Down, below the melancholic tableau of resolution, deep in the moonlit woods that surrounded the silent city, and unobserved by all, a figure watched.

  Worne's ancient body ached for the first time in ages; his own maturity proving itself. Each laborious breath felt more shallow than was normal, as if a mound of earthen soil lay upon his chest. No such weight burdened him, however, none but Madwen's slender frame resting in his massive arms.

  The scene was gruesome, though no blood, gore, or viscera speckled the now-darkened hilltop—the nearly full moon's light shining off the polished metal of armour and weaponry. Each man and woman of the guard lay still. They seemed conscious, but refused to move—or perhaps they could not. An occasional groan broke the hollow silence, only to stifle itself if not to disturb the twisted serenity. If one were unaware of the price, one could have thought it peaceful, but such a quiet was never worthy of the cost. Something inside Worne knew this stillness: it was the same that lingered on the bloodiest battlefields.

  The leader of the guards, recognizable by a strap of red-coloured fabric on her shoulder, reached for her face, her wavering movement catching the corner of Worne's eye. It was time to leave. Worne stumbled to his feet. The pain in his muscles had vanished, replaced instead by weakness. Madwen's weight added nearly none to his; any struggle to stay standing was his own.

  "...wait," called a weak voice. One from the armoured squadron watched Worne with eyes half open.

  "You... you saved us."

  The mass of muscle stood silent for a moment. "Fuck off."

  Worne descended the hill, fire eating away at his body, and Madwen in his arms.

  Find the dissonance in Treoirbaile.

  “Aodhán?”

  Worne’s eyes snapped from the floor to Madwen as she lay in the tavern’s plush bed. Often, she spoke in her sleep, though her mumbles were rarely if ever coherent. Her eyes peeled open, crust breaking at the seams. The room’s thickly sewn drapes had been drawn, though a thin line of light had found its way to Madwen’s face as the sun moved across the sky.

  “Worne? Wh—ah!” Pain boomed through Madwen’s head as if bludgeoned from the inside. She covered her face with her palms and slowly dragged them downward.

  “Why Treoirbaile?” she asked.

  “What?” Worne stared, unmoving.

  “Treoirbaile, you mentioned Treoirbaile. Why?”

  “Don’t know what you’re on about.”

  Worne sat arms crossed in a small wooden chair in the corner of the room. A creak at the door caught his sharp glare. His gaze held for a moment, then rested back on the waking Madwen.

  Worne was tense; ready to strike. A light gleamed from his lap. Madwen rubbed her eyes more thoroughly, using her fingernails to scratch away the crust and wipe away the gunk. It was his sword. He’d laid it across his lap. Why would Worne—

  “Gods!” Madwen shot up from the blankets, white blouse stained in sweat. “Worne! What happened!”

  The mercenary examined Madwen without a word, then leaned back and peeked through the curtains toward the castle outside.

  “Made a right bloody mess, that’s what happened.”

  Vivid memories flashed in Madwen’s vision, her eyes scattering about aimlessly. She could see the faces she’d tormented, feel the fear she’d wrought. It hurt. A hole sank deep in her gut as the stream of continuous memories piled themselves in her mind like bodies in an undertaker’s wagon.

  The first High King had strictly forbidden the use of omen magic on humans unless absolutely necessary. Even the current High King vowed never to use such a power as a weapon or deterrent, despite being surrounded by skirmishing kingdoms and countries. Madwen had just demonstrated why.

  Worne watched the remorse ever growing on the omeness’ paling face. “Been up all night keeping back that pissy lord and his men. Nearly came to blows. Lucky that wench fancies me. Agreed to barricade the front door.”

  Madwen slowly lifted her arms in front of her, silver bracelets clinking as she examined them.

  “Nearly killed everyone,” said Worne. “Tried to pry those off you. Burned when I touched ‘em.”

  “Pry them off? No, they’re… I… was anyone hurt?”

  Worne took a hard look at the omeness. “What do you think?”

  He continued to sit, uncareful with his words. Madwen remained in bed, reliving the events of the previous night, each horrific thought striking her mind as they appeared. The suffering I’ve caused…

  Finally, she opened her mouth. “Did… did I—”

  “No.” Worne continued his harsh glare. “Told you I wouldn’t let nothing happen.”

  The omeness frowned deeply and her lips and chin wobbled, tears beginning to well in her eyes.

  “What have I done?” she said, slumping forward, burying her face into the woollen blanket.

  “Never seen you like this. Assume you lost control. Sure didn’t look like it, though.”

  Madwen lifted her reddened face from the covers. “It’s this fucking city and this fucking omen!”

  “Is it, then? Didn’t see no omens out there. Just you.”

