If we’re gonna live in sin, might as well die happy. Do this right, and it’s the last time we dirty our hands. Do this wrong and, well…” He shot an amused glance at our bitter expressions. “I’d hate to end up on the same side of hell as these poor things.”

  Sword in hand, he stood at the edge of the grass.

  The familiarity of this man’s back disgusted Solvanel, yet he couldn’t shake the nostalgia of watching his grandfather leave for a hunt. “Signal’s coming.”

  A strange source of heat descended upon them.

  Growing warmer as the flames of the forest went still. As if every living creature and sound made a sudden, tacit—no—instinctual agreement that the best course of action, the only course of survival, was to go unnoticed.

  Solvanel’s eyes were not victim to obstruction.

  Thick vegetation served none to conceal the flocks of birds diving into the trees without a sound, or snakes camouflaged among leaves, treating what should have been a sudden feast as little more than a second thought.

  Not even the worms with their inner flames, simple lines of gray, buried beneath the earth.

  These creatures hid themselves from the sky, but they could not hide from the curse of his sight.

  They were scared.

  The captives who walked alongside steel men.

  The mercenaries who slaughtered to eat another day.

  The Eunuch of a court far beyond his imagination.

  They couldn’t see the flame, but they were scared.

  Solvanel, closest to the sky of them all, was petrified on top of the giant’s shoulders.

  A heat rolled through the air like the breath of something divine, laying claim to all it touched. It had to be coming from somewhere.

  Solvanel’s eyes could pierce camouflage, unmask illusion, strip the sacred from its veil, but he had never felt the flame of another creature. No matter how irate, grand, or close, the soul is incapable of producing real heat.

  And yet, every heat has its source.

  That could only mean one thing.

  The truest and most terrifying possibility was that the being behind this warmth was simply beyond his range of sight. Its fire was so vast, so absolute, that it traveled ahead of it—a herald of arrival, burning the world long before its master crossed into view.

  This was leagues ahead of what he’d imagined conquering in his dreams.

  Whatever this creature was, it was approaching.

  And suddenly, its shadow was upon them.

  And gone.

  The air ruptured as the thing tore through the horizon, racing into the Forsaken Lands with a wrathful cry that split heaven and earth alike, a roar so immense it seemed to drag the world forward in its wake.

  A beam of fire went out of its chest and shook the earth with its collision. The winds of its flight barreled through the forest only seconds later, and Jonah spoke with a voice molested by the sin of greed itself.

  “Holy shit! Talk about a fucking signal!”

  Usurping the creature’s backdraught, he bent the air to his will, gathering and compressing the wild gale beneath his feet until it churned like a living storm.

  “I guess I’ll be seeing you boys on the other side!”

  With a manic grin twisting his face, Jonah launched himself forward. The gathered wind detonated beneath his boots, and he shot across the sand like a spear of light loosed by some mad god.

  The dunes screamed in his wake, geysers of dust and molten grit swirling up where his feet had kissed the ground. His laughter carried on the storm, half ecstasy, half blasphemy—a hymn to whatever power would let a man consider himself divine.

  Within seconds, he was little more than a silhouette racing toward the horizon, chasing the trail of that monstrous flame into the Forsaken Lands. The air he left behind still trembled, tasting of sulfur and hunger.

  And the captives could only watch as the last of his laughter was swallowed by the wind.