Ignis stood before the monstrosity, unable to find its top with his eyes.

  "Now I understand why this line on the map is called World’s End," Ignis said.

  What had once appeared as a mere veil on the horizon had become a tear in the landscape. An immense mountain range, an insurmountable red wall. It was as if he were gazing up at an endless series of gigantic slabs of flesh, with no beginning, no end, and no top.

  Murus Fortress was carved into the side of World’s End, where they now waited at the gate for the carts ahead of them. The guards stopped every arrival, inspected their cargo, and then unloaded and transported part of it to Murus’ warehouses. In exchange, travelers could sleep safely, protected from the wilderness and bandits, and they could ascend to the top of World’s End, the beginning of the world beyond.

  Upon passing through the gate, Vertigo’s cart was lighter after paying the toll. The carts moved through chewed-out, sporadically lit tunnels that occasionally led them out into open spaces. Merchants, guards, and travelers passed by them. Vertigo, seeing a round-faced merchant in a hat, called out. Jumping off the cart, he hurried over with quick, springy steps and embraced him. While they chatted and laughed, Ignis was increasingly disturbed by the familiar sound of scratching and scraping from the man’s cart. He stepped to its side, and though the torches couldn’t fully chase away the shadows, he could still make out the bars, that cold metal he had touched countless times before. A patrol passed by, and the light from their torches seeped through the bars, illuminating eyes and bodies. Twisted bodies, snake eyes, claws. One of the freaks slammed against the bars, reaching for him with a growl. Ignis jumped back. He ran his hands over himself, his clothes, to make sure there were no tears through which they could see his body. The creature kept its eyes on him from the depths of its prison, as if waiting for him to confess something.

  "Don’t touch those bars if you value your fingers," the merchant shouted. Vertigo laughed.

  "That’s true. The freaks have bitten off a piece of me too. No wonder I gave them up."

  "Gave them up? Then what do you do now?"

  "The same as before. I just sell things that don’t want to eat me."

  The sun was casting its last rays when they exited into the next square. Darkness clung unnoticed to the fleshy masses of the cliff faces, and hundreds of lights flickered on in the watchtowers on the mountainside. Ignis stayed in the shadows, away from Vertigo’s eyes. Every time he looked at him, he was reminded of the bars. The square was filled with the bitter smell of inns, enticing the passersby. Ignis looked up, following the lights of the towers, but the fleshy masses of World’s End still stretched into the sky.

  ***

  In the tavern, no instruments played, only the fervent melody of conversations, the excited stomping of feet, the hurried rhythm of the servers' steps, and the dull clinking of wooden mugs. Two busy slave-waitresses battled the crowd of guests, two guards served and enjoyed their frothy drinks, two flies buzzed around, seeking refuge from the cruor's chill, eyed by two spiders in distant corners, and there were two jesters that evening as well.

  From the moment they entered, Mirum was under the watchful eye of the jester with patches of white paint on his face. He was perhaps half as tall as Ignis, with hair torn out in patches, some of which clung to his face while other parts stood on end.

  Vertigo ordered food, which quickly arrived on clattering female feet. A pitcher of pain wine was placed on the table. Ignis tore at the meat before him. Mirum skipped around Ignis, sometimes sneaking up to others with a jingle, drawing laughter from their parched faces. The other jester operated similarly. Ignis felt invisible amidst the two jesters, as no one spared him a glance.

  Vertigo's men ogled the slave servers:

  "You know what would be great?"

  "What?"

  "If I had a fancy inn with servers as posh as these. Maybe the balls would grant this wish too," they glanced at Ignis slyly.

  The jester's face was sweaty, keeping an eye on Mirum and spewing foul words at her. Other times he would burp in someone's face and run away from retribution.

  "Stinking bell-clad whore! If you dare come near me, I'll shove my boot so far up your ass. See that move? Don't make me show it up close. Neither of you! Your beard looks like a rat's tail. Stay put! No one cares about you here. No one. You better disappear fast. And all of you. You idiot, don't come near me!" the jester guarded his table fiercely.

  Those present sometimes chuckled, a few snorted briefly. The jester continued to glare at Mirum, clenching his teeth nervously. Mirum appeared to ignore him for a long time. There was enough room in the tavern and enough people already laughing just at the sight of Mirum's acrobatic and grotesque antics, her gaze continually drifting to Ignis.