  Madwen narrowed her puffing eyes. Sometimes she hated Worne. True, on occasion, he had been a good partner—after all, he had stopped her when no one else could—but his complete and utter lack of empathy drove her to spite him at times.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” she said.

  “No. Nearly killed me. Not going nowhere ‘til I know why.”

  Madwen dabbed her tears with the blanket. “It’s complicated.”

  “And I’m just a big fuckin’ idiot, that right?”

  “Hells above, Worne! Just—just give me a moment. Please.” The sliver of light from the curtain, Madwen looked into it—past it. Sitting where she sat prevented her from seeing the streets outside, but she could still hear them. Merchants still called to their potential patrons. Women still gossiped. Men still cheered. Children still played. Somehow, Gildaun and its people continued to thrive, hustling and bustling like any day previous.

  How? She thought. Many of the people were likely still hurting; most of them likely still terrified, yet they continued to go about their day, steadfast and undeterred. To Madwen, Gildaun was nothing less than a nightmare, but to everyone else, it was a paradise. Even Worne seemed unaffected by the darkness that she could swear was present.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Madwen looked back to the brooding mercenary staring with his same, grim face. She owed him an explanation. She owed everyone an explanation.

  With effort, Madwen stood, feet bare on the cool wooden floor. The comfort of the bed felt stifling, like a mother’s overbearing embrace, and who was she to deserve such warmth?

  Madwen drew in a deep breath, eyes closed, and released slowly. Worne watched still as she opened her eyes.

  “What do you know about magic?” she asked, calmly.

  Worne took pause. “Dangerous, uncontrollable. Used to only belong to monsters.”

  “No—well, you’re partially correct, but magic isn’t uncontrollable. Think of it instead as ‘reactive,’ like air. By itself, air is stable, but add it to fire and the flames grow. Too much and they may spread beyond your control. Magic is no different. On its own, it’s stable, but mix it with something else and it creates something greater. Do you understand?”

  Worne sat silent, leaning back into the mid-backed chair, mindful not to break it with his weight.

  “The problem has always been what we mix magic with. For years, my predecessors toiled about endlessly trying to control the energy that omens use as their source of power. They tried gemstones, books, words of power, even omen body parts, but each attempt to control the unknown led only to death and ruin. It’s why most of the world still refuses to engage with magic at all; the research alone can kill hundreds, perhaps even thousands if done with true reckless abandon.

  “After the High War, the need for powerful magic diminished, and over time, with the old gods dead, and the first High King and the bloodknights gone, progress into the field of magic all but halted. We spent over a century trying to replicate High King Oliveer’s work, even going so far as to dissect one of the bloodknights’ bodies and use their finger to harness their latent power, but such endeavours only worked to hold us back further. It wasn’t until Jeska, the first Omeness, worked with High King Varla and found the key: magic comes from within. It’s not an external power to draw from, nor a power latent in a beast that needs harvesting. It’s a power we all possess but we must teach ourselves how to wield it. From there, we needed only to attach it to something, something both magical creatures and humans in kind possessed: Emotions.”

  Madwen watched Worne, though he gave no reaction. During her time studying and training with The Coven, Madwen had never had a pupil. Often times she’d come to wonder what it might be like to share her experience and knowledge with one truly interested in the arcane, but instead, she was given Worne, an often thoughtless brute.

  Still, she continued. “Fine, I’ll spare you the story, but just know that by touching an emotion and then fusing it with magic, we can control how the magic works.”

  “That it then?” Worne grunted. “Throw a tantrum and the whole city falls? Only fitting it’s a woman’s power.”

  Madwen sighed. In a way, he was right. Losing control of one’s emotions almost certainly meant death, but for Worne to say women couldn’t control themselves?

  “I seem to recall your attitude after your meeting with the Lord Daithi. Tell me again, how is it you found your way to Fiamór?”

  Worne sneered. “Didn’t nearly kill thousands o’ people did I?”

  Madwen held up an arm. “It’s my rings. You’ve no doubt noticed that I’ve stored my magic in them to draw from later, but in order to do so, I need to tie an emotion to the magic first. Most people rely on only the magic inside them, but by storing mine in a vessel, it gives me a much larger well to draw from.”

  The distant sound of heavy boot steps sounded from the window. Worne twisted his neck and peered through a small gap in the curtain, snapping his hand to his weapon as he did so.

  “What is it?” Madwen asked, approaching the window cautiously. She saw nothing—only two tradesmen in heavy garb designed to withstand heat. Blacksmiths perhaps? Glassblowers?

  Worne pulled away from the curtain. “Nothing.”

  “We should get ready then. I’m sure Daithi won’t let us hide here forever. I need to tell him—”

  “No.” Worne stood from his chair, longsword in hand. “Keep talking.”

  “The magic in my rings was tainted. Happy?”

