The worst thing in life is not being able to protect it. That's what someone told me late that night during their celebration.
Old Man Fang is the name they used to call my grandfather.
They said they would do anything to inherit that name. I'd found him lying under a tree in my grandmother's garden. He made me promise never to tell anyone he'd been crying.
The moment I no longer feel the sun on my skin, I seize Jonah's arm and fling it off like a curse.
He punches me on the arm. Way too hard. Like routine, I almost go down crying about the sudden pain. "Watch how you talk to me in front of my boys, kiddo. I put a lot of work into getting that title."
"You… fucking…" I throw one for his stomach, expecting to knock the wind right out of him.
Jonah catches my fist with ease and delivers one to the other arm. "Ack!"
"Some things never change, huh?" He says through stifled laughter.
"Shut your mouth," I whisper through the pain.
"Hm? What was that? The little boy who can't see wants to go for threes?"
"I said you shut your shit-smelling mouth, you reckless, stupid, selfish motherfucker! If you truly consider yourself my brother, then from this moment forward, you will speak the truth and nothing but the truth. Do you understand?"
"…"
"…"
"…what are you-"
"Oh, can I talk now?"
"Jonah!" I exclaim from the deepest part of my oh-so-frustrated soul. "Everything you've done since our reunion was a lie, wasn't it? In the forest, you were looking for The Eclipsant, weren't you? So it could lead you to the next phase of our journey. That's why you faked your own death. How much of what I know about you is the truth?"
He shrugs. "You don't seem as surprised as I thought you would be. How much of the truth do you know?"
"I was told you forced their hand," I say. "That you attacked me in the middle of the night, jealous of my newfound abilities, and vowed to steal my eyes one day, even if they showed you mercy. We buried your body on the solstice; I read the eulogy at your funeral."
"Yeah, I bet he did," he scoffs. "You know, I'd put my life up for bet that I'm not the first one who's ever wanted to leave that village. Right now, there's probably ten other poor fools sitting in the bar, dreaming about what life might be like on the other side of the fence.
"But that's the thing, isn't it? That old, crooked fence—the one they say keeps the monsters out? Jumping over that is the easy part. Any man with two legs can do it.
Gramps and the old hag… they don't worry about that fence. Because the real one, the one no one but me's ever managed to climb over… is you."
"Me?"
"Yup. Good old Heavenly Light. 'What are you doing? Don't leave the village!' Instead of taking your skills and doing something with your damn life, let's all just sit tight and wait for the light that fell from the heavens to wake up and fix everything for us! Why risk anything when the Gods are apparently this close to saving the world, right? They managed to brainwash the whole damn village into believing that the second you step outside, you forfeit salvation. That if you just stay put, keep your head down, and suffer long enough, some promised day will come, and all the cowards who stay behind will be rewarded just for enduring."
"But they lied to us." For reasons better left undiscussed, the word lie slams into my chest like one of my grandfather's disciplinary punches. "Those two know better than anyone exactly the kind of world this is. They know that we're all doomed. They know that nothing's coming. They know that the only thing coming for those who wait is the darkness that's grown impatient, but they'd rather keep what little power they have as the shepherds as long as it means the sheep never go free."
My hands tighten the wrappings around my eyes, not to hide from him, but from myself. The kind of clarity his kind speaks with is dangerous. It makes you wonder if belief was ever yours to begin with. I've heard many voices in the dark. His is the first one that makes the silence feel like a choice.
"Ever since I left the village, all the men I stole from or killed to survive have looked me in the eye and asked me the same question."
With autonomy, or perhaps fueled by a bitter taste of nostalgia, the words spill out of my mouth, and we end up speaking those words in unison. "Ain't you afraid of what the heavens will do to you?"
"You see, I ain't got pretty eyes like you do, so I couldn't see shit the night I was climbing over that fence. But I had a choice between hell and a world where everything would be fine."
He shrugs, biting into the fruit again, juice running down his wrist. "Call it stupidity, call it bravery, I don't care. But at least I didn't sit around praying for the sky to split open. I chose to fall and I never looked up since."
"You left your people behind!" I snarl. There had been multiple events in the village since his departure where this man would have been of use. "My grandfather trained you to inherit his responsibilities. You were meant to take his place!"
"So what? It ain't my destiny to defend them. Last I checked, that's your claim. Speaking of which, I wanted to ask why the great shepherd is so far from the flock. Don't tell me you got tired of their smell."