  Almost everyone in the tavern was laughing, except for Ignis and a dozen others kept at bay by the jester. Among them, one man's lips were tightly pressed together in a sour expression, his nose hooked downward, and his black hair hung like the weeping willow's branches. A grim shadow lay over his face. Mirum seemed to decide she wouldn't tolerate competition and moved directly toward the jester. The jingling of bells trembled in the air. Ding-dong, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. The rhythm grew more ominous. Despite the jester's shouts and gestures, nothing could stop her. She stood before him, bells, ribbons, and a terrifying smile on her face.

  The entire tavern watched intently. The jester's hand shook with rage as he jumped onto a chair, eyes narrowed, preparing to strike the woman. Before he could, Mirum's hand already cupped his groin.

  "If you have two nuts in your hand, what do you do?" Mirum asked. The bells jingled, the jester's eyes welled with tears and widened. The men's eyes in the tavern froze, worriedly covering their manhoods — "You crush them."

  Mirum's grip closed.

  The jester let out a terrible whimper, writhing on the floor. Pain etched across every man's face, silently praying they'd never be in his place. Some stirred around the table, but their somber leader signaled them to stay calm, his hooked nose pointed at Mirum. He didn't smile; his face was shadowed, but his dark eyes glinted.

  "Toot-toot!" Mirum mimicked a trumpet sound. "Listen up, everyone with eyes and ears, because here and now, I'll perform the unforgettable story of the unfortunate dwarf." Mirum pondered, rubbing her chin. "I just need someone to play the role of the unfortunate dwarf. You." She pointed at the jester curled up on the floor. "Do you accept the honorable role?"

  The jester only groaned and shook his head.

  "Excellent. Let's begin!" Mirum said, dragging the jester off the floor.

  The spectators followed the story with clenched stomachs. By misfortune, the jester's house caught fire during the night, and his hair burned off, every single strand. The jester performed the scene with heartfelt emotion, likely aided by Mirum setting his standing hair on fire with a torch. And then, he almost drowned in the sea. Indeed, as Mirum lifted the jester's head from a basin of water for a moment, he gasped for air as if truly suffocating, only to be plunged back in. In later adventures, the nose hair fairies plucked out his hairs one by one as Mirum ensured none were left. An offended woman beat his bottom until it turned red, and the ancient order of cooks condemned him to swim across a boiling soup sea. Mirum recounted all these adventures, leaving no painful detail untold.

  As a result, the man with the shadowed face's lips straightened under his black hair.

  Ignis stared at the meat before him, the white bone, while others laughed at Mirum's continued torment of the jester. Vertigo laughed too, with a mouthful, tears in his eyes. When Ignis looked at him, he thought of the freaks behind the bars. He couldn't stay another moment. As discreetly as possible, he left his seat and asked the innkeeper for a room, who led him upstairs.

  Mirum still noticed his departure and immediately jingled after him. Until now, Ignis hadn't understood why she kept bouncing around him, why she always watched him, but now, recognizing the connection between himself and the man with the shadowed face, he knew what to do to be left alone:

  "Come on! Come on, it's not that hard," Ignis repeated to himself.

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  Seconds passed, and the straight, cold line of his lips wouldn't bend. Mirum watched for a while, then turned back to her audience, torch in hand, the jester looking up at her from the floor with wide, tearful eyes.

  Ignis continued up the stairs. He waited until the innkeeper left him alone in the room and his footsteps faded into the sounds of laughter. The room was just a few steps long, the window a single narrow plank. There was only space for a small bed and a tiny cabinet with an oil lantern. He closed the door, shut the window. He dropped his pack and laid the map on the nightstand. Sitting on the bed, thoughts of the freak and Vertigo's laughter filled his mind. He scanned his route, measuring distances. The map was already marked with circles and notes, possible places where She could be. He lay back on the bed. Laughter, crying, and moans echoed from downstairs. He was still awake, afraid of something. Despite his unease, he wanted to leave early the next day, before anyone else woke up. He slowly suffocated the lantern, leaving it flickering.

  "Wait a few more minutes before you sleep."

  Peculi's pale face emerged from the wall's grayness, her hair spreading through the room.

  "I thought I made myself clear: leave me alone!" he said distinctly.

