I open my eyes.
I can see everything, but I am in the dark.
A foreign heat radiates against my chest. It's small and pitiful, but also comforting.
The darkness isn't the enemy. It isn't the weapon of corruption. Instead, it is the only thing that gives us refuge. It is the only thing that keeps us safe.
BOOM!
Slumber shatters like glass when a scream pierces through the straw. Not a second later, a body is thrown right through the clay and crunches against the interior wall. Sunlight pours in and illuminates the mangled corpse of a cherished comrade.
His bloody hand extends in my direction. "Mother…"
He pleads, but I only have one child in this world. And with him sleeping in my arms, I am already through the door.
The wetland air is suffocating. The thick vegetation traps vapor from the morning rain and floats in the air like a blanket of breathless heat, clinging to skin and stifling every inhale with the scent of mud, moss, and the slow decay of animal carcasses that fell victim to the vines.
And the scent of… fire.
My heels grind into the soil, halting me just before the Forest God falls—A rainbow eucalyptus, bathed in sacred flame, crashes down like a condemned giant.
Around me, its siblings wail—trees weeping fire and ash as they burn out one by one.
I stand in judgment as the last of our false gods perish in flame and ruin. Tears of contempt blur my vision as the embers drift down like dying oaths. All of a sudden, the child jolts in my arms—an ember's touch upon his brow.
Freed from the Fire God's trance, power wells up in my thighs. I lunge forward—far too late. My left leg is taken by the dead god's fall. It curses my heresy with its final breath. Everything is shattered. A pain far greater than the sum of its shattered parts originates in a vicious pulse that travels all the way up to my head and almost renders me unconscious.4
I open my eyes to the darkness, hesitant to believe I'd fallen asleep.
'What a strange dream'
Illusory colors in my head lie hidden behind the cloth. The world I see—no more than a dull mockery of black and white.
The storm approaches.
It spins and swells upon the earth, trailing in our path like another prisoner to the steel men's procession. The others have noticed it by now. Shards of glass and grain click together and sing a tune in the howling winds. One of being shredded away in a rapid cycle: TURN TO MIST AND JOIN THE STORM!
At least the pain would be over…
Heaven forbid the thought.
The steel men have changed formations.
We are surrounded.
The sandstorm rages upon us. Glass shards sink into a glowing barrier like teeth. Our diligent protectors remain steadfast against its might, seemingly immovable in will and body. A heartbeat skips when I count five instead of six.
A flash appears in the darkness.
Two flames dance amidst the chaos of the elements. One—a knight, wreathed in a thin aura of gray fire, wielding a sword nearly as large as his foe. The other... is not as clear.
The Men of Fer are, in their own way, a mercy to my eyes. Being only able to see the breath of life, my sight is limited to what I used to believe was confined within the chest.
But these men... they have found a way to draw the fire outward, applying it to armor and weapon alike.
Though aberrant in nature, it means that I am easily capable of keeping track of their movements. And can only assume that their opponent is severely outclassed. In my vision, only three things are visible on their person. First—the breath of life, trembling faintly within their chest. Second—the extremities: hands, left leg, teeth and a tail-like appendage. And finally, most important of all, I see my grandmother's finger pulsing with resonance against their body.
It's the assailant from before!
The man of steel swings—his blade carving the air, the force of it pressing back against the hurricane itself. A wide arc aimed at the abdomen.
His opponent leaps—five feet into the air, pushing off the flat of the blade mid-strike, spinning to gather force. I hear the sound of her blow from within the barrier.
Outside, the steel man holds his ground. One hand reaches for her leg while the other summons a new weapon: a cleaver, jagged and wide, raised high above his head. He readies the strike—
But her leg phases through the grip like smoke.
She lands on that same limb, steady, and with fluid grace enacts a series of backward jumps. Then, in the blink of an eye—
She vanishes.
Into the storm, flame and all.
Impossible.
The shock hits so hard I nearly leap out of my chains. Unless death was immediate—unless she died the moment she stepped into the vortex—nothing living should be able to vanish beyond my sight.
Unless…
No.
I am one of only two in the history of my village ever touched by bestowment. Mine is a curse. And the other? He lost his mind and died because of it.
There's no way the Gods would—
She reappears.
In front of the steel soldier. This time, I won't let myself blink. Flame condensed in her claws, she swipes at his face. Sparks explode off his helmet as her strike lands—
—and then she vanishes again.
As if she were never there at all…
So that's why the old man couldn't see her.
If these well-trained weapons of war can't detect her movements, then what chance does a simple sheep have of even knowing she exists? Perhaps she dampens sound as well? As if to confirm the thought, she materializes at a distance, then breaks into a sprint straight toward the steel soldier. He gives no sign of awareness before her foot drives viciously into his abdomen.
Like an empty husk, he stumbles sideways—then slowly regains his footing.
She vanishes again.
He hasn't swung once since she revealed her true form.
No retaliation. No movement. No life.
Has he surrendered? Just like that?
So this is the true face of the guardians of the plains. Not legends. Not gods.
