The cool air held a crisp, sharp edge at the passing of the harvest season. There was always an air of danger this time of year when foraged food is scarce. Prey animals stuck close to their nests and dens, while predators ranged outside their normal territories hunting for their last meals before the big sleep.

  This year felt different than any in common memory. To say prey was scarce would be an understatement. Predators, starving in their domains, were not just ranging further afield but abandoning their territories entirely. Scouts reported finding creatures normally only seen in the deep bogs in the marshes and fens drawing closer to settled lands. Long-limbed fen-striders, colossal serpents legends called naga, and swarms of agile bog-lurkers encroached more on civilized land with each passing day.

  Where once heroes of yore were called upon to drive these beasts and their ilk away, now the common guardsman found their job more dangerous than ever. No sane person ventured outside of well-patrolled lands, where darker, forgotten things likely stirred: things only named in nightmares, for to give some monstrosities a name is to light a beacon and draw their ire.

  Ranchers moved their charges to more secure pens so that they might better protect them from increasingly unpredictable predatory incursions. The local militia, while capable, was simply ill-equipped to manage widespread assaults from powerful swamp-dwelling terrors. Lands held in families for generations lay fallow, abandoned for more defensible pastures. Even outside their normal territories, where their strength and ambush tactics made fighting them untenable, battling these creatures unsustainably taxed the defenders' numbers. Casualties, although seldom fatal, were becoming an everyday result of skirmishes with the beasts displaced by deep-dwellers.

  Wandering Iskaal warriors passing through villages became an increasingly common sight. These hulking juggernauts, unsettling enough in their own right, were rarely seen in peaceful months, but they were now commonplace in this tumultuous season. Most often, they brought news of impending danger from the deepest wetlands. Town leaders had always paid the nomads for their efforts with a quick resupply before happily sending them on their way. Even as allies, it would be irresponsible to overlook the threat these brutes posed to the townspeople.

  The settlers of the Moors would never have survived if they didn’t learn to respect the power of the land, and the Iskaal embodied that strength. Hard-earned wisdom made them cautious allies at the best of times, which these were assuredly not. Still, their contribution was felt, and their respect well earned. No one would begrudge the Iskaal a room when asked, even if history noted their stays among the people as rare.

  Nowadays, the warriors lingered and even helped drive off the assaulting beasts. While few admitted it openly, only the presence of the Iskaal kept the number of casualties low. The ignorant few feared them for their differences, but imposing as they were, they were not merely brutes. These warriors honored ancient treaties between the two peoples. While only a select few Moorish knew of that fact, the Iskaal made up an elite group of their people and had a code of honor that would put most men to shame.

  Life in the swamplands was brutal, and the Moors would never have evolved past their tribal roots without collaborating with the Iskaal. Sometimes, differences are the remedy needed for overcoming great adversity. This unspoken truth had never been more apparent than amidst such a surge in monstrous activity.

  The red light of dawn crept over the horizon, its glow racing across marshes and moors before alighting upon a quaint settlement. An unusual level of commotion disturbed the vista at such an early hour. Far from the gentle wakefulness attributed to these twilit hours, shouts rang in the streets with the clarity of alarum bells.

  Men, most still carrying lanterns, raced up and down the hard-packed dirt with unsettling urgency, their business as much a mystery as the reason for their haste. The cries of babes punctuated the bustle, tempered only by the gentle firmness of their mothers’ voices.

  Slowly, for all its haste, the makings of a militia formed rank on the outskirts of the town. Beyond the modest walls, the glint of metal shone brightly as spearheads caught the morning light. Rare chain links clattered over padded leather, augmenting the half light with the clamor of war.

  Market stalls stood barren, their wares packed into carts and wagons. Merchants in faded clothing, at least one season out of date, barked orders to assistants. Beasts of burden brayed and chittered as assistants yoked and hitched them to carts. Even an untrained eye could pick out, with but a quick glance, the signs of evacuation.

  Families began to gather in the dawn-lit shadows of their homes, gazing towards the soldiers’ assemblage with apparent apprehension. Mothers, fathers, grandparents, and siblings ushered children along with promises of reward and safety. Adventure always awaits the juvenile mind, needing only the barest encouragement. The promise of safety means little to the young, but everything to their elders.

  Strangest of all, where an observer might expect to find signs of fear, anxiety, or unease, the uncertain shape of joy peaked out eagerly amidst the hubbub. Whatever its cause, careful observation hinted that this was no solemn sojourn. A syncopated beat of anticipation threaded the scene, belying appearances.

  It was a day of celebration, marking the opening festival of the Tower. It was a day that legends were born, a day when sorely needed help might descend upon the people. For those chosen few who survived the trials of empowerment, their stories were just beginning.

  “Enough.”