  "We, ugly monsters, often forget things. Listen. Many of us die before knowing there's somewhere to go. Don't waste this chance. A group is heading to us now, they'll be staying here in a few days."

  "I won't wait here for days."

  "You might change your mind, you still have time. Oh, one more thing. The balls."

  Peculi whispered in his ear. Ignis's face paled at her words. He glanced at the purse hiding the balls.

  The walls were empty again. He took the last bit of air from the lantern and thanked every god he had ever heard of for never throwing away that purse.

  ***

  With the first rays of the sun, he set off. He tied the purse with the balls tightly to his belt, several times over. He galloped up the tunnels, leaving one level after another behind. By the time the sun reached its peak, he was standing on the back of World’s End. On the surface towers and walls loomed.

  He left behind the thorn towers, stables, wandering merchants, and the world-obscuring walls.

  Soon, on the northern road, he came upon an iron star buried in the ground, marking a junction. He remembered this intersection and had left an ink spot next to it on his map. He just had to find the path leading to Frigus and continued galloping in that direction.

  Puddles splashed into tiny drops under his horse’s hooves, the red and black hues of the landscape blending before him. A glance to the side would have shown him the iron jungle languishing in the depths, the shrunken landscape, the tiny scratches humans had carved: black smoke threads marking Aspero, Rubigo, and other small villages, drifting toward the sun. He only stopped briefly to let his horse drink a few sips from a lake along the way. The blue shimmering lake in the red landscape's body didn't captivate him, nor did he heed the crackling leaves, or the travelers on the road. He didn't stop until dusk.

  Once again, he was alone among the trees, in front of a campfire. Only the cawing of birds, the cries of wild animals, and the rustling leaves kept him company. No mercenaries surrounded him, no companions kept an eye on him or guarded him while he slept. He leaned against a tree and closed his eyes. He sought feelings, fear pulsed through him. He wanted to sleep, but couldn’t. Instead, he added wood to the fire, listened to the rustling leaves, searched for the stealthy steps of lizards among them, and listened for their breathing. He also noticed a sound missing.

  Jingle jingle.

  Jingle jingle.

  Ignis retreated among the trees. Hoofbeats mingled with the jingling. An entire troop of horses. He wanted to get deeper into the trees, away from the campfire, but the rustling leaves would betray him. He stayed put. At first, he thought it was Vertigo's men, but then he peeked out from the shadow of the tree. He recognized that shadowed face, the coal-black hair under which the man's eyes were barely visible. Mirum was with him.

  They stopped, turning their horses toward him. They all turned toward him, as if they knew he was hiding there. Ignis took a step back, drawing his sword and keeping an eye on them. Mirum's eyes found him:

  "Oh, there he is! The horses did a great job, they really found him!"

  "Get him!" said the man with the shadowed face.

  Ten riders charged at him. Ignis cut his horse free, leapt onto it, but before he could gallop away, all he felt was a tremendous blow and the taste of dirt in his mouth. By the time he pieced the world back together around him, he was bound and kneeling in the mud. The man with the shadowed face’s lips twitched, as if he couldn’t decide whether to smile or not. Laughter surrounded him, heavy footsteps trampled; metallic sounds, jingling approached.

  Among them was the wretched jester. His face was a hideous mix of peeling white paint and blistered, red scalded skin, his eyes tormented, nose swollen, the remnants of his hair burned into stinking clumps. He sweated, his teeth chattered, his eyes focused on one thing. His pupils started to move, tracking his target.

  Laughter, more jingling. Mirum skipped past Ignis's right shoulder and bowed ceremoniously:

  "Behold, my gift."

  He didn’t understand what was happening around him, what Mirum meant by a gift. The only thing he knew was that he didn’t want to be there. He tugged at the rope around his wrists, but it wouldn’t loosen. Even if it did, the man standing next to him wouldn’t let him run.

  "Bring me the magic balls, fool."

  "Laugh, laugh, rejoice, smile!" Mirum shouted, spinning and twirling.

  The jester would have jumped at the command, but Mirum beat him to it. Mirum danced toward Ignis. The jester’s face turned even redder, his entire body trembled, he fumed.

  "Rotten, filthy, f-fucking, jingle-bell whore!"

  He pulled out a small knife and charged to stab Mirum in the back with all his might. His own master struck him down before the blade could reach the flesh.

