“…zeal …Zeal …ZEAL!!!”
A woman’s voice echoes—frantic, loving, torn with concern.
Zeal, dazed, stirs within a world not quite real. An ethereal plain stretches endlessly around him. Rolling hills rise and fall like breath—like waves exhaling against a skyless void. Soft light dances through the mist.
A woman stands before him.
Her fuchsia eyes brim with compassion, and a gentle aura of the same hue radiates outward, curling through the air like smoke made of silk. She is beautiful—not just in face, but in presence. In knowing.
“It’s time,” she whispers.
She begins to drift closer, her light drawing others near—figures with faceless warmth, each cloaked in blinding brilliance. Their features hidden. All but one.
One woman stands apart.
She is clear. Crisp. Yet desaturated, like a memory made flesh. She does not glow. She does not blink. She only clasps the hand of the fuchsia woman beside her.
The hued woman lifts her hands slowly, almost reverently, as if afraid to break him. Her fingers hover near his cheek.
The glow seeps from her—flows into him—wrapping his form in pink.
“It’s time,” she breathes again.
Visions rip through the stillness.
A fleshy cord, violently severed.
A cloaked shadow stalking through flaming ruins.
A circle of radiant beings encircling a pedestal.
A blinding flash.
A scream.
A thousand screams—collapsing into one long, endless howl.
Zeal’s breath catches.
The auraed woman leans in. Her forehead rests against his. She closes her eyes.
“IT’S—”
Suddenly—
“…Time,” Zeal gasps, lurching upright as if struck by lightning.
His body is slick with sweat. His breath ragged.
Flora flinches beside him, stumbling back in alarm. Her golden hair spills over her shoulders like light caught mid-fall. She had been holding his hand—until now.
She clasps her own hands instead, covering her chest, trying to steady her pounding heart.
Across the room, a chair clatters backward and crashes to the floor.
Kuta jolts up from his seat, knocking into the table, sending his tea spilling in a slow, widening arc. It begins to drip rhythmically onto the floorboards.
He stares ahead, muttering under his breath.
“It’s… time?”
The teacup slams against the table.
Kuta rises in a flash, his chair skidding behind him.
He opens his mouth to answer—but a scream pierces through the window, distant and shrill. Then another. Louder.
His gaze lowers.
Steam rises off his forearm where the tea splashed.
A violet pulse shudders down his skin. For a split second, his body is shrouded in mist—veiling him in a ghostlight. When his face emerges again, it glows from beneath, like a phantom made flesh.
His eyes scan the room. Unblinking. Unforgiving.
He growls—low and primal—then storms out.
Zeal tears himself free from Flora and Nahola and staggers after him, fueled by something deeper than pain.
Flora calls out and follows close behind.
Nahola hesitates only a beat, then slips toward the door—his massive form moving with unlikely grace.
Once outside, Zeal rushes toward the commotion.
“Zeal! Wait up!” Flora pleads, chasing after him as a family sprints past in the opposite direction. Sounds of metal clashing echo past the fence. A feral shrieking grows louder. Nahola’s massive figure shrinks slightly as he hunches down, careful not to barrel into anyone.
Zeal rounds the corner of a hut—pauses—just in time to dodge a jagged ice chunk that whizzes past his head.
Flora crashes into him.
“Zeal!!” she screams.
Nahola snatches them both up like dolls, then plops them gently behind him. They crouch low, peeking out from behind their meaty shield.
And watch.
Kuta is blade-locked with a slender redhead—Seka.
The ground is littered with ice spikes, scattered like broken teeth. Kuta ducks low, his blade phasing clean through hers. She spins through the motion, trying to thrust the sword down hard.
Miss.
Sloppy.
He shifts aside as her blade jams into the ground. Her leg buckles—just barely catching herself. She yanks the blade free from the formed permafrost, and twists—shards of ice flinging out, sharp and wild.