"Foolishness!"
"Not that you could make a difference. When the wolves come to feast, you think they'll wait for your prayer to be answered? They've pissed in your mouth, laughed while you drank, and turned you into their plaything. At this point, it's a good thing you're used to being on your knees cause you're a bad day away from being fucked. But here's the joke: you're here waiting on God, but the sheep are waiting on you. And I bet the little dreamer I know is just gonna wait and wait and wait until even he's getting eaten by the wolf. At least the old hag and gramps will be around to protect the village."
I don't respond. What could I even say?
This… this is a trial. That's all it is. A moment of stillness before the light breaks through the dark. The filth, the pain, the humiliation—they mean nothing. Not when weighed against the promises whispered to me in the night. Not when I know the heavens watch.
These men are killers by trade. Their bloodied hands are a symbol of a job well done. If I speak my wrongs to Jonah, he will pat me on the back. He thinks me weak because I do not. I had prayed for strength, and it was given. But strength without restraint left me a murderer.
"She's gone," I tell him instead. I never told him that, did I? At the very least, he deserves to know what he left behind.
He releases his hold, and I fall to the ground.
"The old man?"
"He passed not too long after her."
The silence is broken by a bout of deranged cackling. "Serves them right! Acting all righteous just to die like dogs! Maybe the heavens do have eyes, after all."
"Like dogs? My grandparents sacrificed themselves for me and the village. You and your men strut around with proudly wagging tails, fornicating, lapping up drink, and clamping your teeth around anything that moves. Is this not more like a dog than anything?"
"I fought my way to the top of this world, man. You should be happy I'm doing this good!" He growls. A change in the air arrives with his words. A slight push of wind that sweeps my hair. As if his pride enough had weight to stir the atmosphere. "You said it yourself, they told you I was-"
Cutting him short, I ask, "Who did you fight? Skinshifters? Stemcutters?"
To my expected dismay, this is one of the very rare occasions the chatterbox I once idolized goes dead silent.
"Or was it villagers?"
"Men with plows instead of blades?" "Children with sticks in front of weeping mothers?" "Did you tear bread from an old man's fingers?" "Did you reach into a widow's garment while she wept?" "Or did you reach into the husband first?" "Or even worse, a little girl, like the rest of your companions?" Jonah is dead silent. If I were truly blind, I'd think myself alone. "Don't you dare tell me that you fought against this world! My sister fought. My grandparents fought. My father and mother, wrong as their actions may have been, fought to the very end. And though I don't claim to know the art of combat, I know in my heart that I am fighting. But you? You saw the strength and cruelty of this world, and you chose to mirror it. This world is your God, Jonah. And you serve it well."
"Fine. Then, if you hate my life so much, accept the work I'm offering. Stand beside me and be the angel on my shoulder. That's always been your role, hasn't it?" He says it as if naming a fact.
"Your nostalgia has no meaning, here, demon," I say, pausing at the exit. "The brother you speak of, I'm afraid I haven't seen him for years. But should you stumble upon a child who appears as if he's been running, then please point him in the direction of a place called Dunreach village. Somewhere on a mountain is a little boy looking through a window. I believe he was waiting for his brother to come home."
THE LANDS FORSAKEN | ??? | STRANGE FOREST 599
____________________ Step[ing out into the sun, its warmth fails to penetrate my skin.
I take a quick glance around, trying to guess which direction leads me back to the village. It is the shadow that needs the light, not the other way around. If Jonah is staunch in his decision, I need only shine brighter to compensate. "Look at you, talking like you're some saint!" His voice echoes from inside the tent before he throws the curtains aside and steps into the open, shouting. "Didn't you hear me? This whole thing was one big test. When you saw Wilhelm snatching up that little girl, you gave up on your stupid little beliefs and picked up a sword. My sword. The one your snake-tongued bitch of a grandmother said I used to try to cut your neck."
The prisoners recoil in the heat of their captors' anger.
It washes over me like a tide of pitch-black flame and stirs his comrades into motion like an order from the divine themselves.
"Stop!" Jonah commands before any of them snatches me up. "Sit your asses down. Fun's over. From this point on, anybody who puts their hand on my little brother's getting circumcised by their own teeth."
They freeze up, the whole lot of them. Sheep to the wolves and wolves to the sheep.
