The water was cold to her feet. Lakes in Fraumin were always cold no matter the season, but the chill soothed her still, reminding her of simpler days. Madwen took a deep breath, eyes closed, and released slowly. It was a learned response to stress that she’d found herself rehearsing even when calm. What’s wrong, she wondered. Something had once plucked at her mind, but for the life of her, she could not remember it. It was as if she had awoken from a nightmare; fear stoked her heart, yet the memories of what caused it had slipped away, and thus, so too did the fear.

  Soft dripping water caught her ear. A small, wooden boat glided toward her, oars dipping quietly into the still water, then pulling back into a smooth, calm rhythm. A man of chestnut hair and a short ginger beard gently rowed, his cloth tunic loosely buttoned. There was a haze about him, like an idea that hadn’t fully formed. And yet, Madwen felt no alarm. She had been here before—seen this same man, felt this same chill, smelled this same air. There was no need to panic, no call for anxiety. She was safe.

  Neither of them spoke; why speak when thoughts were enough? Such a connection took years, decades even, to fo—

  “Madwen!” Worne’s gruff voice pulled at her, grounded like stone. His rough, calloused hand gripped her arm, his grasp cold and lifeless. She yanked free, appalled at first but then came to. The two stood on a gentle hill on the far side of the city, scattered trees casting long shadows over the yellow flowers at their feet. The golden light of the setting sun hued orange as the evening fog crept toward the city. Worne stared his nasty stare—yet something like concern, though twisted and warped by his bitterness, stirred deep behind his blue eyes.

  “You deaf? Never seen you so jumpy,” said Worne. “You get some sleep? Still look like shit.”

  Still dazed, Madwen took another moment to recover. Yes, she thought, the ritual.

  “I’ve caught some winks here and there. Tell me, what have you found?”

  Worne eyed a man of early adulthood hauling a large vase toward the hill’s peak, water sloshing within. Hired by Madwen, no doubt. He waited for the man to pass.

  “Kid’s a magic user,” said Worne, hushing his gruffness into a low growl.

  “Magic? You’re sure?”

  Worne dug his fingers into a small breast pocket sewn on the inside of his hard leather tunic. “See for yourself.” He tossed the small, smooth ball found at the epicentre of Fiamór’s destruction. Madwen held it to the light in the same fashion Worne had upon its discovery.

  “Village is a fucking mess,” Worne continued. “Heaps of meat, pools of blood, sharp splatters on the walls like something big crushed ‘em. That ball used to be a doll.”

  “Burden,” said Madwen. “One of the six omen spells. You’ve seen it before.”

  “Never seen it used on a man.”

  “And if you ever do, it means you’ve failed at your job.” Madwen’s eyes flicked about, avoiding the marble weighing heavy in her fingers. “You said the man wasn’t the kind to kill a whole village; why not?”

  “Bloke had been crying. Eyes all puffy. Look o’ regret about him. Not a killer. Not intentionally, that is.”

  “Gods,” Madwen sighed. “He’s a dissonant.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Magic is contractual—consensual. You need to study it before acquiring it. That way you know what you’re getting yourself into. He was either born with it or stumbled upon it during his adolescence. It’s exceptionally rare, especially in men.”

  Worne shifted his weight. “Born with it, eh? That make him more powerful?”

  “More dangerous, yes, since he has no control, but he’s magically weak. It’s formless power, like striking a target with the flat of your blade.”

  Worne shifted again. At times he felt a boiling rage when dealing with magic. Throughout his life he’d always hated it. It was the power that divided the High Cities from the low. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind were memories of months cracking, cutting, and hauling stone. All that effort only to create a single grain silo no more than thirty feet in height. All while the High Crown sat atop a thin, whitesteel tower that dwarfed even mountains. Madwen was intentional and pragmatic with her magic, however, and during their short partnership, Worne had grown to see its many uses. Still, underneath the crow’s feet and cracking joints, Madwen held even more power than that demonstrated in the now-former village.

  “This certainly complicates things,” said Madwen, thumbing at one of the silver rings around her wrist.

  The hired labourer approached the pair from atop the hill, exhaling sharply as he slowly descended. “Work’s all done, ma’am! Jug’s at the top o’ the hill, just the way you asked.”

  “Lovely, darling!” Madwen accentuated her posh accent and forced the feminine charm she often lacked. “I’ll be right up in a moment, but you’ve earned yourself a proper payment for a proper job done.” She tossed a silver shilling from her coin purse, the man already smiling as he watched the sunlight flicker off the coin’s shining white finish.

