Crooked looks upon us like one might gaze upon lowly ants. Her left blades swivel back and forth in the air, idly cutting through the wind.

  “Why is she not attacking?” I ask.

  Kiren raises an eyebrow. “It is a she?”

  “Just—we have bigger issues.”

  “Right right. Sorry,” he waves a hand through the air. “There’s a reason we had to hole up here. Whatever this place is.”

  “After we got you down from the tree,” Umbrahorn begins, slithering up next to us in his full form. “We heard it coming our way. We knew we couldn’t take it on, so… we ran. And Kiren here set up a shield around the fortress.”

  My eyes widen. “She can’t break it through?”

  “Not for lack of trying,” Kiren scoffs. “She went at it all of last night. I spent a lot of energy reinforcing the shield. Eventually, she left. But now, I guess she’s back for more.”

  As if on cue, Crooked begins to float down closer. But, before she can level with the tallest of the watchtowers, her metallic feet pause. As if touching something. She takes rounding steps along the translucent shield of Kiren’s, which I can only now make out after squinting. Every step she takes causes the shield to crinkle in response, with a slight mist emitting upon touch.

  Crooked walks over us. She doesn’t seem to be in any particular hurry to break the shield.

  A thought comes to mind as she stalks above us. Why am I not dead?

  If she knocked me out midair, no matter how far she might’ve thrown me, I’m sure she would’ve caught up to me before Kiren and Umbrahorn arrived. So what delayed her?

  In fact, why is Crooked even here?

  Was this tree creature not just a trick of Thraevirula’s? A node-monster of her illusion trap?

  “This is your mindscape. Your dreams. Your memories. I’m just pulling a few strings. It's how I created the illusion-trap—bravo on getting out of that by the way. I’m surprised you retreated back into your dreamscape, but I suppose the body yearns for rest after something so… intense. But honestly, why the blood rain?” Thraevirula asked me when we last spoke in my dreamscape.

  When I remained confused, she clarified, “The hell-storm Raiten. Honestly, when I saw that, I couldn’t help but laugh—you’re quite the melodramatic person aren’t you?”

  Which means that the illusion-scape was not only her doing. Rather, she probably manipulated some factors of my mind to set the trap.

  So that begs the question: is Crooked a facet of my mind or hers? And if mine, then where the hell do I know them from?

  “Why is she not attacking?” Umbrahorn hisses.

  “I have no idea,” Kiren responds, eyes watching her every movement. Kiren’s shield bubble is a like semi-sphere that encapsulates the whole of the ruins. So, when Crooked walks to its sloping left side, she merely slides down the shield. She uses one of her blades to slow the descent by stabbing against the translucence and emitting a trail of mist.

  Kiren looks at me. “We should keep an eye on her.”

  He moves to leave, but I grab his arm. “Tell me that we are not stuck here?”

  “Until she leaves us alone, we are. Unless you want to face whatever that thing is without your amulets, outside of the shield. But I think we will lose that fight.”

  “What about Saegor? Zyla? Can’t we… call them?”

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  His mouth makes a thin line. “I already did. Used a magicks symbol to hail Zyla. She didn’t respond. But maybe they got preoccupied with their own troubles. Our best move now is to just wait her out. And pray that I can hold the shield long enough for them to arrive, so that we can all take her on.”

  He gently twists out of my grip and runs to the watchtower’s edge, taking a hanging half-step off before climbing down. Umbrahorn gives me a frayed look and shrugs.

  “I don’t like it either. But, he’s right.” Then, the shark jumps off the tower in pursuit.

  I hesitate to follow them, for once. I don’t understand why at first. But then, I recognize that feeling of naked vulnerability—a sensation I only felt when I ran out of my amulets back at the tower. Fear is a pervasive bastard. It sticks like a tick and feeds on your blood for hours on end.

  But I can’t let it stop me.

  I slap myself until my cheek is red raw. Then, I follow them.

  …

  We haul up by the edge of the ruins and the dividing line between the inside of Kiren’s shield and its outside where Crooked stalks about, dragging her left arms lackadaisically against the shield, as if feeling it out.

  Her face flits back and forth between the three of us, memorizing our details.

  I feel for my whip, the only weapon I have besides my martial skills, and take it out. Again, comes that nervous tic of wrapping and unwrapping it around my arm, constricting the blood flow.

  We stare at her as she paces. The only sound is that of her blades dragging along the shield.

  “Can you fire something at her from here?” I whisper to Kiren.

  He shakes his head. “Shield goes both ways. We can’t leave unless I bring it down, nor can we fire anything through. Besides…” he sighs. “It's probably a bad time to tell you this, but I’m kind of bad at magicks beyond the first circle. My greatest specialty is shields. Even in combat, I can use them.”

  I click my tongue. This situation just keeps getting worse.

  Her dragging halts.

  My gaze snaps back to Crooked. She steps back, bending her legs, as if about to attack. The metal of her moves like human body parts—without any creaking or breaking at the joints. She flows fluidly into motion.

  I brace from a quaking attack.

  But, Crooked just stands there. Her right hammer hand draws up to her head and she suddenly sinks down to her knees.

  “What the—” I begin.

  She screams

  It's an ear-piercing shriek that takes all of us off guard. We buckle to our knees, cupping our palms against our ears, but even that doesn't seem to block the noise.

  I strain my eyes open against the sheer force of her cry. She spasms as if in pain. Her head thrums, hums, and shakes up a storm—vibrating metal in the dark.

  Then, all of a sudden, it stops.

  I place both hands on the ground and breathe heavily. Kiren pants next to me before standing, using my back as a way to push off the ground. He gives me a hand and lifts me to my feet.

  “It will take a lot more than that to kill us!” Umbrahorn spits. He goes right up to the shield and grins with all his wooden teeth bared.

  Crooked stands up and begins to move again. Except, this time, her movements are not so fluid. She stumbles forward and the imprints of her sockets turn to me now. She slumps against the shield.

  Her head hums. “Raiten.”

  I take a step back, shocked. She’s speaking?

  No—no it's not “she” anymore, is it? Despite the figure, that was definitely a man’s voice. And it sounded familiar…

  I stride up to the shield and look this thing head on.

  “Who are you?” I ask.

  The head vibrates again. It seems to use that vibration to speak, in substitution of any mouth.

  “It's been a while, Raiten. I don’t blame you for not remembering. But you were young then. So young.”

  It's on the tip of my tongue. He speaks with such familiarity and nostalgic kindness.

  “Raiten,” Kiren grasps my shoulder. “What is happening—”

  “It’s me, little cub. I’m here.”

  Little. Cub.

  My eyes widen. “Sadai?”

  The head thrums. Coughing sounds emit. His voice sounds heartbreakingly pained now.

  But I recognize that phrase from anywhere. For it gave me all the strength of my childhood.

  The old Thunder Watcher of Clan Adachi puts his hammer hand against the wall.

  “You’ve grown so much. But now you understand Raiten,” his head tilts. “Our job sucks, doesn’t it? They don’t even let us die properly.”