For it is Saegor who fights them. Saegor who burns them. Saegor whose gaze passes over us for a moment, before turning North.

  “Why?” Hypna whispers next to me. “I… I don’t understand. He said he wanted to run away.”

  I raise an arm to pat her shoulder. Then, I think better of it.

  Saegor sticks his index finger and thumb in his mouth, creating a sharp whistle. The other Harbingers look to him, having already killed most of the villagers. The young mancer merely points up the road and the Harbingers start marching once more.

  Thraevirula plods behind their lines. I begin to follow, but see that Hypna isn’t moving. The poor woman is frozen—purple eyes wide and glossy.

  I sigh and grab her wrist gently. She lets me pull her along, not speaking a word as we pass the bloodied and burned corpses of her former village.

  …

  A shower of sparks rises into the air as a tavern cracks and tumbles into itself, the fire having eaten away its base and pillars. From the front door of that building, a river of ash is expelled and weaves around the Harbinger’s smoke-scuffed boots. Saegor heads their lot now. It is strange to see his younger self like this: not as the curly-haired youth who hoisted Tia over his shoulders and flirted with Hypna, but rather, as this uncaring monster.

  Hypna’s eyes are downcast. She refuses to look at anything other than my ankles. I don’t blame her.

  Surprisingly, Thraevirula’s face is neutral. She keeps a steady gait and never turns back.

  A crossroads is reached with a larger, more stately house at the fork. Its furnished white walls are dyed a rough-shodden black from the smoke. But, other than that, the building remains remarkably unharmed.

  Saegor holds up a hand. The other Harbingers pause. I push my way to the front of the crowd, following after Thrae. Of course, they ignore us. We’re nothing but spectators. The young mancer takes slow, careful steps on the red and gray cobbles, his eyes narrowing as he approaches the tall estate. He reaches a hand out. It splays against something invisible, like something pushing against glass. I recognize the transparency for a shield. Not as good as Kiren’s shields, for it looks far thinner and far more fragile.

  Saegor pushes two fingers hard against the shield. A ring of sparking fire forms around the fingertips and slowly, it expands, making a door-like opening for the mancer to just waltz through.

  As he does so, Saegor starts chanting something in Incanta. His whisper is soft and oddly comforting—like an old man rising in the morning to give prayer.

  The darkened windows of the building come alight. Not with fire, but lamp light.

  The very visage of the building shifts in a haze—like watching heat blur the road on a scorching day. And I see what Saegor is doing now, or rather, what he is undoing. Illusion magicks.

  The building warps to its true state.

  The top half is burnt off, as if having been gnawed on by a baby giant whose teeth haven’t quite grown in yet. The windows are boarded up and the door is planked shut.

  A slit of light and fearful foot-shadows move behind the door.

  My eyes flicker to Thraevirula. She watches on, unperturbed. Perhaps she has studied this scene before. Perhaps she knows every moment of it, every step, every inch. It seems like something she would do. After all, if I had the power, it's something I would do. A memory I would torture myself with.

  Saegor punches his arm out like a whip. From his palm extends another limb—a hand of wind that reaches for the door. He cranks his hand back and the wind follows, pulling the boarded door with ease. The hinges of the frame come off in a shower of splinters and wood, revealing the huddled crowd behind the door.

  And lo and behold, who steps out but Hypna? The Witch of Dreams is dressed in a formal black—as if in mourning—and her hands glow with azure Aether. Her eyes are bloodshot. A long gash runs across her arm, bleeding against the black of her dress.

  My Hypna, the concept version, finally deigns to look at the scene.

  “Please Saegor. Let us go. We won’t do anything, we won’t—”

  “Tia. The Entity requires Tia.”

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  The witch grits her teeth. “This isn’t right. You know that. You’ve always known that.”

  “I do what I must.”

  “That’s a lie.”

  “Do you take me for a liar? After all these years?”

  “‘After all these years?’ How can you even say that? Was… was any of it real? Did you actually want to take us away? To leave this?”

  The young mancer shifts. His mouth opens, but he clamps it shut, as if chewing on his own tongue.