Wilhelm The Backbreaker. Red Moss Boulder Twins, Albane and Albus. Oedipus, The Peeping Tom. Black Handed Goodhall. And One-man army, Sula. Led by The Prodigal Son, Jonah. I should have known these exiles would find each other. There is nothing sweeter to the hand of cruelty than another to shake. If there was one place on earth that did not tolerate the parasitic existence of cowards, it was the place my grandfather had made his home.
"After everything we've been through, you didn't doubt it for a second, did you?"
I stop, letting the silence sit between us.
"That me, your own brother, the one who helped spoil you rotten, would get up in the middle of the night and try to hurt you. But it's not too late for me to forgive you. If you reject my offer, I'll take that as proof you always hated me. With the two of them dead, there's no better time for the two of us to stand side by side. But if you choose to walk away from me, I'll take that as proof you always hated me. So, it's your turn to show me the truth, Solvanel. That you never considered me a brother at all."
Jonah closes the distance in a confident approach. I can see my grandfather in every smooth, careful movement. Yet when he lays a hand on my shoulder, it carries none of the strength that man took to the grave.
"You as the light and me, the darkness. What will it be, Solly?"
The sounds of the forest play out in the aftermath. Leaves rustle in the background, echoes of a past long gone and buried. In the harshness of the present, the wind feels far more playful than it ever should.
I picture him smiling with his eyes shut tight, a hand outstretched far beyond what reason would allow, reaching for something he knows is not guaranteed.
"How many of you were there, Jonah?" I ask at last, my voice low.
"Hm?"
"The journey was unkind," I tell him, gesturing at the captives. "Although we were in chains, those of us who still breathe owe the privilege to the Heavens and the Men of Fer. I can only imagine what it would be like for someone who has the protection of neither."
"So, I ask again. There were over a thousand captives in the plains. How many mercenaries were there?"
I see the shift ripple through his men, their attention snapping toward me. He will refuse the question, feigning himself too high and mighty to answer to the weak. Yet I already know the number of their fallen. I only wonder if it means anything to thosewho still remember their breath.
"None of the captives knows the reason for their abduction. I have grown certain that for your subordinates, the fact remains the same. As the leader, it is ultimately your decision whether or not to lead your men into battle," I tell him, quoting a lesson I eavesdropped on as a child. "This is the second lesson my grandfather taught you after naming you his successor."
He does not answer at once. The mercenaries shift, a low murmur running through them as if the words themselves might be contagious.
"But I'm afraid to tell you that you've forgotten the first," I remind him. "My grandfather never claimed to be a good man, but he was fair. He based his leadership on the battlefield on one simple creed: your men ought to know what they're facing. And more importantly, they ought to know what they're dying for."
Jonah scoffs. "Don't change the subject."
I scoff as well, if only to show echo the absurdity to his men. "Is it not the same subject? Every man who follows you into battle comes out the other side with a terrible injury or does not come out at all. Why is it that after all these years, only you remain the same as the day you left the village?"
"Is it because you are a coward who hides behind his men, or is it Heaven's favor that keeps you safe from the terrors of the world?"
I pause as the leaves stir around us. A sudden gust presses at my back, carrying the smell of soil and old bark. My brow furrows.
"I don't need any of that nonsense. I am strong enough to survive on my own."
"I know, Jonah. At a young age, you showed prowess with the blade that rivaled even my father. You joined the daily hunt at only thirteen years old. And to this day, I doubt you have sustained a single mark or bruise from anyone you deemed an enemy. Move like the wind, strike like an arrow—an exception among men, even then."
I let the weight of memory hang before I continue.
"And that is exactly why you are in no position to call yourself a leader. Your consideration for others goes only as far as it does for yourself, and I fear you do not even consider yourself at all," I continue, though the air grows restless, tugging at cloaks and hair. "You are so certain in your capabilities and your decisions that when you do act, it always ends in one of two conclusions. Either 'Fuck it, I'm invincible,' or 'The worst that can happen is death.'" "When you rush headlong into battle, decimating half your enemies in the blink of an eye, which one of these six men who remain in the front is tasked with taking the lead post in a broken formation and carrying the rest of your men to safety?"
I pitch my voice higher, forcing the words past the roar that swallows the camp. Hope tugs my heartstrings at the thought that this is the divine hint I was looking for. I watch their faces tighten; heat blooms behind their eyes. Anger stirs in the circle, a slow, dangerous thing, and none burns hotter than the man Jonah confronted six nights ago after waking from a coma.
