Sorina:

  My feet swing off the barricade, eyes hunting the dark, mind swept up in the past. I can’t believe how openly I cried in front of Raiten. I’m usually better about those things.

  But then again, he can be extremely frustrating.

  I sigh, trying to play idly with my dagger. It drops from my hand twice. Upon the third time, anger flares, and I pick it up again only to throw the blade at some miasma-emitting corn crop. It misses that big old stalk and lands somewhere in the dirt.

  Idiot. I begin to slide off the rough-shodden barricade, but before I can, the dagger is tossed up once more. Quickly, I reach my hand to collect it, before losing my balance and falling. I roll to the ground and stand, dagger held close, body crouched low, mouth pursed for a whistle.

  “Calm down, it’s just me,” Umbrahorn mutters. The hammerhead appears from the purple mist, coughing on it in a very human way. “Forgot how much that stuff stinks.”

  I exhale and take a seat on the ground, curling my knees up.

  He roves next to me and pops up.

  Together, we sit in amiable silence, just watching the wind sway Erot’s lands. The last vestiges of Takemeadow—a mere memory.

  “I’ve lost three homes now,” I say, chuckling slightly. “The first I was expelled from. The second I ran from. And the third…”

  “Is currently burning somewhere in the distance, filled to the brim with monsters who used to be people and—”

  “Not helping.”

  “Sorry.” The shark scratches his head with a fin. “I’m not very helpful these days.”

  I frown, turning to him. “Since when did you say stuff like that? Aren’t you a great spirit?”

  He sighs, eyes casting low. “Not so great.”

  “What happened out there, Umbrahorn? Between you and Raiten?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “You two… haven’t been the same. At first I thought it was because of the stuff at the fortress, but—” I shrug. “Well, you know better than me.”

  The shark shrinks into himself.

  A welt of guilt coalesces, like a wound clotting up. “You don’t have to tell me, it's fine. I think I’ve had enough revelations for one night.” I shake my head. “Why is he such an idiot?”

  “Raiten? He has his reasons. I don’t know whether I agree with them, but—” Umbrahorn looks directly at me for once. “I think I understand them.”

  There’s so much behind that gaze. I shake my head, remembering all those flashing images of the briars.

  “You two went through hell, didn’t you?”

  “No. It’s more like the hells were brought to us. Ten times over.” He shudders. “I hate those damned woods. Drove us all mad.”

  “On that we can agree, Umbrahorn.”

  Silence settles forth once more. It's almost peaceful.

  Until the rumbling. I stand, eyes widening as the screeches draw ever-closer.

  “How many do you think there are?” I ask.

  “At least a dozen.”

  I curse and scramble back over the barrier, yelling warnings to the others. They gather around, forming ranks and a spear line. I do my best to correct that formation, but we don’t have time for such logistics.

  For the first the plagued peer out of the dark, limbs thrashing, mouths drooling, naked bodies gyrating.

  The dagger nearly slips from my grip again. I resist the urge to throw it and instead, I lick my lips. Clear my throat.

  It doesn’t matter if you don’t have the spirits. Even without Greta and Berteca, even without an arm, even without Raiten…

  You have to do your damn duty.

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  Remember whom you’ve lost. All those who died for you.

  It can’t be in vain.

  So, I do what I do best: I sing. The song starts out as a mere hum at first, wrinkling the air. The plagued continue forth, nearly upon the barricade.

  I can’t think of a good song to use. Oftentimes, I have reliable backups. But the more I reuse a song, the less power it has.

  So this time, I have to be adaptable. I have to think it up on the spot.

  And all my mind can go back to is…

  You’re such a soppy bitch sometimes. I can’t help but smile at that thought as my voice begins to carry over the fields, the first minglings of a passionate ballad now whipping through the wind.

  “Hush now, field and furrowed stone,

  Rest your bones where roots have grown.

  Names once spoken, hands once warm,

  You were not always the storm.”

  The air turns into my weapon, flogging the plagued back, even as they assault the barricade.

  “Sleep, my love, beneath the ash,

  Lay down leash and lay down lash.

  If you must rage, rage past me now,

  I stand where mothers made their vow.”

  One adventurous plagued adult leaps up, spider limbs striking down. The people scream behind me, and Umbrahorn is too distracted with the monsters by the barricade. So I turn my head up at it and squint.

  “If I should falter, do not yield

  Your storm is perfect as it lays waste the fields

  I stand not alone, though one walks far

  A distant light, a radiant scar.”

  The wind punches against the plagued, sending him sprawling away into the fields beyond. And I continue to sing as the villagers rally, chanting along with me, thrusting with their spears in rhythmic warfare. The shark rages forth, the night rages on, and the fires in the distance quell as the lightness of my soul prospers.

  …

  Raiten:

  The baby-monster slams me through another building, back slicing against broken pillars, blood spilling like red wine. I groan to stand, only for the monster to chase after me, large human hands swiping at the rooftop as if it is a mere paper holder.

  Fast. It’s so much faster than its brethren.

  I duck and roll, but a shattering of shards collapses atop me.

  Somewhere in all that tumult, I lose the flower dagger. My hands search desperately for it—until something jerks on my leg and pulls me out of the rubble.

  I am raised, upside down, flailing, as the mutant plagued draws me close. Its wriggling mass of worms opens up to swallow me. The baby coos joyfully.

  Desperately, I summon a whip of Aether and lash it thrice with as much force as I can. Two lashes hit the dense convergence of worms, doing nothing. The third, however, hits the baby. A scarlet streak draws across the pale infant’s body.

  It screams.

  Unholy, wretched, seething, weeping.

  I cover my ears, yelling in pain.

  And before I know it, I’m flung once more, going headfirst into the old bakery. Blackness flashes across my vision.

  No, no no no.

  Do not lose consciousness here you idiot.

  You did this all for a reason. Backed yourself into this stupid corner for a reason.

  You have to win.

  You have to—

  Nothing is coming. No matter what I try, no matter how much I summon Aether to my fingertips, or try to reflect upon the magicks in some profound way, this is all just pointless.

  Just like the briars.

  Just like the Glades.

  Everything I’ve ever done has been in vain. Baroth? He’s back. The Lady? Still alive. Thraevirula? Masaru? Souta? The other Elders?

  I’m never going to reach them.

  I’m going to die here, alone.

  The darkness closes in. The throbbing pain numbs.

  Yet as I blink, the smell of ashen bread still fresh on my nose, the fires mere blurs through the broken wall of the building—I see a hand reaching forth.

  A familiar hand.

  I grasp it and he squeezes my palm, blood dripping from the slice he made that day over the campfire, immortalizing our bond.

  “Get up brother,” Kiren says. “You’re not done yet.”