Nahola takes the brunt of it. An icicle impales his palm, then lodges into his chest. His skin hisses. The ice melts instantly.
She would’ve had better luck killing a ghost.
A few spectators gather around the edges. Most retreat behind walls and crates.
Kuta kicks.
The blow knocks the blade from her grip, sending it spinning across the field. It hisses as it flies, trailing icy haze behind it.
Seka slumps to her knees.
Blood streaks down her face. Hair tangled. Dirt collecting in her wounds.
Kuta stands over her. Looks down. His head tilts slightly over his right shoulder.
Disdain. Pity.
That’s all he gives her.
He raises his leg—high—ready to stomp her into the ice.
But her body collapses first.
She slumps completely, conforming to the frost-bitten soil before he can bring the strike down.
He holds the position for a beat. Then slowly lowers his leg.
That’s when he sees it.
A strip of cloth, loose around her ankle. Soaked. Dripping.
Blood trails off behind her—faint, but undeniable.
Leading into the woods.
The exact path they took… just a few nights ago.
“A bounty hunter?? This soon? How is this possible…” Kuta mutters, his voice barely audible beneath the murmuring crowd. Then louder, steadier, he turns to address Zeal. “This is exactly what I mean when I say we don’t have enough time.”
“What did you do to her?” Nahola asks, his tone calm but carrying weight as more villagers cautiously gather behind him.
“Nothing… she just passed out,” Kuta replies, stepping over Seka’s crumpled form. He makes his way toward a nearby hut, where the mythite blade is still impaled into the frozen wall like a cursed relic. He reaches out, grips the hilt, and with effort, pries it loose—frost crackling as it releases.
Nahola approaches the woman with measured grace, Zeal and Flora close behind. He kneels, then hoists her limp body into his arms. A soft green glow begins to radiate from his skin, subtle but pulsing with strength. Without a word, he carries her back to the healing hut, his steps slow and reverent.
Zeal’s gaze falls to the sword in Kuta’s hands—its mist still hissing faintly.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“Keeper Sheeré Grim…” Kuta murmurs. “I’ve heard this is what you’ve become… I’m so sorry.”
He turns to face them, his voice firmer now.
“I know you have questions, Zeal. I’ll do my best to answer them… but we need to head out.”
Zeal’s fists clench. “What if I stay here?” he challenges, defiant.
“No. We leave now.” Kuta’s tone cuts clean.
“The Republic… they’re after you, aren’t they?” Zeal asks, sharp as a blade.
Kuta lowers his head, staring again at the sword like it holds the weight of a decade. “I don’t expect you to understand right now,” he says quietly. “But I cannot have you part from me.”
There’s something hollow in his voice—a grief that catches Flora’s breath and makes Zeal hesitate. He doesn’t press. Not yet.
Zeal swallows hard. He knows the truth of it: bounties always find their way to power.
And Fables? Mythite?
They go for mountains of coin.
But the Cataclysm… that bounty alone would spark a war.
Sorinia glides into view, her long form shimmering with memory. She circles Flora and nuzzles against her gently, chirping with soft resonance.
“I know… but we have to,” Flora whispers, hand resting between the creature’s antlers. “We owe it to him.”
Sorinia hums in reply, her voice a melody of knowing. The bare patches where her limbs used to be seem almost invisible now, hidden beneath the glow of her restored grace.
“Say your goodbyes. I’ll meet you at the cart.” Flora strokes Sorinia’s sleek, floating form once more as she coils around her. Then the serpent glides forward, silent and watchful, toward the heart of the village.
The trio steps back into the dim hut where Nahola brought Seka. The scent of herbs lingers faintly, but it’s overpowered by something more bitter—like rust and panic. Nahola stands over the table, visibly shaken, his massive hands trembling.
“I can’t… heal her,” he murmurs, eyes heavy with defeat.
“It’s Milu Thorn…” Flora whispers, her voice tightening as she steps closer.
