“Are you okay?” Enocavian asked of the ex-princess, who hesitated before nodding. She continued to stare at the steaming pile of rubble left of their foe.

  “Yeah, yeah,” she mumbled, glancing at Michael. The knight was knelt to the ground, nursing his bruised ribs as his skin remained raksteel. He met her gaze only momentarily before turning away, and she sighed. “This is unfortunate.”

  “Quite so,” the mage agreed. “He was undeniably a formidable foe. Unfortunately, his thirst for blood outweighed his ability to negotiate.”

  Silence gripped the air for several longing moments before Lunar sighed again. She looked to the ground and the skies beyond before her gaze settled on the Kingdom. Barely visible through the smoke, she could still see the faintest outline of the nearest village, which had undoubtedly heard the noise. They would not investigate, for the legends prescribed death to any who dared to even gaze upon a live volcano, but they would wonder. But she wondered as well. She wondered what life would be like if she had just a little control over magic. Some kind of ability she could use to subdue the beast. But she could not stop herself with idle questioning and querying. She had to move on.

  “Time to go to Khavel, I guess,” Lunar murmured. But Enocavian choked.

  “Surely you jest!” he demanded incredulously, frowning at the young woman. “Without the quaralak? What hope do you think we have against a Khavellian folten, let alone the Khanil’s Folten?”

  Lunar opened her mouth to respond, but the words caught in her throat. He was right, and she lowered her protesting hand as she accepted the truth. But she tried to find hope.

  “You just beat him! You could get us through the soldiers in our way!”

  “While your faith is endearing and appreciated, it is misguided,” he told her. “The Khanil’s Folten, as well as the standard Khavellian, are numerous, if not capable. And my magic has a tether, which this battle has strained. I doubt we will make it to Sapum Akiratome in time before Khanil Miku’s folten pick us apart.”

  He took Lunar’s silence as a sign to continue.

  “Unless you know of a way to find more support, we must change our goals. We may be better suited to irritating the crown as Regmend challenges them. Or perhaps we can greet him ourselves if you are willing to take the risks. Regmend is not an unreasonable man, and I am sure he will lend a sword to your cause.”

  “I’m lending my big fancy scythe to his,” she reminded him. She frowned as she saw the mage’s lips curl in a faint smile, but the expression was fleeting. So she dropped the matter. “But I’m also Ragarak’s daughter. I don’t think we can convince him, considering I could just be an assassin.”

  “Well, that’s just awesome, isn’t it!” Michael shouted suddenly, and Lunar’s eyes darted over to the knight as he threw his hands up. Her heart raced as anger radiated from his tense body, his teeth gritted as he stared out over the countryside. Her nerves came to life, and she hesitated, looking over at Enocavian as if asking him for help. He, predictably, stared back at her, wondering how she thought he could help.

  “He’s your friend,” the mage reminded her, and Lunar glared. But she jumped as Michael shouted again.

  “Why?!” he screamed at Lunar, and her shocked stare turned to him. She stumbled back a moment beneath the furious expression of the knight, her eyes widening as she saw the rage writ upon him. He spoke through gritted teeth, his eyes alight with anger as he confronted her. “Why did you let Amelia die?! Why did you even run from the castle and everything that meant safety?! You took everything from me, and now you’re taking this!”

  Lunar was stunned into silence by the sudden outburst, her eyes widening. She didn’t know how long this had festered, but it was coming out now. And she felt an ache in her heart as she, beyond her initial denial, wondered if it really was her fault.

  “I spent all my life training to be a knight and the one person I’m assigned to leaves! The one other friend I have killed because of you! I went from a respected palace guard with prospects of a better future to this! A nobody!”

  “Enough!” the mage snapped, but Michael continued his furious tirade.

  “I had dreams! I had hopes! You knew better than anyone I could have been more than this! Some idiot wandering around behind a rogue princess who was ‘too good’ for her craybegotten classes!” he screamed. “I’m nothing but expendable muscle anymore! Just some layers of metal because you took everything!”

