THE FORSAKEN LAND OF GENèSE | LOST KINGDOM | HOUSING DISTRICT

  600

  “The sand.” On the other side of shattered windows, the ashen grain of the Forsaken Land was glowing faintly. “It was consuming their breath from the start.”

  Saint hovered over the giant’s shoulder as he lowered the last unconscious escapee in the corner of the room, analyzing the last five minutes.

  It all happened so quickly.

  One second into the next, then the three of them were the only ones left standing.

  “Is it alive?”

  Solvanel narrowed his eyes. “No.”

  Were it so, the floor of this land would be laid out in his sight.

  There were patches of light where breath was trapped between the grains.

  Or were perhaps absorbed by them.

  Or, just as likely, transformed until the breath became the grains themselves.

  Any possibility disturbed him most.

  The fiercest of shades from his grandfather’s bestiary were incapable of interacting with the divine breath. It was a gift from the Heavens, after all—when they still cared.

  There was one way to find clarity, but a terrible feeling sank into his chest at the thought of peeking into the composition—far surpassing his curiosity.

  It was dread.

  The kind that reminded him that this place was no such great mystery to be unravelled before his departure. Whatever happened here was either so far distant or so great that it simply did not concern them at all.

  “But there are plenty of shades in this world, capable of plenty of things,” continued Solvanel. “The Forsaken Land—the chill of desolation that hangs in the air. The deadly shades beyond human comprehension. None of these is as severe or as bountiful as stated in the stories.”

  He paused. “The great flame that went overhead at the edge of the forest—I can feel its heat wreaking havoc somewhere in these lands, followed by a wave of ravenous darkness. Jonah called it a signal, but I think it was more of a distraction.”

  “Hmm… distraction.” Albane peered out the window, emulating his brother’s contemplation. “Distraction…”

  “That’s right, big guy,” extrapolated Saint, resting his head on his arm, while

  drawing lines in the layer of cobwebs and dust on top of the table. His glossy black hair swept to the other side. “Most of our time in this land has been spent holed up in this city, terrified of dangers we heard from word of mouth. But so far, this is nothing. I know I’ve seen worse.”

  “Worse.” He nodded.

  “Relatively speaking, that is. But if what he’s saying is true, then we’ll only be facing the scavengers— the weakest of the lot, the ones with no business trailing an enemy like that. And of the two we’ve seen so far… the first would’ve killed us already if it weren’t for that rogue instrument. The second—” he glanced down, as if the floor might listen, “—the very ground we have to walk on, it already has us beat.”

  The lie of Saint’s forgetfulness scraped at him. “There was also Chris and Dixon.”

  A small, dry chuckle. “Right. There were two guys like that, weren’t there?”

  “Your breath is far too relaxed. Time and certainty are claim to which we hold no right. The flame is powerful, but it is fleeing from the darkness. If the horde closes the gap, it will circle back. Furthermore—”

  Pain flashed across his head in a clean, total ring.

  A circle of thorns pressing into thought. It cinched, and his vision stuttered—black flecks, red threads, a brief flare of serpent-script crawling across the world as if reality had been scratched, bleeding sharp characters into the air fabric of its garment—until even his thoughts felt bruised.

  It was not pain for hurting's sake. It was correction. The characters flashing before him, a reminder from the lady of his dreams—from his dream. A reminder that certain truths were not his to carry out loud.

  Solvanel didn’t flinch, knowing it would worsen the pain. Instead he—

  The crown tightened, severing his thought process.

  Instead…

  Instead, he let the silence hang as if it had been chosen.

  As if “furthermore” had simply required thought. He blinked once, fixing his gaze on the characters until the throbbing in his skull softened into taps rather than booms.

  His fingers curled against his palm, nails finding flesh, buying him something solid to stand on. The crown tightened again, impatient.

  He breathed through his nose.

  Open his mouth too wide and pain would show in his expression. “Furthermore,” he said at last, voice even, “distance is not the only measure that matters.”

  He shifted his weight as though settling into the conversation, casual as a man rearranging a cloak. The movement put his face half a step out of Albane’s peripheral vision, and it gave him an excuse to glance away.

  “The darkness is hungry,” Solvanel continued. “If it cannot catch the flame, it will take what it can reach. It will take the stragglers. It will take shelters. It will take us—if we make ourselves easy to find.”

  Which was not entirely false.

  Over the years, the demoness periodically sent some of her puppets above ground to sweep the area, slaying any shades who’d taken up residence in her territory. That’s the revelation that triggered the crown.

  Thankfully, both men were looking away.

  Without her, those corpses would eventually awaken to the control of their original master, who, upon realizing it had been under the control of another, would release them like a bloody plague upon what’s left of the city.

  The procession should be long gone before that happened. Otherwise…

  Saint let out a long sigh. “One day I’ll get to tell people like you your stories are full of shit—somewhere warm, somewhere loud, with a woman twice my size and a drink I didn’t pay for.”

  “Well, would you look at that?” He reached into the blanket of webs on the table and pulled out a bottle. “There it is. You know what they say—if you love something, let it go. And if it comes back to you, it was only meant to be.”

  The remark floated in the air as he left the room, almost bored. But Solvanel had never seen revulsion burn so clear.

  He inspected through the wall, unable to restrain scorn as a brilliant flame turned a bottle to its head and drank itself silly.

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  Its brightness, steadfastness, and its hunger, tainted by the joy of sin, became as languid and unremarkable as any other in his cursed sight.

  ____________________

  SAINT MYLES

  Rank: F

  Weed of The Valley

  There was such a place once, wasn't there?

  ____________________

  “Oh look!” He announced from the kitchen. “Another bottle!"