“Shit,” Kuta hisses through his teeth.
“What? What’s that?” Zeal asks, heart rising into his throat.
“It means we have bigger issues,” Kuta cuts in, his voice sharp as he sets the frozen sword beside Nahola.
Flora turns to Zeal, explaining with a tension that hangs in the air. “It’s an extraordinarily rare plant. If the poison enters your bloodstream… you never heal. You just bleed and bleed until you collapse. I can feel it pulsing in her.”
Nahola begins suturing the wound with intense focus, sweat glinting at his temple. “No, no, no. There’s always a chance… maybe my aura can stall it,” he says, but the optimism in his voice is paper-thin.
“But why try? She came here to hurt us,” Flora challenges, her eyes fixed on the mess of a woman.
“Every life is valuable, little one,” Nahola answers without flinching, his voice deep, rooted like a lych tree. “And I will not see one snuffed.”
Kuta scoffs.
Zeal winces. His mind drifts—to that man’s face in the village. The one who died by his hand. That look of stunned betrayal. That silence. He blinks hard, willing the image away.
Kuta, meanwhile, scours the room, gathering whatever they haven’t already packed. Satchels. Herbal seeds. A blanket. His hands move fast, restless.
Flora notices Zeal paling. She presses her palm to the center of his back, grounding him. He doesn’t speak, but the weight of her touch steadies something in him.
“The real problem,” Kuta says, stuffing a roll of cloth into his knapsack, “is that she’s being tracked. That’s not a scratch from a thorn—it’s a deliberate cut. A sword meant to mark, to paint a trail…”
He slings the bag over his shoulder. “Let’s move. If we’re lucky, we can stay ahead of whoever’s coming.”
But before the last syllable leaves his lips—
A shriek cuts through the village.
High. Cracked. Panicked.
An elderly woman’s voice, rising like a torn flag in the wind.
“Go! … I’ll take care of it,” Nahola says while tying off the last stitch. Without waiting for protest, he nimbly squeezes through the doorframe, disappearing into the growing hum of village panic.
The low-pitched squawking of the sagré grows louder with each step. As Nahola rounds the corner to the former battlefield, the frost is already melting, dripping down rooftops in uneven rivulets. The air still hums with tension.
Four massive sagré loom above him—clicking, groaning, their feathers shifting with latent energy.
Near their feet, a young man kneels in the fresh mud, helping gather scattered vegetables from an overturned basket. An elderly woman hovers nearby, flustered. Nahola hesitates, his brow furrowed.
“I’m terribly sorry for startling you, ma’am,” the boy says gently, brushing mud from a bruised mythra root before placing it back in the basket.
“Well aren’t you a heartthrob,” the woman swoons, clutching her chest as a gangly man with towering hair tries awkwardly to usher her away.
The sagré emit a deep, rhythmic vocalization that draws startled gasps from the crowd. The woman flinches. The boy—Ottè—just smiles.
“It’s okay, don’t worry,” he assures her warmly, rising to his feet with the last of the vegetables in hand. “These beasts are all squawk and no bite. You have my word.”
His uniform is smeared with mud, but he doesn’t seem to notice—or care. He hands the final sprig of herbs back to her and bows lightly. She nods in thanks and begins to walk away, led gently by the embarrassed man.
Nahola steps forward, cautious.
“Can I help you—?” He lets the question linger.
“Yes, in fact. My name is Ottè, and these are my associates,” the boy replies with practiced ease. “We’re tracking a thief.”
Ottè’s eyes scan the fading frost, the muddied prints, the disrupted soil. His gaze sharpens.
“From the looks of it, your thief caused quite a stir.” Behind him, the sagré begin their chorus again—low clicks and groans echoing ominously through the streets.
“You’re not wrong, little one,” Nahola chuckles, though there’s a tension behind it.
“She bears a mythite sword,” Ottè continues. “That’s what we’re here to retrieve. After that, we’ll be on our way.”