  The simple utterance spelled the end for another bout of training. Sweat-drenched clothing clung tightly to the trainees’ bodies. Practiced in the routine, they assumed a kneeling position with both hands folded across their laps. As was tradition, their armaments were carefully placed at a respectful distance, too far for any subtle maneuvers but near enough at hand to be available in an emergency.

  Anilith glanced sidelong at Temperance. While not an official disciple of the Blade Weaver, a man considered ancient to their people with his six decades of experience, he received some level of training from the venerated elder to maintain his usefulness as a sparring partner for the true disciple. Perhaps there was a name once for his role, but now it was best called a friend.

  The ghost of a frown graced Anilith’s lips, not wanting to outwardly show her displeasure at her lack of progress, but unable to ward off all signs of its presence. This would be her last training session before the exodus to the ancient Holy Grounds of the people, her people, an exodus of far greater scale and significance than the history of the keepers of memory. The memory of the Ekreeti was long, covering more years than leaves float down the mangrove rivers, but even they had no knowledge any time of such great disturbance.

  In a rare quorum of the tribal leaders, they came to a consensus that this should be the greatest gathering for the ritual of empowerment in history. Never before had all the tribes come together as a whole, typically sending delegations with their chosen candidates. No, this cycle would be different. The soothsayers were doubtful of sending their gifted warriors away in such a tumultuous time, and said the only future not laced with destruction was one where all tribes came together at the unification grounds while the chosen underwent the trial of empowerment, a trial Anilith had no intention of failing.

  Her lack of progress pissed her off.

  “What are you lacking?” The Blade Weaver’s voice brought her back into focus more surely than the snap of a switch.

  It was a simple question with a simple answer.

  “I don’t know, master. I’m trying everything I can think of, but nothing seems to work.”

  Without a shift or a sigh, the Blade Weaver continued in an even tone.

  “Tell me about the Blade Weavers of old, tell me about your forebears.”

  “Legend says that they could read the flow of battle, weaving between blades like raindrops. That they worked together to create a tapestry of Magic and Blade to blanket the battlefield in their Will. That…”

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  “I did not ask what the legends say.”

  Taken aback for a moment, Anilith gathered herself.

  “Master, if you aren’t asking about the stories, what are you asking?”

  “Tell me about the Blade Weavers of old.”

  “But, master, all I know of them is stories. All anyone knows of them comes from the stories!”

  Through their exchange, Temperance sat in practiced silence.

  “I know of the Blade Weavers, whether I have met them or not. I know the stories are an illusion, as is so much of their legacy. I know this because I feel it to be true. Perhaps you need another lesson with the Relic.”

  A shiver ran down her spine at the mention of the Relic. It was a curious device, capable of identifying those descended from the Blade Weavers, and yet so much more. It was their Legacy, their curriculum, and their wordless history. It conveyed meaning in a way lost to words and was only accessible by those with the right blood. It was a blessing and a curse, but more than anything, it was frightening. Frightening and unnerving.

  “Temperance, if you would,” the old man beckoned him away from the training grounds, inviting him to stand. “Anilith, place your hand on the plinth. Activate the first sequence.”

  Commands held no place in their training; a Blade Weaver was forged by choice, not directives, after all. Anilith did as her master asked.

  “Activate sequence five.”

  Anilith hesitated far less than her body at her Master’s request. This was not her first time undergoing this training; it wasn’t just her tenth time, either, but no matter how many times she experienced it, the unique training of the Relic posed a test of Will as much as any tangible measure.

  Her body showed no signs of the marks from the four rounds she’d already endured, but her mind remembered. Dismembered fingers and limbs when she’d been too slow. Cuts beyond measure when she’d been nearly fast enough. These memories, felt with agonizing detail in the moment, were enough to make anyone’s body wish to betray them.

  Still, she mustered the strength to lay her hand upon the cold stone one more time. Drawing both blades from her hip sheaths, she moved to the ready position.

  As always, the sounds and sights of battle crept up like a tsunami, a threat on the horizon cascading into a deafening swell was upon her. A small part of her mind found it oddly musical. Before she knew it, the phantom Blades returned, coming at her from all angles. They always started slowly, her parries, dodges, and counterstrikes keeping her safe from the biting edges, lulling her into a sense of achievement. That’s when it really started.

  The blades began to come in at increasingly unpredictable angles, approaching in a way that to block with the wrong hand would leave her vulnerable to debilitating retribution. Already, not thirty seconds into the exercise, blood leaked from her body where small mistakes had cost her.

  Still, she felt pride in her skill. The speed and grace with which she moved were not something even a promising warrior could typically match. Her strength might not be a match for most men, but each strike was born of honed precision. Each movement was purposeful, ingrained in her through countless hours of tutelage under her master and training with the Relic, and yet something was missing.

  As seconds passed, wounds accumulated and frustration built within her. Despite her best efforts, she felt herself standing on the precipice of failure. Again.