  “Silence!” Enocavian bellowed, and Michael turned with his fists clenched. The mage’s voice was calm as he continued, but it only further enraged the knight. “You are at fault for your life, and she is at fault for hers. But you are a coward to blame her for your misfortunes, Sir Fabijaka. If you stayed, you would be a traitor to all you hold dear. You would have power, but only over those incapable of fighting back. Is that what you stand for?”

  “I could have had power,” Michael sneered past the flicker of doubt. Enocavian could see it in his eyes—the uncertainty brewing, although his anger dispelled it. “I could have done better with it. I could have changed things. I was the youngest knight, one of the most respected in the academy. I could have-”

  “You could have done nothing because your magic is unique only within Gratsinmorn’s borders,” the mage interrupted him. “You are a splitting image of this empire, bound to your power and hoping to maintain your hold on what was rather than advancing towards what could be. You are willing to do anything to keep what you have, including driving away your allies. Is this the man you planned to become?”

  “What do you know about Gratsinmorn?! You’re nothing more than a Shadic coward who slinks within his caves and plots minor nuisance attacks!” Michael shouted. “What do you know about this empire, you snake?! You’re crayfeed, and nothing more!”

  The mage scoffed, and Michael’s rage heightened. The knight stormed toward the mage with his fists clenched, daring the pale man to fight. But Enocavian held his ground, staring down at the raksteel knight. His voice remained calm, his demeanour no less, and he continued to speak even as Michael tried to get into his face, though the Shadic was half a head taller. And only up close did the knight realise that, while not muscular, the mage was imposing, and his level voice only further unsettled the Gratsinmornian.

  “What do I know?” he repeated, his lips curling in a sarcastic smirk. “A few things. We will leave it at that. But for all your talk of training and dreams, you are quite useless.”

  Michael’s enraged response was halted only by the light of the mage’s green and black eyes. It was neither a hostile stare nor threatening, and Michael subsided. Unnerved by the eerie calm, the knight turned away and let out a pent-up breath of frustration, feeling his conviction die away and the regret sweep through. While he enjoyed the idea of power, there was no way that alone could have made him snap. He had lived well enough for the past several years, after all.

  “Your temper is slight,” the mage noted idly, and Michael grit his teeth. “But let us expend our energy on further solutions. We will find a way to succeed and complete our goals, though likely not in the way we- Where has Lunar gone?”

  The latter end of the mage’s statement rose as his gaze flicked across the landscape. Lunar had once stood, uncertain and fearful, not even a lak away from him, but now was nowhere to be seen. Michael’s eyes widened, and he desperately searched the volcano and its surroundings. He desperately hoped, with a fiercely beating heart, that she was just playing a prank, but the longer he searched, the more he knew she was gone. The smoke jeered in the empty wake of her departure, and the blazing rivers of magma taunted his loneliness. Here, he sat alone on the mountain, with only a mage for company. A mage who made a painful remark.

  “Your outburst has sent her packing,” he observed, and Michael shook his head in a fervent panic.

  “No, no! She’s never done this before!” he cried, and Enocavian paused.

  “You have given her such an outburst more than once?” he wondered. Michael’s panicked stare flicked over.

  “Only a few times! It’s always been fine, and she’s always forgiven me!”

  “Each moment, you grow more pathetic,” the mage muttered, before conceding. “Then, there must be another explanation. If you are speaking the truth, then it is unlikely your tantrum hurt her feelings. Odd that she would leave rather than talk sense into you.”

  “Maybe she just… Went to go find food..?” Michael asked hesitantly, and the mage’s grimace was all he needed to see to know his answer. “Maybe…”

  He froze as he considered his words. Enocavian was right to know that Lunar was not one to run away in despair. He had lost his temper multiple times, yet she had never run. She wasn’t one to lie down and cry. She was one to solve a problem she saw as quickly as possible. She was far from fearless, but she always moved to end conflict as soon as it started.

  “She’s gone to find the sapum on her own!” he cried out. “She’s trying to find him herself!”

  “She is so irrational?” the mage wondered, but even Michael could tell there was worry in the pale man’s tone. Lunar’s gift, he thought. People who met her wanted to help her.

  “She’s rational,” he muttered. “But she’s naive. And she’s enthusiastic. She always wants to fix things sooner than they can be fixed.”