  “Not good enough. Don’t like magic, omeness, you know that. Quite enjoy killing the little vermin you find. Starting to look like you’re just as bad as the omens we hunt, though. Pressed down a whole city, need to know why so I can make up my mind.”

  Madwen’s face turned serious. “Make up your mind about what, exactly?”

  Worne gripped his weapon tight, wooden grip squeaking against his skin. “You know what.”

  It was tempting to remind Worne of his place, but he was right to be angry. Hells, Madwen thought, he’d have been right to kill me in my sleep.

  “Fine.” Madwen lowered her tense shoulders. “If you must know, I tried to drink from my own stored emotions.”

  Worne wore a look of confusion.

  “That supposed to mean something?”

  Madwen sighed. “Few use rings like I do. Not only is it difficult, it’s inefficient. It takes me an entire week’s worth of magic to create a single ring holding one day’s worth, and I’m considered somewhat of an expert on the technique. Because so few practice this skill, its effects are rarely discussed. The one thing you do learn, however, is that once separated from yourself and mixed with magic, your past emotions must never touch your mind again. They become corrupted, tainted by their own likeness, like feeding off your own flesh.”

  “Why do it then?” Worne asked.

  “Because I was exhausted!” Madwen paced around the room, past the towering Worne as he occupied most of the free space. “Because I thought that I might be different! But as soon as I drank from the empathy and peace that I’d imbued into my jewellery, it soured into apathy and spite. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ve never done this before. I’ve never even thought to do so before. But I swear to you, Worne, you may not see anything, but this thing is toying with my mind! It’s making me so desperate as to do things I’d never do.”

  “It make you attack everyone?”

  Madwen stopped in place and dropped her head. “No,” she said. “That was the twisted apathy. Once I’d felt it even for a moment, I was gone. Everything I’d once cared about, good or bad, suddenly meant so little to me. I couldn’t control myself.”

  “Then all’s forgiven,’ Worne said, sarcastic.

  “I’m not looking for forgiveness! You asked me what happened and I’m explaining it,” Madwen snapped.

  Worne watched the miserable omeness standing slumped. To think only hours previous, she glowed with the power of a god. He wanted to press Madwen further—watch her squirm with regret for nearly killing him. In battle, one needed to be able to rely on every man in their unit. He fought to protect the omeness, but she fought to kill him. Were Madwen one of his own men, he’d have exiled or killed her, but it was clear that she was already experiencing her regret in its entirety. And why waste energy disciplining someone who disciplined themselves? Worne chose to stay quiet.

  “I told you,” Madwen continued, “I hadn’t slept in five days. Do you know what that’s like? Most people are driven to delirium after three or four. I’ve been trying so hard to prove that something evil resides here, but my best evidence is simply the lack of evidence. No one is taking me seriously. When those bloody soldiers came lurking from the shadows waiting for my big, strong man to leave my side so they could start telling me off—I just thought maybe I could control it. Maybe just a sip of peace wouldn’t hurt and could calm my mind, giving me enough concentration to maintain the ritual and talk the guards down. Gods I’m a fool! I thought killing a demon was the toughest opponent I’ve faced. To think that my downfall would be lack of bloody sleep. Heavens below.”

  Madwen stared off downward. Worne watched, still struggling to make sense of her words. Was it the omen or her frustration with the guards that forced her hand at the taboo? It seemed to him that Madwen was the victim of exhaustion, and in a way, her own hubris. But perhaps it didn’t matter. In the end, magic proved once again to bite at the hand of any who tried to wield it.

  “Got some rest now,” said Worne. “Doubt the smug lord will let you keep working, though. Had to hold back half the city guard after I dropped you here. Little lord’s furious.” A hint of pleasure shone dimly on Worne’s face when thinking of an angry Daithi.

  “You’re right,” said Madwen. “We’re lucky he hasn’t burned this place to the ground with us inside. But I’ll think of something. Besides, I do owe him some kind of explanation.”

  Madwen drew in a deep breath once more, and let it slowly release. The thing that eluded her most had finally come: sleep. She tested her mind’s barrier. It seemed solid. Perhaps now she was safe from the mystery that lurked in the shadows, if only for a while. But did it even make a difference?

  Madwen’s clothes were filthy. She smelled under her arms and recoiled.

  Worne started toward the door. “I’ll be outside. Don’t keep me waiting.” He squeezed through the doorway, closing it behind himself and allowing Madwen a moment to freshen up.

  She could hear his weight shifting the floorboards and stairs as he descended, then heard the bothering tone of Carlina—even two floors up. She smirked imagining the taverness’ ceaseless fawning over the grey, grumpy man, but her smile quickly faded.

  The moans of the soldiers that surrounded her the night before lingered in her thoughts, then the sound of a screaming young boy.

  To resort to something so dark… Worne was right. Deep down, Madwen truly was a monster.