  She could not afford to fail, not this time. Her people needed her to be better, to be greater than her limits. Her family needed her to succeed, and she would not fail them, not like mother and father. She would not die a pointless death, and she would not be beaten by these illusions.

  Frustration gave way to rage, which gave way to a reluctant peace within her. Phantom blades came at her faster than ever before, but for a moment, she saw the rhythm. For a moment, she felt everything before it all faded around her.

  “Good.”

  Her master let the word hang in the air, a weight in the moment that they all felt. She let it sit there as she sat in reflection. Was that what it felt like to Blade Weave? She’d pushed herself her whole life, but she had never felt that sense of calm before. Always, she had focused on her surroundings and her place in them. Where she could step safely, where her arms needed to be to neutralize threats; ever had those been her dominating thoughts in battle. Positioning and repositioning purposefully and practically.

  This had not felt the same.

  As her body shrugged off the illusory wounds, too many to count and yet none as detrimental as she would have expected, she found her voice.

  “What…what was that, master?”

  “That, my dear, was a step. One step along a million-mile journey.”

  “The Blade Weavers…what were they? How were they?”

  Pausing just a breath, the old man replied, “Tell me what you think they were, tell me what you feel they were.”

  Anilith took a moment to recall and process how she felt.

  “It felt like…it felt like the battle focused around me. Like I didn’t need to think about where to move, how to react. I have always focused so hard on my surroundings, but I have never felt connected like that. I wish it had been more than just a moment.”

  “Tell me, what exercise did you just finish?”

  “The fifth exercise, master. You know that.”

  “I just watched you complete the seventh.”

  “Tha…that’s impossible, master. I may have lost myself for a moment, but that can’t be true! I never even touched the plinth.”

  “Oh? You are so versed in the secrets of this ancient Relic, secrets that reveal themselves as they so choose, that you are certain? You would tell me I lie?”

  “No, master! Of course, I would never doubt your teachings. Thank you for this lesson,” she said with a bow.

  “There is a healthy place for doubt,” the Blade Weaver said with a rare smile, “but in this, I would never lie to you.”

  “Stand now, and walk proudly down your path, fledgling Blade Weaver. You are ready.”

  “I don’t feel ready,” Anilith mumbled.

  “Ready is not a state of being. Ready is a state of mind, and one we can rarely find before the time is right.”

  Suddenly, she found herself aware of Temperance’s presence at her side.

  “Now, help this young woman to her home, my student. The Relic takes a toll, despite leaving no mark on its victim.”

  “Yes, master,” Temperance replied, speaking the words for the first time.

  “Lolly, let’s go! Let’s go! C’moooooon,” called out Olina, “we’re gonna miss it!”

  Anilith never was quite sure where her youngest sister had created ‘Lolly,’ but had long accepted the endearing nickname. The little ball of energy had been raring to go long before the sun’s light touched down on their typically sleepy village.

  “Lini,” Anilith said, for not the first time today, “we can’t go anywhere until the militia clears the way.”

  “But Lolly,” Olina whined, excessively drawing out her sister’s name, “I want to see the Tower! No one’s ever seen the Tower before!”

  While this wasn’t strictly true, the elders still living in the village were present the last time the Tower had opened. Anilith wasn’t going to try to explain the intricacies of time to her youngest sister.

  “Lini, weren’t you going to bring Wiggums,” interjected Willett in an effort to distract Olina, “he’ll be lonely if you leave him here.”

  The young girl raced to her quarters, tossing her belongings about as only young children can, looking for her precious Wiggums.

  “Ani,” Willett sighed, “I’m sorry you’re stuck with us instead of going with the militia. I wish I…”

  “None of that, Will. It’s a small price to pay for getting you two there safely. The whole village is going, who would I have watch you, though? Missus Preiss next door? She’s got her hands full enough with the kids she already has. And Temperance has his work cut out for him just getting enough of the forge along to be of some use when we get to the Holy Grounds.”

  “I know,” laughed Willet, “it’s just not fair. You work harder than anyone, but ever since mom and dad…”

  “Stop,” Anilith said curtly, the pain of that loss still a little too raw. It might always be. “Just look at it this way! You get your very own professionally trained private guard, and this little trip isn’t without its dangers. Now hush, Lini is coming back now.”

  Coming around the corner from their shared bedroom, Olina barged into the room already mid-sentence, “…and Jam-jam said his mamaw told him the tower is ten-umpteen feets tall and filled with all sortsa treasures. Can we pleaaaase go nooooooow, Lolly?”

  “You have everything you need there, Will?”

  “Yeah, I’m all set, Ani,” Will replied while throwing a small, although bulging, bag over his shoulder.

  His readiness to help lighten her workload struck Anilith, and she could not help but smile. “Alright, Lini. Let’s go see if they’ve given the okay for the villagers to head out.”