  Solvanel lowered his gaze and shook his head. As an ex-believer, he was no longer concerned with another man's sin.

  To this moment, he was prepared to believe every word of the composition. What use was a bestowment that could not be trusted to reveal the truth? To think, he was this close to making this man his first choice.

  He made use of their time by doing the same to the other escapees.

  ____________________

  Farnham Brig

  Rank: F

  Ellie Damon

  Rank: F

  Richard Dick

  Rank: _

  Saint’s number one supporter.

  ____________________

  To say none of their ranks surpassed the previous Sir Saint was an understatement. The last one was too unremarkable to be ranked!

  Solvanel held his empty palm before his eyes and watched faint gold threads writhe beneath the skin. He flexed. They answered—multiplying, shining, lacing themselves through the joints for reinforcement, as if the hand had always been theirs.

  The mercenaries were behind them—possibly dead.

  The steel men—still no sign of them.

  The corpses—dormant under the sand.

  Essaifamés versus a foolish instrument—tearing through the streets.

  A stele and silver bar—calling.

  A great flame—A terrible horde.

  Jonah and the Eunuch ahead.

  And the brightest light imaginable, trailing across the heavens.

  For every opportunity that brought them thus far, there was an equal possibility for failure. If the candidates for this ability were like this, perhaps he would be better off not choosing at all.

  None of his plans could be centered around the unknown—

  “Oh look, another bottle of wine!”

  —or the unreliable.

  So, for now, the power coursing through him was bestowment enough.

  “Brother,” he began. “Are you well?”

  “Not will!” The oaf reminded. “Albane. Alll-bane. Albane Féroce.”

  Féroce.

  Solvanel noted the minor revelation. It was another thing to think about when they returned to the village. “Forgive me. That’s what I meant. I need to run an errand. Protect the others until we get back.”

  “What!” He threw his head back while stomping his feet. “You leave me behind again? I do something make you angry for me?”

  “No, Albane. You have been-”

  “You not worthless to me!? Why you treat me like I worthless to you?” His voice cracked with sadness, but the rising volume was a mix of rage and accusation. In his chest, the unnatural growth accelerated.

  Solvanel quickly abandoned that line of phrasing. “I know,” he said, resisting the urge to back away. “I know, Albane. I want you to come, too, but one of us must stay behind and repay the favour.”

  Boiling.

  “Argh! What flavour?!”

  There was movement in the corner of the room, Saint preemptively slipping out of the giant’s sight while he was distracted.

  Slow and deliberate certainty despite being undecided.

  “For protecting you while you were asleep. Now, you protect them while they’re asleep. They’re your friends, remember?”

  Writhing.

  “Who they? They not my friend. They scary of me! Everybody scary of me! Think I’m just a beast wanting to eat them right up!”

  Saint surfaced from the shadows behind the oaf, a broken bottle clenched in his fist. Solvanel, of course, saw the way it strained back into vigilance the moment the escapees were threatened.

  Eyes wrapped, there was no way to throw one of his grandmother’s dagger looks. But he hoped the drunk would get the message.

  He didn’t.

  Influencing his emotion.

  “This one laugh and call me big man, but always ready to stick me up!” Albane turned without warning, seized Saint by the wrist, and lifted him clean off the ground; Saint’s legs dangled, useless in the air. “You think I don’t know you scary me?!”

  He jutted his chin, trembling with offended fury. “Stop look at me like you scary!” He looked ready to throw the man, but Saint only hung there, blunted by drink. “I more scary than you. I not big man—I little guy too! I not Will! I not Will!”

  Albane’s voice bounced off stone and came back louder, uglier.

  It carried.

  In silence like this, sound could be an invitation.

  olvanel moved before he could talk himself out of it, stepping in close, ready to test his limits if need be to douse the rising heat.

  “Albane—”

  Saint woke.

  Not gradually. Not drunkenly. One breath, slack and swinging. The next, the slack left him as if it had been cut away. His flame drew tight as something darker gathered around it, a bruise in the air, a cold spill of presence that didn’t belong to glass or breath, as if casting the shadow of a different man.

  And he smiled.

  Saint lifted his head.

  Found Albane’s eyes. “Who said I was scared of you, anyway?”

  Then he wrapped his free hand around the giant’s wrist.

  Albane held strong until he couldn’t. A whimper betrayed the pain.

  Like a Cheshire cat grown bored of the chase, the pretence shattered when he showed his fangs—predator and mice, finally sorted. This wasn’t a game of necessity. It was one he chose to play.

  A conflicted shepherd let the scene unfold: a wolf’s maw forced wide, made to drop its prey.

  But that wasn’t enough.

  He kept squeezing until Albane sank to his knees, and Solvanel was certain something would break. Saint’s nostrils flared. He sniffed twice, like he’d caught the first hint of something rotten. “Something smells like shit.”

  At the sound of a crack, he was at their side in an instant, applying pressure in the same way. “That would be your attitude.”

  “What’s the matter, pretty-boy?” he responded. “Taken a liking to the wolf?”

  ____________________

  SAINT MYLES

  Rank: A

  Thorn of The Valley

  Born in the feeding grounds of a peculiar kind of shadespawn, he was exposed to the harshest realities and abandoned his connection to the ember of desire. As a result, he found it quite easy to slaughter his people one by one.

  ____________________

  "I don’t know what’s gotten into you.” Stone cold and thick faced, he maintained the charade which they both knew to be untrue. He could not afford to lose the giant’s trust until these people were safe. “But Albane is no beast. He’s a human being just like me and you. And nobody hurts my brother without going through me.”

  Saint raised an eyebrow. “That so?”

  Solvanel nodded, matching a gaze he could not see. “It is.”