His tone is friendly, his posture relaxed, but the weight beneath the words is clear.
“She’s in our healer’s hut,” Nahola finally answers, gesturing behind him as villagers part. “I’ll guide you.”
Ottè nods with gratitude. “We appreciate your cooperation.”
As the group begins walking, Ottè glances again at the garden plot still clinging to life beside the path—frost wilting.
“Char-char? Interesting harvest for this time of year.”
“Tell me about it,” Nahola mutters. “One day the fruit just started blooming again. We figured it was the land’s last gift before the frost.” He lets out a bellowing chuckle.
They reach the threshold of the hut. Nahola bends slightly and squeezes through first.
Ottè turns. “Yaku. Lunashi. Stretch your legs.”
The two nod, each peeling off into the crowd as the sagré continue their soft, pulsing song.
Ottè hesitates as he steps into the cozy, dimly lit room.
To the left—a small round table with a single glass resting beside a still-steaming kettle. The scent in the air is floral but sharp, with an earthy dampness clinging to the air like a memory.
He takes a few careful steps inside, brushing his fingertips across the surface of the table. It’s faintly sticky. Resinous.
Across the room, Nahola stands stiffly beside a cot. In it, their thief—Seka—lies motionless, her breath faint but present. Her red hair spills over the edge like coals in ash.
Sable moves toward the cot, her footsteps soft as falling feathers. She leans over the unconscious girl and gently tucks a messy strand from Seka’s face.
“Hey, my little troublemaker,” she murmurs.
Her tone carries a hint of fondness. Maybe even regret.
“I’m assuming all that ice came from the sword she stole?” she asks, eyes flicking toward Nahola.
He scratches at his dense black beard, then gestures with a thick finger toward the katana leaning at the foot of the table. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”
Sable bends down, lifting the weapon reverently. Her fingers trace the fine snowflake engravings carved into the spine of the blade, but she flinches—the mythite radiates a cold bite.
“What a beautiful thing,” she whispers.
Ottè steps in, placing himself between Sable and Nahola.
“Do you get many visitors to your village?” he asks casually.
Nahola folds his arms. “We get the occasional wanderer. But mostly, no.”
He watches, puzzled, as Sable slowly brings the sword toward Seka’s exposed neck.
“What are you doing?!” Nahola thunders, stepping forward.
“I’m putting her out of her misery,” Sable replies, her voice as cold as the blade.
Nahola’s jaw tightens. “I’m under the assumption you respect the values of this village… and we do not kill. If she dies, it will be on her terms.” His words, though polite, rattle with unshakable force.
The sagré groan distantly, their call now strained—drawn out.
“Judging from her condition, she has moments before she meets those terms,” Ottè interjects, holding his hand out to ease Sable back. “But we aren’t here for retaliation.”
Sable exhales and lowers the blade. Nahola relaxes—slightly.
“Have you had any other visitors in the last couple of days?” Ottè asks, turning from them, his attention shifting as he nears the window.
Nahola scratches his chin, thinking. “Besides a few merchants? I can’t recall.”
“These merchants… are they… still… here…?” Ottè’s brow twitches.
The sentence hangs incomplete. Ottè cocks his head, leaning his ear toward the open pane.
“Uhh… they were heading—” Nahola begins.
“Shhh,” Ottè hisses, cutting him off mid-sentence. His body tenses.
“Out… today,” Nahola finishes anyway, voice flattened by confusion.
“Sable!” Ottè snaps.
She startles, katana still in hand, and dashes to his side.
Nahola’s mouth opens in protest.
“The sagré stopped…” Sable says, voice low, uneasy.
“Exactly,” Ottè confirms, already movin
Ottè barrels through the doorway, Sable close on his heels. Nahola stares after them, baffled, then grabs the doorframe and squeezes himself out after them.