  He breathes in. “This will not end like you think. Either you give me Tia, or we battle and I kill everyone in this building. All the people you are hiding away.”

  “Don’t do this to me—”

  “Decide, Hy—decide witch,” he spits.

  Hypna’s face falls at that. She blinks something out of her eyes. Shakes her head. Then, she looks back to the door entrance. I peer around them to see little Tia shaking in someone else’s arms—some kindly old villager, who shields her protectively. I recognize him as the same man that Hypna sold the piss potions to.

  Hypna draws a sharp breath and her eyes rove the encircling mass of Harbingers.

  “Take me instead.”

  Saegor stands straighter all of a sudden. His eye twitches. His foot taps incessantly.

  “No. We need Tia.”

  “And if you need to groom her for the Entity, you will need me to be there. She needs a parent. You know this,” she says, taking another step forward, her hands dropping slightly. “Take me and Tia together. Let them go.”

  “Why would she—I don’t understand,” I mutter. I thought she would fight them.

  “Mother was drained. She had already fought many Harbingers,” Thraevirula answers. “We wouldn’t have been able to escape at this moment. And she knew that Saegor wanted her to live. So… she made a gamble. Live to fight another day. Save everyone else.”

  “Alright,” Saegor says, sighing now. His hands drop to his sides. “Together then.” A sad smile creeps up onto his face. Hypna calls Tia over. Hesitantly, the little red haired girl slinks away from the now protesting crowd of Cattlegrovers.

  “We can take them!” the old man yells. But he doesn’t really move to stop her.

  Tia runs to her mother’s side. Hugs her knee and cries into it, hiding her face from Saegor’s gaze.

  Then, one of the Harbingers steps forth. This one is… different. The aura about him is cold and dark. The air rushes away from his form, fearful of his mere gait.

  The shadow of his cowl hides his face. I try gazing under it, but it seems that, because Tia didn’t see it, there is no face to speak of in this memory.

  The man whispers something. Something that only Saegor can hear.

  The young mancer’s face alights with terror. “NO!”

  But before anyone can even move, the Harbinger brings his hand up and a shard of darkness, crystalline and cruel, shoots from it.

  The shard snaps into Hypna’s neck. Her eyes go dead, her head goes limp. She slumps upon her daughter like a puppet.

  Tia screams.

  Saegor sinks to his knees.

  The Hypna next to me shudders.

  And the Harbinger walks past Saegor, picking Tia up by the arm, ripping her grasp from her mother, and tossing the girl to Saegor.

  “The witch was right. She does need a parent. Fill that role Saegor,” he orders. His voice is not cold. Not cruel. It is kind. Fatherly. His order sounds like a mere suggestion. Yet even I feel compelled by it.

  Well, I would, if so much rage didn’t sputter forth in my soul.

  Because this type of scene is very familiar to me.

  Tia’s fists start banging into the blank-eyed Saegor, who simply holds her tight while staring at Hypna’s bleeding corpse.

  The old man in the building charges out screaming, along with two younger men. The hooded Harbinger yawns before swiping his hand out. I don’t see what does it, but their heads fall cleanly from their necks as their bodies run on for a few steps. Their headless bodies fall over in an almost comedic scene—as if they just realized they died.

  “Kill the rest,” the cowled man says, stretching up now. The other Harbingers nod and set about invading the building, sacking it, dragging the women and children out and slaughtering them. They don’t bother kidnapping the children anymore. Perhaps they’ve reached a quota? That thought is infuriating.

  “Oh, and Saegor? Wipe her mind of this. It will be hard to father an ungrateful child.”

  Saegor shudders and pulls the screaming, biting, feral form of Tia away from her. She just keeps shrieking the same thing.

  “I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! WHY?! WHY!?!?”

  Saegor touches a hand to her neck. Her shouting ceases. Her eyes grow dreary and tired. And as the screams crescendo in chorus with the flames, the scene begins to fade to black.

  “Glory to the Entity,” the hooded man speaks.

  Saegor wipes a tear from his eye before nodding.

  “Glory to the Entity.”