  “Her eventual destination is a poor one, given that,” the mage mused, staring down the mountain still. “Impulsivity is rarely a quality of success.”

  “Innovation is, though,” the knight snapped before sheathing his sword and heaving a breath. “Let’s go.”

  In moments, Michael was sprinting down the hill. Even as it declined beneath his feet, the soldier ran, lengthening his stride as required and rushing away from the titanic mound of stone that had once been their foe—the same mound of stone where Enocavian stood a moment.

  “I rest my case,” he whispered before heaving a breath and flying down.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “Crays!” Michael swore, kicking a rock in his path.

  The mage’s scoff was barely disguised, and Michael glared over before punting another stone. This time, he cursed.

  They had walked in silence for several hours, with only the occasional curse from the knight as he tripped or a particularly thick branch resisted his efforts to sheer through. The raksteel blade could carve through so much, Enocavian mused, but it could not sever a lesser tree. And it seemed that stone was the knight’s greatest foe, given how much rocks he had displaced with harsh kicks.

  Most of the rocks fought back.

  “Your toe is, at best, bruised. What is the score now? Four to the knight, thirty to the stones?”

  “Twenty-nine,” Michael snapped, kicking another rock in frustration and crying out in pain as it proved unyielding. He ignored Enocavian’s bark of laughter.

  “Thirty,” he decided, and Michael whirled around and glared at the pale man.

  “What’s so funny? We’re looking for my friend, and you’re snickering away because I keep stubbing my toe.”

  “That is one way of colouring it,” the mage remarked idly. “I am mocking you for your decision to kick innocent rocks. It is not as if they are doing anything. They are in their rights to fight back.”

  “They’re bothering me,” Michael muttered, not quite noticing as the mage hid a smile and tucked his spellbook away.

  The knight was well aware of how easy the mage had it. The distance they were travelling was vast, with the Khavellian border relatively far from Mount Vreskie. While it was no week-long journey, it was, at best, a four-day hike away. Three if one travelled light. And Lunar was definitely travelling lighter than them, given that Michael had to take several breaks during the walk.

  And, of course, there had to be an excuse from the mage. They couldn’t teleport because the area near the border was in a constant struggle. The landscape rarely remained unchanged, and there was no guarantee the mage could land them where they had to be. Nor could he guarantee that they wouldn’t arrive further than Lunar and end up running in the wrong direction, searching for her. At the very least, they knew they were behind her as they were, and using any magic to hasten their travels could jeopardise that.

  Michael had to concede the point.

  “What’s the plan, then? Are we going to go to the border and ask if they’ve seen a small blonde person run through?” he wondered. “That’s if she even manages to get past them. I doubt the Khavellian guards will let a random Gratsinmornian through.”

  “Odd that you believe Khavel has posted guards,” the mage remarked, and Michael’s eyes narrowed.

  “You might know magic, but I know military tactics,” Michael snapped. “There’s no chance that Khavel will leave a border unguarded. Not when they’re on terrible terms with Gratsinmorn. There could be a war any day now, and they would want to let their army know. Gratsinmorn has a routine guard of at least two platoons, and I doubt Khavel would leave a force like that to guard entry.”

  “You have learned from a textbook, Sir Fabijaka,” the mage disagreed, and he lifted a hand to forestall Michael’s protests. “Khavel does not function as your traditional militaries. The concept of a traditional military has long since been forgotten by most nations. Not that it is ineffective, but battle is a culture. And Khavel’s culture is no less rich, nor less nuanced than Gratsinmorn’s.”

  “How would you know?”

  “I lived among them for several years. Sapum Akiratome was a man I learned of from one of my many mentors, and I learned much of Khavel through one of his own faltinae—clan— commanders. They value open battle, so it is unlikely that she will face Khavellians. If she does, it will be rogue groups, as Khavel would more than likely avoid a conflict with Gratsinmorn at all costs.”

  “I’m confused.”

  “That is to be expected,” the mage decided, and Michael wondered if he should be offended. “Khavel does not act like Gratsinmorn. Gratsinmorn does not act like Shadinara. Nations are much like people: unique, nuanced, and generally confusing. She will not face Khavellian guards.”