Just a band of village emperors.
She reappears again. This time, there's movement in the soldier's left arm—but it ends as quickly as it begins. His helmet rings from a well-placed right hook.
Perhaps this is a good thing. If she can incapacitate even one of these swordsmen, escape becomes more than a fantasy. It becomes possible.
Internally, I begin to cheer for the nameless assailant. Even if I am her true target, the others—the Men of Fer—will have little trouble erasing her.
The storm howls louder.
Shards of glass whip through the air, clanging against the still-standing soldier, betraying his position.
She is merciless in her assault.
Punching.
Kicking.
Clawing.
Biting.
Every strike thick with the resolve of a born killer.
Then—finally—she lands a kick to the back of the soldier's knee, knocking him off balance.
She somersaults high into the air, her inner flame spiraling down to her left leg.
And she descends—
A meteor of will and fire, her heel aimed straight for his head.
And like that….
She is dead.
The woman falls onto a sword that manifests out of thin air. The soldier, bearing her weight, stands without a hint of effort. He brings the sword close to his helmet and looks his enemy in the eye as her body slides down to the hilt.
I only notice then that the five others are facing that direction.
Shared sight.
He flicks his sword to the side, and her body tumbles across the sand.
She is not gone yet—but the light in her chest is fading fast. If the worms do not rise to claim her, I suspect the heavens will by night's end.
Without fanfare, without hesitation, the armored swordsman turns to resume his place in the formation. But before he makes the first step, the wind comes to an impossible stillness.
Cut from their string, debris falls straight down in eerie silence. A stark contrast to the maelstrom moments before.
The soldier returns to the assailant's body and stoops down low. His gauntlet brushes over her clothes until it finds something in her left pocket. My grandmother's finger.
I am beside myself with joy. At least this way, I know where it is. Of course, this complicates things. I'm not escaping without it.
He stomps over as I'm readjusting my plans.
I assume he means to question me—ask why it wasn't found during the search. Or perhaps kill me outright.
He stops on the other side of the barrier directly in front of me. A lifeless gaze meets mine through the invisible wall and the wrappings over my eyes. Strangely enough, it reminds me of many conversations with my grandfather. As if I were in trouble, rather than danger.
For a moment, it seems a word will echo softly inside his helmet. But I will not answer him, for lying is an affront to God. Instead, it reaches into the barrier. I brace for the cold grip of metal around my throat.
But it only gestures for me to open my hand. With no real choice, I comply. Something bony and withered falls into my palm dead center. The gesture feels… familiar, but I can't begin to think why.
I can almost imagine it smiling as it does so. "Thank-"
The barrier falls, and my breath stills.
Beyond the last ripples of gray flame, a forest rises from the dark—a wall of shadow and tangled limbs, its canopy swallowing the moonlight. Even from here, I can smell it: damp earth, old bark, and the faint sweetness of decay.
Relief washes over me like a dark tide.
After six long months, the procession finally sees an end to the scorching sands. What lies ahead may not be golden, but leaving the heat and the scourges behind is a blessing nonetheless.
The steel men pick up the beat of the march. Fatigued as I am, I shake the old man rather gently.
"Mmm… Daytime already, Baby-Anne?"
"No, sir. I am sorry to wake you, but-"
Before I knew it, I was pulled into his grip. My hair being stroked by a pair of hairy arms that had no business containing this much strength. "Eh… what do you say we go for a quick one before your masters come knocking? Ten minutes? Nah. I only need ten sec-"
"Let me go, you old fool!"
"Eh?" The old man sucks up his drool and throws me off. "You… How dare you touch me slow in my sleep!? Guards, I demand to be separated from this one at once!"
I stood up and brushed myself off. "I was trying to be gentle."
"Gentle? Listen here, you little fishcake! I don't care how you like to do it. Next time you make a move on me, I'm gonna make a move on you!" His curses stir the others awake.
" A fast one! A deadly one! And I bet ya that even if those eyes of yours had any use, you still wouldn't see it coming!"
The chains go taut and drag the elder to the ground. Or at least, they would have, were it not for my catching him, and he goes dead silent when I do so. I am by no means large, but the frailty of such a body strikes me deeply. He is little more than dry leather and bone in my arms, wheezing with every breath and shivering in the nighttime as the cold penetrates his frame.
"Oh, fuck off!" He is quick to push me off and follow the march.
I only let him and drag my feet in sequence.
In my dream, I am limping out of a burning forest.
The child is awake and walks at my side.
"I'm hungry," he says.
I already know.
The men who attacked us—those silver-armored gods—what did we do to deserve this fate? They have driven us from our holes into the plains, where they kill anything that moves.
There is no longer a place for us in this world.
Until, out of the corner of my eye, I catch a speck of white and gold moving through the yellow. Relief floods my aching body. I run toward it with the child in tow, forgetting the dangers that hunt in the sun.
In the end, my son and the golden one both fall into the hands of the metal gods.
