I, along with a few others who’d been summoned by The Order, waited outside a worn canvas tent, currently occupied by Marvoe and the newest abducted magically blessed man. The man’s voice grew hoarse with every passing hour of torture, his screams racing through the camp, in desperate search for someone to save him.
But not one ear who heard him would answer his call. Everyone here was well past the point of being saved, in one way or another, and I pitied the man in the tent for having enough hope to try. Until a few days ago, he’d been like the rest of theworld, oblivious to the thriving nightmare tucked away in these woods.
“Please! I don’t know anyone with that kind of magic! We don’t—” the man’s scream cut its way out of his throat, no doubt leaving his vocal chords in shredded ribbons.
None of us outside so much as flinched at the sounds of deepening pain. Like I said, we were all too far gone. Actually, I nearly felt grateful. If he was too busy screaming, he’d have no chance to utter the words that would shatter my world.
Marvoe exited the tent, red dripping down his forearms and smeared over his knuckles. “Drain him,” he instructed the woman with matching black veins—Carmin, his right hand. She dipped inside the tent, silencing his last scream the moment it began. Quiet settled throughout the camp again, leaving a sullen void in its wake.
The muted gurgles wouldn’t carry on long. Marvoe led the prayerful salute, holding up his index finger and placing it to his forehead. In rote motions, we all repeated the act. A requirement of worship, signaling the sacrificed soul was now one with the darkness, as we all should strive to be. Though even after all my time here, I still wasn’t convinced Marvoe didn’t interpret the act as a tribute to himself.
I kept my unbothered posture once my hand fell. The pit in my stomach told me to run, survival instincts sounding all the alarms when Marvoe brought his black, hollow stare to me and invaded my space. I remained still, a portrait of cool grace.
“Dae Pradeep,” he sighed my name as he clasped his hands behind his back, staring up at me. “It was a mistake not sending you with the first crew. I might have hoped others could accomplish such a meager task, which would leave you the opportunity to remain…”A menacing twinkle accompanied his gaze as he looked over me. “Closer.”
He inhaled deeply as he leaned in, waving his nose over my chest. His dark lines stretching from his eyes looked like a tree's root system, even more prominent against his near ghostly pale skin. “Such a powerful thing you are. Alas, it seems you are the most competent. And I will not have my militia growing weak.” His lip twitched at the word like it tasted vile on his tongue.
Weakness of any kind was not tolerated here in the north. Hesitation was not tolerated. Failure of any sort, no matter how trivial, was not tolerated. The Black Pool spread its infectious magic away from our camp, staining the land between Witches Pass and extending into Argora Vale. A destructive force, killing everything in its path. Despite those leaching black veins not festering around base camp, its effects were still felt. A dooming sense of dread tainted the forest as effectively as if the darkness spread here as well. It chased away the natural creatures, which left our camp in growing need of food sources.
The previous hunting team had been given a deadline, same as the one we’d just received. One week, and they’d still not returned with food as instructed. If they knew what was good for them, they would have started running. But fawning worshippers conditioned to the cause either believe their devotion and loyalty will be seen as exemplary, and their righteous leader will see their true value—or they believe their death will be honorable.
Marvoe sobered, his voice returning to his usual low, authoritative tone. “Go, and do not disappoint. If you find the previous crew alive, bring them back to me, won’t you?” He reached his skinny arm up to pat me thrice on the head. “That’s a good pet.”
With that, he strode through camp, wiping his bloody hand on a cloth that was brought to him by an ass-kissing fool. Wielders cleared from his path, bowing to his authority. It wasn’t respectthat had them scrambling out of his way, not when a simple mistake would cost your life.
Slow and controlled, I released the breath that’d been caught in my lungs, ignoring the need to scrub my skin raw wherever he touched. The gods had blessed me with magic that greatly aided the camp, which meant I was away enough that moments where his attention fell fully on me were rare.
My skills weren’t replaceable yet. I suspected that was the reason I’d never been selected to receive stolen magics, the precursor to entering The Black Pool. Without a word, we efficiently departed to pack our things and prepare.
The one week countdown had begun from the moment Marvoe had given the order. It wouldn’t surprise me if taking seven days and an hour resulted in a swim in that obsidian death trap, or the sounds of our screams being ignored in that tent. No, we would set off within the next ten minutes and not waste a moment. If the last team had failed, we needed every minute for an advantage.
We checked in with the woman who kept record of camp duties and participants. With every stroke of her pencil upon the parchment, as our names became memorialized, I wondered if this would be the trip that ended my life.
And I found it hard to care.
13
Ro
Anew day, and no summons yet for Highcrest. Tio would be disappointed.
With the camp helping those from Argora Vale prepare for their journey west, Radhak focused his attention on that. I doubted we’d be sent anywhere until after they departed. Maybe not even until Rav and his crew returned.
The sun lit the broad horizon, letting me see for miles across the plains bordering the forest. My thoughts swirled as I crept along the border, pacing in a line several hundred feet long, on patrol duty. A light breeze ruffled my loose-fitting green top. It had a square neckline with a tiny v-shaped slit at its center, and sleeves that covered three-quarters of my arms. A smattering of dots decorated my otherwise fair complexion where my arm remained exposed. I tucked a portion of the front of my shirt into my perfectly fitted brown pants. My cloak lay near the base of a tree so I could maintain easy access to the bow and quiver strapped to my back. I barely felt it anymore, like it’d become a part of me.
Braxius had yet again opted to hang out with Mira before she left. That’s okay. I knew he’d miss her once she was gone.
Alone in the quiet peace of nature, I filled my lungs to the brim with fresh air. Nothing but the barren landscape and a single sparrow soaring above to keep me company.
The sight unearthed a tucked away memory from the depths of my mind. My father’s booming laughter that rivaled the warmth of the biggest hearth. Whenever he’d tell the origins of mine and my sister’s names, he would chuckle in that way. My mother would often smack his bulging belly, but she saw the humor in it, too.
My mother had been fond of tulips, and during her pregnancy, she’d seen them everywhere. The life she created reminded her of the blossoming flower, sturdy and stable, beautiful and delicate. When my sister was born, my mother said there was no other name suited for her daughter. My father, embarrassed to address his daughter as a flower, played off the name. He’d called her Tula so often that it eventually stuck.
As a child, my mother would often tell me the story of how my name came to be. When she was pregnant, a sparrow followed her around. She became convinced it was a god in animal form, a guardian angel of sorts, sent to watch over me. She observed the bird for months, noting how it flew its own path, not falling in line with the patterns of other birds.
She’d told me from the moment I was born, she could sense my wild spirit meant to forge its own path. It became fitting that I should be named after that bird that did the same. Just as with my sister, my father held too much embarrassment that I was named after a bird, especially following a sister named after a flower.
So Sparrow became Ro, and stuck. Then sometimes he went a step further, addressing me as ‘Chirp’. The man had some sort ofaffinity for nicknames, and the memory coiled around me like a comforting embrace.