  “Then we go with the original plan of asking the border guards if they’ve seen a tiny blonde woman run on through,” Michael decided, wisely choosing not to argue with the mage. But the knight did wonder how the mage knew so much. Subtly, he shuffled away, suddenly more than a little anxious about being around him. The mage was unsettling at best, and Michael was starting to miss the former monarch he had scared off.

  A pang of guilt struck his heart as he remembered why she had run. Sure, it wasn’t out of fear, but his outburst had undoubtedly hurt her. No matter how true he thought it was, nothing about what he said should have made it out in such a fiery rage, especially given Amelia’s death, which Lunar could not have prevented. No one could have prevented or predicted the intervention of an entire platoon of the Royal Guard. And because of him, his only other friend was gone, and the only person he had for company was a caster whose reputation was disconcerting. The silence was enough to remind him of what he had potentially lost, the rather dull atmosphere becoming a clear indicator of the young woman’s impact upon him.

  Only now did the impact strike him. She was almost certainly alive, or so he hoped, but that could change if she darted into Khavel alone. If she marched into an enemy nation teeming with soldiers and rivals, she could be killed without a second thought. He doubted that Sapum Akiratome was anywhere near the border, given his status in Khavel, and the journey ahead suddenly grew. It became more than just a walk, as he realised each moment he wasted trying to catch his breath was a moment longer she walked alone. So he began to jog, caring not for Enocavian’s call behind him. Soon, he felt the mage draw to his side, though he still continued to jog down the path toward what he hoped was the border.

  He was incorrect, it seemed, as the mage came up, nudged him to the side, then let him continue his run. A bit abashed, the knight continued to run through the trees, racing through the greenery and cursing the scents around him. The pervasive aroma of the undergrowth was permeating his nose and messing with his mind, his thoughts growing foggy as he continued his headlong sprint. He could run for some time, minutes on end and possibly nearer an hour, though he could not think as he did. All he knew was he had to make it to the border as swiftly as he could. But a thought crossed his mind when he finally tired and slowed down to walk to catch his breath. He paused, coming to a dead halt, and felt the wind rush past his ears as the mage, flying above the ground, came to a screeching halt. Michael was already speaking when Enocavian whirled around, though the knight failed to note the pale man’s faint smirk.

  “If we know we’re going to the border, why don’t we just teleport there?” he demanded. “Why can’t you take us there? Walking there takes over four days, and I can only run so much.”

  “I can take us there,” he assured the blond, to which Michael’s expression flared with anger.

  “Then why didn’t you?!”

  “You never asked,” the mage snickered before he clapped once again.

  Michael, despite his complaints, immediately questioned his outburst as he felt his stomach lurch and watched the world shake around him. The same visions returned, the sickness of teleportation taking its toll on the raksteel knight as he cursed and stumbled in the travel. The journey was swift and far shorter than the first trip, but as he burst free and crashed to the ground, he felt far worse than his first travelling experience. And he fixed the pale man with a sickened glare.

  “I shouldn’t have,” he gasped, struggling to avoid hurling as he gripped the earth and tried to calm his upset stomach. Falikansis had been painful when he first learned how to shift his skin, but this was far worse. He could feel the mage dispassionately stare upon him for several seconds before the sickness subsided as Enocavian took pity and dispelled the sickness. Michael refused to offer a look of thanks but made sure to shut up as he stumbled to his feet and drew a breath. Then he paused.

  The air, having been clear of Vreskie’s fumes, was rich with a new scent: the scent of a fief.

  It was unmistakable. While villages held aromas of woodsmoke and cattle, fiefs were ripe with the scent of stews and meats. Only fiefs or district capitals could get yarik and rayken in large enough quantities to permeate Gratsinmorn’s natural scent, let alone afford seasonings to lather them in. The smell alone sent Michael’s formerly upset stomach rumbling, though the knight was more confused than concerned about his growling belly. There should have been no fiefs near the border, or at least from what he remembered. There should have been a village, certainly, but there was nowhere near enough wealth this far north to construct a fortress.

  But the undeniable smell of wine overlaid the scents of food.

  “Karine wine,” the knight whispered. “I thought that was only for District Capitals. I knew the border was in Kairon District, but I didn’t know Ravenstead was so close to the border.”