He is the older twin. Albus, broad-shouldered, already carrying something raw and ready beneath his ribs. If anyone wants to hear this, it is him. I can see how he would glance at his quietly mumbling brother, the younger twin who was not made ready for this world.
It will only be a matter of time before Jonah gets him killed.
By the time the gale is howling through the trees, I am shouting to be heard. "None of your men have any idea what they're fighting for, do they? Hell, I bet they don't even know where they're going. Deceit is a shameful thing, brother. I wonder what would be left of your pack if they found out you're planning on taking them into The Forsaken Land of The Gods."
The flock would gape, unable to believe their ears. Jonah's men would shift; Albus's jaw tightened, and his remaining fingers twitched on the haft of his spear. His inner flame licks the inside of his throat as he prepares to release a shout, but the moment falls flat before he gets the chance to bring my plan to fruition.
His voice cuts through the crescendo like a dagger. "Are you done?" Suddenly, the air has gone flat. Haunted by the feeling that my formulations have gone with it, I fake evenness in my tone when mustering the answer, "I am." "Good," he says calmly. "Then I'll take you ignoring me as an answer." The wind, which had fallen still, roars back without warning. It rushes through the forest like a charging beast. Branches snap in its wake. It carries thousands of green leaves that shred through bark like paper. "Jonah, move!" No second thought, I am prepared to push him out of the way, whatever the cost to my destiny or my life. But when it brushes close to my old friend's back, the gust bends and glides around him as if he were untouchable. It coils together again before my wide eyes, shaping itself like the weapons carried by the men of steel. The wind is no longer just air—it is laced with the grayish flames of the divine breath, burning without heat, alive with judgment. BOOM! It slams into my body and sends me flying across the clearing. Dust stings my eyes, branches lash my arms, and the air rips the breath from my lungs. The world becomes a blur of sky and ground as I tumble helplessly through the forest, my body ricocheting off the earth like a pebble across still water. When at last I skid to a halt, the silence crashes down heavy. My fingers grope through the dirt until they come across something that cuts them to the bone.
'I thought only the worthy were gifted these abilities. And that you had to be born with them to begin with. Jonah never showed this power back in the village. There's no way grandmother wouldn't have known!' I drag the blade close, rise to a knee, and spin it once, then again, testing the weight of a rusted dagger in my grip. The world is spinning inside my head. A stew of dirt and stomach acid comes up through my mouth and nose. Still, I'm forced to close the lid on my stomach before the contents have emptied. 'Focus, Solvanel!' Another beast roars from Jonah's direction. Sliding my fingers down the flat of the blade, I come to realize it boasts a pitiful width and height. It is more like a needle than an actual blade. I can't help but wonder how many hits it can manage before flying off into the distance. 'Maybe you can't track his movements, but nothing is invisible in your eyes.' A tide of air rushes down the path. This time, I see a flame burning in the center. "Do you remember what I told you the night in the garden?" Jonah's voice is heavily distorted by the hurricane that surrounds him. "There's no reason for you to be here if I can't protect you!"
Jonah lashes out with his blade as I hold the needle before my chest. CLANG! The impact is far less powerful compared to his first attack, but still far more than my body is equipped to handle. Surprisingly, the needle does not break, but I'm thrown a smaller distance across the forest floor. "Not bad, you traitor." The voice comes from strange angles. Like it was disappearing and reappearing all over the forest. "Maybe you are some child of prophecy after all. But the only gods I believe in are the ones that gave me this power! And they ain't never heard of no stinking prophecy!" He clearly isn't new to his abilities. If survival is my aim, I don't have a choice. Until the promised power arrives, I must cling to the one weapon I already bear. What happens to me afterward is irrelevant if death claims me first. I rip the bandage off and steel myself for the coming onslaught.
The world bursts open, flooding my sight with a storm of color and light. Shapes fracture into brilliance, every surface gleaming with unbearable clarity. Fresh air feels strange against my exposed skin. Everything is far more beautiful than I remember. All the more reason to do whatever it takes.
Or at least, it should have been.
The bandage is gone, but I am too afraid to open my eyes. My lids press shut, trembling, as though the world beyond them is too much for me to face. Light seeps through the cracks, a merciless radiance demanding I witness it, yet my courage falters at the threshold.
A heavy fist breaks through the cloud and lands a direct hit to my temple. "You surprised me for a second there, dreamer," Jonah spits on my face as I lie dazed under his boot. "But it looks like the heavens don't have eyes, after all."