[Fifth Era – Year 1257 of the Divinity War; remains of the First Star, mysterious cavern]

  Jestil followed his tormentor toward the torchlight where the others were congregated.

  “What is this place?”

  “A shelter,” the girl, his tormentor with the sunburst scar, said simply.

  “It’s a revenescent,” Nazrin added as she joined him. “A dead one, severed from its mistress.”

  “A what?” he asked, unsure he’d heard her correctly.

  “Lost knowledge and power. Most women lost their revenescents long before men lost their entanglements.”

  After the memories, it seemed odd that Nazrin would speak of entanglement so casually. Yet how many ages had passed since those days? Much had changed.

  “You must be blindfolded to proceed,” the rider with that magnificent mustache said. How had that mustache been molded into the shape of shagbears crawling over snowy mountains? And it still retained shape after that plunge?

  “This is a strange place, full of dangers,” his accidental tormentor explained. “It is as if all the weapons of a great battlefield were banished and frozen in this place before they could fall on their victims. Vollies of arrows still hang in the air, swords in mid-swing, spears mid-thrust, bolts of anger ready to explode. Armies of inhuman warriors charging beside horrifying monsters as vast as ships, as ferocious as tigers, as freakish as nightmares. But strangely nothing will harm you, nor even move unless you see it or brush up against it. Then all its fury will be unleashed.”

  “But if you’ve seen them, how have you survived?” Jestil asked.

  “I’m no fool. I’ve never looked.”

  “Then how do you know?”

  “You jest.”

  “They’re savages,” the green-eyed girl said. “You can see in their eyes they’ve never learned empathy.”

  “She’s Severed possessed,” Nazrin warned. “They’re all possessed. The Severed must have used others to look.”

  “Savages with savage words.” The man’s mustache seemed to roar at the words. “A bit of time in the third battlefield ought to tame their wicked tongues.”

  “Or silence them,” another man laughed.

  “I thought we were harvesting treasures from the fifth battlefield today.”

  “No, it’s the field of whispers today. The Kalmere will pay two thousand a piece for their blind blades.”

  “Sarisa, show them.”

  “Very well, father.” His tormentor, Sarisa, beckoned them. “Let me show you what dangers you face here. And then you will obey our rules without complaint.”

  Sarisa led them down a torchlit trail to a large pavilion. Inside, the tent was smaller, divided by curtains.

  “Go ahead, part that curtain, but be on your guard.”

  The moment Jestil moved aside the fabric, he spotted a blade hovering overhead which suddenly slashed downward and spun off toward the ground. Behind it was chaos, some blades clashed before falling, spears thrust, and one was hurled right through the tent wall. “What numen is this?”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Sarisa glanced at Nazrin. “Your friend here seems to know. But then she is a woman. I think that mattered once.”

  Nazrin did not answer.

  “Very well, I’ll explain how a revenescent works.”

  “A dead revenescent,” Nazrin corrected.

  Sarisa shrugged. “It is a numen of the ancient days, where time itself is always frozen unless it is observed. If no one is here, or if they are sleeping, nothing will change. Food can remain hot and fresh indefinitely—unless you observe it. Sarisa pointed at the hole in the tent wall. That spear is frozen in the air, just out of sight. It stopped as soon as it was unobserved.”

  She snatched a pebble from the ground. “Here. Reach behind yourself and drop this, but don’t look.”

  He obliged.

  “Now turn around.”

  The instant he saw it out of the corner of his eye, it fell and thudded into the dirt.

  “Our guess is that somehow all these weapons were banished here, during some great battle. More likely many battles, we’ve discovered weapons from nearly a dozen distinct periods—frozen mid-swing, and they will not become unfrozen until they are observed.”

  Sarisa turned and started walking. “Now, follow me.”

  They followed until they reached a rope fence, held by sparsely placed posts.

  “Close your eyes, and hold onto the guide rope.”

  “And why should we follow you now?” Nazrin’s words startled Jestil as he closed his eyes. “There is no earthstorm threatening us any longer.”

  “This is our home.” Sarisa raised an eyebrow. “You are guests here.”

  “Home? This is your treasure cave,” Nazrin noted.

  Sarisa laughed. “Perhaps. But it is ours, and it is dangerous, and only we know its dangers. Do not think they sent me alone. We are being watched, and there are far more than five of us.”

  Nazrin gave Jestil a look. They would play along for now.

  They remained silent as they traveled, hand on the rope. The rope guided them from one post to another as they held their eyes shut. Only the tug on the guide rope gave any indication of Nazrin following. Yet the pain was a sure sign of Sarisa.

  But after walking for some time, something felt wrong. Suddenly, the rope was tugged from Jestil’s hand. But the pain told him Sarisa was still right there. He grasped blindly for any hint of a rope. “What are you planning with us?”

  “Don’t worry, I will cure you.”

  The pain flared. She was closing in. He risked the merest squint.

  Sarisa coaxed some squirming nightmare out of a pouch, and pet with it a finger as she drew near. “My precious children. Yes, I know you are hungry. I need you to heal a savage. Civilize him.”

  “Where is Nazrin?”

  “Your companion? We left her some while back. You were so silent it was easy to fool you. She thinks she is with you, but I could not trick you the same, given this strange link between us.”

  “They should have sent someone else.”

  “I won’t tell them of our … connection. That is between us.” Her hand shot toward him. More than one larva squirmed in her palm.

  He slapped her hand away, the scalding pain of the touch nearly causing his knees to buckle.

  Her eyes widened to madness. “You will learn empathy.” She shoved the pouch into his face, spilling squirming larvae all over him. They tried to wriggle into his eyes, up his nose. He snorted and blinked and tossed his head about.

  She wrestled him to the ground. He screamed. The torturous agony of her touch sent him flailing and writhing.

  Her mad eyes looked into his and she brought the pouch up to his mouth, trying to shove it in. “It is nothing to fear. Soon you will have such knowledge as you never dreamed.”

  He caught the glint of a blade behind her. It hurled itself toward them. Sarisa shrieked, and her blood showered him.

  He could unleash more weapons if he just looked, but it had been a mistake. If he tried to kill her—innocent, and yet possessed—his very soul could be corrupted. He could become mortal. And he didn’t want to kill her. She was … he remembered something about this girl, Sarisa. She was so familiar, despite being sure he’d never seen her or anyone like her before.

  She grappled him and rolled him over her, the pain of her touch screaming through him. Weapons clattered. Something struck him, but it was only a pommel. Yet he could hear more weapons falling. She was trying to kill him.

  Reflexively, he rolled off her, turned to see, and accidentally unleashed more steel.

  Still, the sickening larvae squirmed all over him.

  He thrashed wildly. Then, a sword slashed down. He blocked it with the sole of his boot, but it bit in. From the force of the blow, sand spilled down.

  As the sand fell on the larvae they began to curl up, shriveling and shrieking. Every grain they touched, they recoiled as if it burned them.

  Sarisa reached out to scoop up the larvae, to save them. As she touched the sand, it spread over her. It began to engulf her, just as he had seen morthel consume victims. This sand, what was it becoming?

  He reached for the sand, and a memory sucked him in.