  “Come with me,” she said from the side of her mouth toward Worne. “We’ll need to adjust our plans.”

  The sun had nearly fully set as the pair crested the hill. Faint rays of light lingered still, painting the undersides of each cloud in a soft pink. Several markings scored the dirt where the labourman had rested the clay vase before finally placing it in a small circle that Madwen had previously carved into the earth. Worne spotted the six-sided Mark of the Omeness embedded into the vase’s matte glaze. Madwen was about to perform a ritual.

  “I still need to find the omen that lurks here, the one causing the dissonance in this city. This should be my final experiment.”

  “The stranger not your concern?”

  “He is, but I’ll need you to retrieve him. I have to stay here.”

  Worne huffed, Lord Daithi’s venomous offer still poisoned his mind. “This final experiment, we start killing when it’s done?”

  “Do you have somewhere to be? Or are you simply dull?” Madwen’s sudden shift in tone brushed off Worne’s solid exterior, though… something weighed heavily upon him.

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  Madwen cocked her head with an exaggerated look of confusion. “Do you have any idea what we’re dealing with? I’m sure being as big as you are, ‘big man,’ you think we can simply smash two skulls together and call it a day, but I’ve told you: this is serious. We may not survive. And I’m tired of trying to explain that to you.”

  “Got a time limit, if you forgot.”

  “You think I’m slipping, then?” Madwen raised her eyebrows high.

  “Never said that. You been here five days though, haven’t found anything. Can’t even tell anyone what it is you’re hunting.”

  Madwen could feel the pounding of rage at the barriers of her mind, cracking the stony foundation within her. Worne’s sour mood was seldom contagious, yet for some reason, at that moment, she could sense it infecting her. The darkness—it had to be. It was wriggling its way through once again. In a heartbeat, she closed her eyes and retreated into her internal sanctuary.

  A gentle breeze weaved through the tall grass nearby, leaving the two in their silence under the beauty of the setting sun. The pressure bearing down on Worne lightened. He watched the omeness with careful eyes as she relaxed her posture with a deep breath.

  “Do you know why I look like shit? Why I’m so ‘jumpy?’” Madwen said, plainly. “Ever since my arrival, my mind has been met with nothing but oppression and exhaustion. Something’s been toying with me; testing my mental fortitude. In all honesty, I worry it may be too much. What’s more, whatever resides here is disrupting my attempts to find it. You yourself saw the results of my experiments. How am I expected to fight something I can’t prove exists?”

  “Said it was too dangerous to lure out. Seems you’re fucked either way. Rather go down fighting if I were you.”

  “If only it were so simple,” said Madwen. “Most omens are fickle, flighty, unintelligent things. They may possess some sort of basic needs and motivations, such as to feed and procreate, but most cannot think for themselves. Many even cannot be considered sentient, like curses or spells. Since we’ve worked together, we’ve only ever dealt with these lower omens. There are, however, three categories of omens that show signs of intelligence and the capability for higher thought: relics, demons, and demigods.”

  “Demigods?”

  “Indeed. However, I don’t believe we’re dealing with a demigod. They’re often human in appearance and their magic cannot interfere with my experiments. Not to mention they’ve been extinct in the High Kingdom since the High War; eradicated three hundred years ago by the first High King Oliveer and his bloodknights. No, we’re dealing with either a demon or some kind of relic.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “My people have been asking that same question for centuries now. Both are often considered two sides of the same coin. It’s important to understand that, in either case, these kinds of creatures aren’t actually kinds of creatures. You need to think of them as individuals; each with their own abilities and desires. Relics are just that, relics of the past—some merely spirits, some even rumoured to be the Old Gods themselves.”

  “But Oliveer—”

  “Eradicated them as well, yes. That’s where the distinction comes from. We know now that demons are the shadows of relics—ghosts, if you will. King Oliveer likely died not knowing what he’d wrought. I’d imagine they didn’t even have a word for demons back then.”

  Worne turned only to feel the soft moonlight cresting over the forest canopy that surrounded most the city, the sun’s weakening warmth dwindling further.

  “Bloodknights and demigods. Never thought I’d hear of them again,” said Worne.

  “It’s easy to forget that they were more than just bedtime stories.”

  To think that this was the battle Madwen had been fighting since her arrival. Indeed this was more than just love-sprites and humble-cats. Worne breathed deep, his large chest rising and falling several inches due to his size. He sensed Madwen’s gaze. Yet another note to add to her “Worne” observations, no doubt.

  Worne nodded toward the vase. “The ritual. Going to tell you what kind of creature this is?”