  “I can assure you that the Kairon District Capital is nowhere near here,” the mage murmured. Michael prepared to snap a retort before he realised the pale man was simply educating him. So he subsided. “We are well within Kairon’s borders. This is Earl Regmend’s domain.”

  Michael went silent as he mindlessly wandered toward the fief. Enocavian followed suit, both men striding toward the scent of food and wine. Whether out of hunger or curiosity, or perhaps blind hope, they were drawn to the structure nearby. The structure neither of them knew of, and neither of them had heard of before. And Enocavian frowned as he vocalised his confusion.

  “Last I knew, the village of Yalten bordered Khavel,” he mused. “Is there a harvest festival, perhaps?”

  “We harvest in Yuvik, the last three cycles of the year. Harvesting three months early, in Leavon, is usually a bad decision.”

  “Your nation fails to conform to normality,” Enocavian reminded him. “I would not be surprised if your land did the same.”

  “Fair.”

  It was several minutes of silence that went by, the heavy plodding of his footsteps providing only a vague sense of distraction from his frustration. He began rubbing his forehead with a fist, grunting as he could feel the mage’s gaze upon him. Yet despite all he tried, he could not recall even a portion of the map or what could be here beyond Yalten.

  “Crays,” Michael muttered. The mage raised an eyebrow and cocked his head.

  “What might you be swearing about this time?” he wondered. Michael ignored his sarcastic grin.

  “I don’t know what any significant structure is doing here,” he growled. “It was a village. I know it was. So why does it smell like a District Capital? I’ve had a less lavish experience in the capitol, for crying out loud.”

  But then, Michael blinked and recollected his thoughts.

  “Shouldn’t we be searching for Lunar?” he wondered. “Rather than hounding after some imaginary place?”

  “We are well ahead of her,” the mage reminded him. “We would do well to intercept her now.”

  “If she’s still alive,” Michael murmured. “Maybe we should ask whatever this place is if they can help us find her.”

  “Requesting the assistance of a previously unknown fief to find a princess vital to the outcome and aftermath of a civil war? Wise enough,” the mage remarked, and Michael glared.

  “Got any better ideas, wise guy?” the knight demanded, and the pale man shrugged.

  “No. But I figured I’d point out the absurdity of our circumstance,” he replied. “We are relying on the goodwill of Earl Regmend and, by extension, his barons and village headmen. This does not bode well for success.”

  “Not like we have a better option,” he grumbled, though Enocavian’s brief gesture disagreed, and Michael stared. “Or do we?”

  “I must see who we are dealing with first,” the mage decided. “I vaguely recall some details of Yalten. And if it has advanced to a fief, which we are smelling now, I may be able to secure the loyalty of its baron before we advance into—By the Seventeen!”

  The pair had been wandering aimlessly since the start and hadn’t noticed the dirt path giving way to a paved road. Forged of kavetstone and lined with trenches for runoff during rainy days, it was industrial and led the way toward the very structure that had elicited Enocavian’s mou of surprise.

  Yalten hadn’t just advanced; it had flourished to the side of a fief, which bore walls that towered above the pair. A dark gray and red pattern, bearing the colours of Kairon Districts and the shades of a unique fief, sat upon the banner hanging from the battlements. Soldiers paced and patrolled along the top, their dark gray and red armour matching their flag while they gripped weapons of sheer, clean steel.

  Pure, durable steel, at that. Not the cheaper ransteel, nor the more expensive raksteel. A simple, effective material, forging chains and light plates across the bodies of the soldiers who carried spears, pikes, and swords. Maces took the place of clubs; longbows took the place of hunting bows, and torches illuminated them all. But none of the guard’s faces met the sun’s rays as the visors of their headgear deflected the peering stare of the shining light above.

  Michael gulped.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing because we’re going with your plan,” Michael mumbled. Enocavian chuckled.

  “I have my ways,” the mage said. “There are Shadic traditions to winning loyalty.”

  Michael’s apprehension died, and he nodded confidently. He seemed satisfied by that response, and Enocavian breathed an inward sigh of relief.

  After all, the tradition of winging it was hardly just Shadic—it was universal.