For six months, I trail behind them, unseen. It tears at me, being so close yet so powerless, my body still broken from that night. But I know my son—and I know that if he saw me, he would convince himself that everything will be fine. Until one day, I learn the golden one is dead.
What walks in her place is an impostor—hair like gold, robe of spotless white. He speaks in her tongue and wears her noble beliefs, but the sheep in shepherd's clothing will not help my son.
He cares for nothing but his own soul's salvation.
My son's cries fall on deaf ears each night while he prays for himself.
I suspect he has eaten her alive and keeps one of her digits as a prize.
So I make a new plan.
One day, I hide my son's existence and leave to find help. He will still be part of the walk, but at least no creature seeking human blood will discover him. Instead, the false shepherd will fill their cup.
"Be still, my child. Your mother will be back soon."
I open my eyes to the darkness and know that I have sinned.
There was a child in this procession.
In the plains, they took us together—hour for hour, second for second. Beyond that one moment, nothing remains of the child in my head—no image, no voice, no trace of his existence. Not even the shape of a flame to know he walked the earth.
Perhaps it would chip away, however faintly, at the weight I carry.
I know all too well why my eyes passed him over.
The day I left the village, I swore to myself that I would come back. The people there were crass, foolish, and simple creatures—so resigned to the trifles of day by day that they could not see beyond the edge of their own horizon. But I would not leave them behind.
When Grandfather died, they wasted no time in showing their true colors. The height of their dreams was measured by the hunger in their bellies. And once they had eaten, drunk, or bred their fill, they were content to sleep through the night until their stomachs growled them awake—like animals. '
[But I am not an animal. I was not placed upon this land to eat today and shit tomorrow. I am here as a savior! A guiding light! I will not rest until the light that shines upon this earth is so bright that you can see your stupidity with your eyes closed!]
But I would not leave anything behind.
And yet… not once did I turn around to see who was stumbling in my footsteps.
My grandmother was a great woman. In addition to her many strengths, she was the one person who could walk the plains without fear. For reasons I never fully understood, the steel men stayed their blades, treating her like a distant comrade rather than a trespasser.
When she passed, I found that I possessed the same standing. In fact, I've little doubt that these men would carry me on their shoulders if I said the word.
If the woman in my dreams knew my grandmother, she would have known this fact. That's why she let herself fall upon my protector's blade. She wasn't fighting as a wolf, but a hunter who knows the kill is worth the wound.
I notice a pair of eyes in the darkness.
The one whom they belong to is upon me before I know it.
The assailant uses the last of her flame to dig her fingers into my neck and I find myself drifting into the darkness as I let the last of my light burn out. This time, her words come to me in clarity. "You are the wolf in shepherd's clothing," she says. "You are the bringer of darkness."
I want to cry, but I know it's true. At least for her, I'm the worst thing in the world.
But then, I hear a vicious cough come from a certain prisoner. The old man can't hear me, but I can certainly hear him. His body can't handle the cold of the forest air.
Tears come to my eyes as I break out of the assailant's grip. She is so weak after the earlier fight. I have lived her life and seen how hard she fought for what was taken—a life of solitude, a life of pain, a life that ultimately amounts to this moment.
The worst thing on earth is the end of the world. I know that's what she was thinking as I wrapped the chains around her neck. But if I die, the old man dies. Everyone dies. And she and her child would have died for nothing.
Physically, she is weak. But the strength it takes to wrap the chains around her neck is akin to holding up the sky. I am on top of her, gripping the chains with both hands and squeezing the life out of a woman I do not even consider my enemy.
In my heart, I scream to the heavens. She screams to her idols in anguish. But her blessing deafens them to us both.
Tears splash onto her face as I squeeze with all the strength I do not have—all the strength I am destined to be. "I'm sorry, miss. I can't die here. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
She convulses. She kicks. She spasms like a dying animal. This time, I have to ensure it's the end of her. I know not to use her flame as a reference.
Her movements grow frantic—thrashing, clawing at the air, at me, at the chains. I can feel the tendons in her neck straining under my grip, the heat of her life burning against my palms. My arms ache, my shoulders scream, but I hold.
Her nails rake my forearm; I don't loosen. She bites the chain; I don't loosen. I fix my gaze on the rise and fall of her chest, waiting for it to slow.
The fight in her eyes dims by several degrees, but I do not stop. Not until her body slackens entirely. And even then, I keep the chains tight—long enough for the heavens themselves to be certain.
Only when her eyes turn gray do I loosen my grip.
I fall to the side, panting. My hands are raw, my arms trembling from the effort. I do not cry. Tears would be a mercy. Despair coils inside me like a living thing.
My fingers find the edge of my wrappings and pull them tighter across my eyes. It's an old habit, one I fall into whenever the weight in my chest becomes too much.
In the hollow that follows her death, I wish for nothing more than to return to my village. To walk the narrow paths I once cursed. To hear the dull chatter I once despised. To see even one familiar face, if only to prove that the world I knew still exists amidst the ruin.
In the morning, my prayers would be granted.
And I will wish they'd gone unheard.