  “Yes. I need moonwater. It’s as simple as it sounds. The moon is still waxing, however, so it’ll take most the night to complete the ritual. I’ll need to concentrate what remaining energy I have into it as well.”

  “That it, then?” asked Worne. The paleness of the filling moon reached into the vase, just shy of the water’s touch.

  “The bloods you brought me, both have unique properties when mixed with magic. Darkblood consumes; lightblood emits. When lightblood fuses with moonwater, it creates a pure magical sound, completely opposed to magical dissonance. With that, misting it into the air, it will point me to any people manipulated by dissonant magic, like smoke toward a draft. Most importantly, gazing into the moonwater formula will finally show me it’s form. Then from there…”

  “Smash two skulls in and call it a day.”

  Madwen chuckled. “I can never tell when you’re joking.”

  “Not a clown. Don’t tell jokes.”

  The pair stood silent, now merely silhouettes high above the city below. Lantern and candlelight glowed, ever-dancing through the streets and windows. The sound and cadence of the city had changed. Gone was the clanging of metalwork and the shouts of merchant sales; bouts of laughter, lively music, and drunken singing filled their void instead.

  “Think that little lord is going to let me take his prisoner?”

  “He’d be a fool not to,” said Madwen as a matter of fact. “Unless he wants another Fiamór on his conscious. Locking the poor man in a cell won’t remove him of his magic. He can keep him there until we leave if need be, but we must at least be able to speak with him within that time. Tell the man who I am and that I’ll take him to the High Capital. That should help calm his nerve.”

  “Think the High Capital will take in a murderer?” asked Worne.

  “It was an accident. Besides, do you honestly believe that knights are virgins to spilling blood? That they’ve never raped a woman?”

  “That’s battle—war. Dark skinned bloke’s killed innocents.”

  “Ah yes, and if your city has been sieged by a power-hungry lord, you’re not innocent, you’re merely a reward for your captor’s efforts. Tell me, Worne, when’s the last time you witnessed a soldier shed a tear for their victims?”

  “Still murder.”

  “Yes, and if the High Crown will allow murderers and rapers into their armies, one more ‘murderer’ shouldn’t make a difference.”

  Worne sighed sharply. Returning to the castle meant another battle of words with the lord Daithi, a task he felt ill-equipped for. If only Gildaun were under siege, he thought, humble lord would make a proper prize. Madwen may have had her trained mind to ease her nerves, but Worne was content with the thought of beating the lord within an inch of his life, or perhaps a few inches past it.

  The night was growing colder, and the cool moisture in the air drew clouds with each breath.

  “I’ll talk to the magic user,” said Worne. He started toward the city below.

  “Worne,” called Madwen. He turned. Madwen stood squeezing her arm, looking at the ground. “There’s something more I must tell you.”

  Worne waited, but Madwen remained silent. “Go on then.”

  Madwen raised her eyes. “…I’ve been seeing things these last few days, things that weren’t there. Today I opened my eyes and I was somewhere else.”

  Worne thought for a moment. “Think it’s the omen?”

  “Partially, though in truth, I haven’t slept since I arrived here. I can go no more than a few minutes without seeing these horrid visions. Worne, if something should happen—if I should hurt someone—”

  “You won’t,” he said. “I’ll make sure of it.”

  The two stood for a moment longer in the rapidly cooling air, then Worne turned once more and descended the hilltop toward the now-golden castle. With each step forward, his mind grew more focused, more resilient—a skill of which he’d mastered after decades of practice before battle. In his past, he often faced a single problem with a single solution. Now, Daithi was that problem. He’d discovered Worne’s secret, but in doing so, revealed his own. They were equal in that.

  Madwen watched Worne’s bulky figure disappear into the maze of streets below. A flicker of white light caught her eye as the moon’s glow poured past the lip of the vase. She took a deep breath, eyes closed, and released slowly. Pulling her wrists together and elbows to her sides, the silver bracelets dangling from her forearms sparkled and glowed. She could feel the vast reservoir of magic coursing through her veins like brilliant rivers of heavenly light. In long, rhythmic movements, she calmed the rivers into tranquil streams, allowing the light to flow into the air, then guiding it gently into the water.

  The temptation to bask in the peace that surrounded her was nearly irresistible. After so many strenuous days, why shouldn’t she afford herself some respite? But the well of peace was not hers to drink from—to indulge would mean to lose control. And so, for the rest of the night, Madwen continued to resist the relentless pull, ignorant of the armoured figures waiting in the shadows, fixated on her every move.