They round the corner near the village’s center and spot Yaku sprinting toward the southern entrance—his spurs clambering restlessly. They cut through a side path, catching up just in time to hear him shout:
“WHOA! Whoa! Whoa… easy there!”
Lunashi is tangled in vines, being dragged backward toward Flora—toward a packed cart. Behind them, Kuta stands atop it, the burlap tarp stretched tight across its cargo. Without hesitation, he flips off the cart and lands hard, intercepting Lunashi mid-drag. An ethereal fingernail flares from the tip of his hand—pressing firmly against her temple.
“Let’s just take a moment and talk about this,” Yaku pants as he skids to a stop, stumbling from his full sprint. He throws out his arm in a desperate attempt to de-escalate.
“Nothin’ to talk about, I think,” Kuta spits. His voice slices through the tension like a dagger with nothing to lose—sharp enough to chill even Flora. She stiffens at the sound.
“There’s always time to talk… when it comes to the people we love,” Yaku replies, softer now, trying to reason.
Just beside the cart, Zeal hides—curled behind the saddled beast. Yaku’s words hit like a stone to the chest. Zeal clutches his shirt, breath caught in silent agony.
Kuta lets out a single, guttural chuckle.
“Don’t do anything rash, boy,” he growls. “The way I see it, you’ve got one option. I’m takin’ one of you with me. If that happens—you’ll all see the next day.”
The blade at Lunashi’s temple begins to hum with purple light. A thin line of blood trails across her skin, catching the glow like a warning flare.
Yaku hears it clearly. That wasn’t a threat. It was a promise.
“We can work with that,” Yaku answers, voice firm. “But you’re taking me instead. That is your only choice.”
The sun slants through the trees, casting fire through the mist. Kuta’s eyes blaze violet.
“Drop everything but your clothes. If you don’t follow those words to the letter—there will be no choice.”
The blade digs slightly deeper. Lunashi’s eye twitches. She forces herself not to flinch, refusing to give Kuta the satisfaction. Her muscles tremble with the effort.
Yaku begins to empty himself—slowly, deliberately. One item at a time. He places each piece in a careful pile beside him. The others don’t move. Can’t.
Zeal feels every second of it. He can’t even see her—but somehow, he feels it. Every bit of Lunashi’s pain rattling through his soul like echoing thunder.
Yaku spreads his arms and steps forward, vulnerable and bare.
“Flora,” Kuta commands—his voice never once breaking.
The ground beneath Yaku erupts. Vines lash up, coiling tight around him. The earth groans as he’s hoisted into the air, bound from toe to chest. Flora moves quickly, pushing Lunashi into Ottè’s arms before backing toward the cart.
Kuta flips backward, landing square atop the cart beside Yaku, both blades drawn.
Flora scrapes her hand across the vines, draining them of life. The moment they wither, Kuta slashes, severing the roots and locking Yaku into the rear of the cart. Zeal crawls up into the driver’s seat out of sight, his hands trembling on the reins.
Flora yells out, “Please, as quick as you can!”
No one knows who she’s talking to—until the cart beast surges forward without hesitation.
The sagré cry out as the wheels thunder across the path.
Flora swings herself up beside Zeal. Kuta doesn’t look back—he glares. Straight at Ottè and Sable. His eyes say more than his lips ever could.
The haze swallows the cart.
Lunashi stares after them, frozen, blood dripping in a slow ribbon down her cheek. The wind catches her hair. Her lips barely move.
“Kuku…” she breathes.
Her friends huddle close, desperately working to free her from the tangled vines. Each one they tear away grants her a little more movement—but none of it helps.
The moment she’s finally free, she collapses. Her knees hit the earth.
Then the weight hits her.
A sob rips loose. Rage and despair tumble into the dirt.
“YAKU!!!” she screams, her voice cracking like a snapped bone.
The plea echoes out into the forest—and fades unanswered…
Who do you find to be the most interesting character so far?