  "Worthless! Useless!" The man's face fell into shadow.

  The jester yelped, flailing as he fell to the ground, his hand crushed under Mirum’s foot. Mirum kicked the knife aside.

  "Not good! Not good!" Mirum shouted. "He’s angry, upset, in a bad mood. This is not what we need!"

  "Shut u—" the jester started to yell, but Mirum's foot crushed another knuckle. The jester shrieked.

  Ignis eyed the knife that had landed near him.

  "Joy is what we need, cheerfulness, laughter!"

  The surrounding men laughed, Ignis twisted his torso. Mirum took out the dagger Vertigo had given her and thrust it into the jester’s hand on the ground. The spiral grooves on the blade filled with blood. Mirum yanked him to his knees and placed the blade at his throat.

  Before he could say anything, the blade painted a red line on his throat. She pushed his face into the mud.

  A few fat drops fell from the tip of the dagger. The man with the shadowed face’s cold expression began to waver. Mirum twirled, spun, and juggled the dagger. Mirum twirled, spun, and jumped toward Ignis.

  Ignis grasped the knife with two fingers.

  "Sorrow is no good. It’s time for joy! For you to smile. Smile!" Mirum looked at him, then at the man, whose muscles were working unusually around his mouth. "Smile!"

  "Fool, bring me the magic balls," said the man with the shadowed face, his gray teeth glinting in the dark.

  Ignis worked the knife, but the rope wouldn’t give.

  "Smile! Smile!"

  He forced his facial muscles to move, but he couldn’t budge.

  The cold blade touched his throat. The rope still wouldn’t give, but he kept sawing, ready to drive the knife into Mirum’s throat.

  A memory flashed into Ignis’s mind.

  ***

  Snowflakes quietly settled on the evergreen trees. He stood over the fallen, humped boar, gazing thoughtfully at the freshly deceased animal. The gray monks had always shared fragments of the Book of Light with him, telling tales of the world above, of Light, Darkness, and Grayness, explaining where a soul goes, but they never spoke of animals. He carried the boar back to the sanctuary, and before starting to butcher it, he turned to one of the passing gray priestesses, who held a steaming cup in her trembling hand. Ignis asked his question, and the delicate hand that had found him years ago gently brushed his face with trembling fingers. Her blue eyes gleamed.

  "According to the scripture, every soul that is not human is just a handful of sand held together by flesh and blood. When the body dies, the sand scatters, it goes nowhere. It will never be the same again."

  ***

  Time marched on relentlessly, despite his attempts to escape.

  Time moved forward unstoppably.

  "Smile, smile!"

  Mirum yanked Ignis's head away from the fire's light. The blade slashed across Ignis’s throat, the bloody dagger raised high. His face was shoved into the mud. The shadowed face transformed into a grinning set of teeth.

  "Bring me the magic balls, fool! Now!"

  Ignis’s body still shook.

  "You’re finally laughing! Finally laughing!"

  The purse was cut from Ignis’s side and handed to the man. The grin stretched endlessly. His sycophants and Mirum laughed with him.

  "Finally laughing!"

  They mounted their horses and galloped away.

  Ignis’s body still trembled even after the sound of hoofbeats had faded, leaving only the rustling of leaves.

  An empty, cold body can never find his beloved, can never say "I’ve found you," can never hold her in his arms. The only thing that will happen is that brave mice will sniff out his fragrant flesh, nibble on him for a few days, and then only bones will remain, which the earth will eventually cover.

  Ignis lifted his head, his neck soaked in a dark mixture of mud and blood. On his face was something even he couldn’t believe. The rustling leaves were drowned out by his laughter, his hand wildly caressing his neck.

  He laughed uncontrollably, tears streaming down his face, his side aching, running out of breath.

  His mind worked diligently to piece together the puzzle, but the result was so absurd that he joyfully tossed the whole thing away.

  "I’m a terrible teacher."

  He found the discarded knife and cut his bindings. He stepped over to the pitiful jester, whose blood had smeared Ignis’s neck. The jester was still moving.

  "You can get up now. They’re gone," he said, gasping for air.

  He turned the jester's face, and Ignis's laughter died away.

  The throat was slashed. The earth was already sipping the blood from the muddied puddle.

  He lived. That was enough. Alba’s words rang in his ears again.

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