Everything played before Vincent's eyes as if he were an observer watching a movie. Even the aches in his body felt like somebody else’s. He was Vincent Cordell, watching himself, living vicariously through his own eyes. That's how far gone he was.

  He felt himself crying. Crying? Why? He forgot the reason. He could not think because his brain was dying. At least, that’s what it felt like. A droning whine continuously rang in his ears. He was ill. The motion sickness, the game sickness...the dehydration, the hunger, all of them ravaged his body and made him delirious. His throat felt like it was lacerated from all the coughing and gagging. Where was he?

  He and his cabras were carried off, away from the moiling cauldron the area was becoming. Wind fluttered his ears and dried his snout. The Shaydos were heading somewhere new. He saw fresh, untouched mountains and tasted clean air. He breathed it in with something akin to gratitude. Wild forests were tucked in the mountain's crotches and pockets of verdancy were stowed away in passes and valleys.

  Glimmer continued to bait the zeffyr into obstacles, but he no longer flew back and forth, this way and that. He was no longer trying to contain it within a particular region. No, he was leading it across the land. Madeen and Selefi flew ahead of them, leading them toward their destination. The mountains were getting smaller and turning into foothills. They were leaving the Aindo Ring. And the smaller the mountains became, the less of them there were to drag the zeffyr into.

  Vincent saw a small village in the distance. Glimmer banked to avoid it. He could see Falians peek out of their dwellings and look on in terror at the colossus that ravaged their land. The zeffyr plowed through small roads, which were, thankfully, free of travelers. Fields of crops were set ablaze.

  Glimmer flew low. Green grass raced only fifty or so feet below, rushing past only to be devoured by the entity. It was gaining on them. Glimmer doubled back and pulled into a partial u-turn to throw the zeffyr off and buy himself time. Then he started to climb. One hundred feet, two hundred...three hundred. Forty seconds later, the zeffyr turned and pursued them. It was climbing toward them.

  Then Glimmer brought his wings in and dived. The angry wall of fire narrowly rushed past them, followed by its gravel-covered body. The heat smacked them both like a slap to the face. But gravity was on their side. Glimmer used the momentum to pick up speed, doing what Madeen did on the first day of this hellish pursuit. Then he pulled out of the dive and soared across the land.

  When the zeffyr finally course-corrected, it did not seem to be affected by gravity. And so, it lagged behind, floating down rather than falling. Glimmer repeated this maneuver. However, it strained the zerok. His beak was wide open and he was gasping for air. He could not keep it up.

  Evening turned around when they entered a large, bowl-shaped expanse. Trailing across it was a dirt road, which appeared to be well-traveled. A sizeable caravan of wagons and carriages was currently stopped on it, seemingly abandoned. A lone figure stood in the field, far from the procession. He wore simple brown garments and Vincent could see golden wings.

  Though he was running on fumes, he felt something in his gut, something akin to longing. He recognized this figure. It was Thal'rin Cyos, the High Channeler of Meldohv Syredel. What was he doing here?

  Thal'rin was holding something in one of his hands. It looked like somebody had taken a knife and cut the air and through the fissure, which was as tall as he was. A white light poured through. Glimmer circled the High Channeler and deposited Vincent on the grass. It was not a gentle landing. Vincent heard the sound of ripping fabric as he fell to the ground and scrambled. Behind him, Glimmer stumbled, swayed, and barely recovered himself. He was exhausted from the flight. The rest of the Shaydos followed suit, bringing Menik and the others.

  Thal’rin walked over to Vincent, grabbed his hand and pulled him up. Two fleshy whiskers hang below his nostrils, flanking his snout. They swayed in the wind. His leather horn guard which adorned his rack, was embroidered with Meldohv's symbols: Two teardrops housed under an arch. Both were set against a purple circle. His golden eyes, though capable of warmth, showed hints of fury. His jaws were clenched and there were storms in his gaze.

  “Get behind me Vincent,” he said. His calm voice belied the ferocity in his glare.

  “Come on, Brother,” Tuls said, leading Vincent away from Thal’rin.

  When they were about thirty paces back, he let go and Vincent fell to the grass, barely able to sit upright. He broke into a violent fit of coughing and gagging as his body fought to expel the chaff that coated his throat. Everybody scrambled to get behind Thal'rin as the zeffyr continued to descend from the sky like a comet. It was the apocalypse and it was coming for them. And yet Thal’rin stepped forward, his diminutive figure facing the monstrosity head-on.

  It crashed against the turf, sending a wave of dirt through the air. Plumes of sod and grass shot into the sky, trees were blasted aside and set ablaze. From the wall of brown dust and chaff emerged its spinning maw, burning like an instant sunrise. It headed straight for them. Dirt and sediment arced away from it, as it bulldozed the land. The ground shook and the air filled with cicadas and grinding. Yet, Thal’rin kept walking toward it. His winged form became a black silhouette against its inferno.

  He raised his hand, the one holding the cut in reality. He let go and it stayed in place, floating in the air. The fissure began to grow, ten feet tall, twenty. In an instant, it was as tall as a skyscraper. Vincent felt something vibrating against his chest, a song without notes, a threnody of lamentations. He experienced it rather than heard it, an ethereal melody that brought him calm.

  He did not have a channeler’s senses. Yet he felt power. No...it was more than that. He was in the presence of something he could not hope to understand. The zeffyr was a force of destruction. It was chaos, but its threat was immediate and obvious. It was tangible. It was not as subtle as the aura Vincent felt emanating from the growing slice.

  No runes materialized in the air. There were no floating symbols or glyphs. No particles scattered across the sky and there were no summoned beasts that danced across the fields. He could see waves of power rippling through the grass like a heartbeat, but that was it. There was no pretentiousness in this display of lore. It simply was. There was only light, dangerous...potent. Just.

  The aperture widened, filling the field with its light. The rays seemed to penetrate everything. Vincent felt them touch his flesh and they seemed to pierce his soul. He was seen. Every secret he held, every lie he told, every crime he committed. Nothing was hidden. He felt exposed to the light and he quailed inwardly from its scrutiny. He wanted to flee into the darkness where he would escape its judgement. The rays flowed from the rift, arcing and bending like caustics from a lens.

  Something lived on the other side of the aperture. The light had sapience. He could feel it. Its presence grew by the second until he felt himself being crushed under its overwhelming aura. The grass on the ground, the trees in the field, the rocks that peppered the meadows...they were made almost sacred by its theurgy. That’s what Vincent felt. If he had not already been on the ground, perhaps he would have thrown himself prostrate. He didn’t know why.

  The pressure was building. Ripples of power thrummed against his chest. The soldiers stepped backward, in awe of the growing sight before them. Tuls had his eyes averted, his snout was ducked. His wings were folded in front of his chest. He was murmuring.

  Thal’rin raised a hand and the rays, extending from the rift, shot forth toward the incoming inferno like searchlights. They illuminated the raging colossus and the air erupted. Bolts flashed and arced, leaping from the rift to the zeffyr. Vincent felt the power of its contact slap into him. They drilled into the zeffyr's maw and burrowed deep into its whirling hellscape. Magma and burning things spewed into the air like flaming viscera. Its body was filled with the rift’s light. The air clapped with the conflict as powers clashed, leaving Vincent's ears ringing. But then the light left the zeffyr. The bolts retreated. There was no prolonged confrontation. That was it.

  The zeffyr began to slow, carried forward only by its momentum. Then, it came to a stop. Its smoldering fire was growing dim. The lore holding the gravel to its body failed, causing boulders and crystals to break away and tumble across the ground. It was disintegrating, dissolving until it simply collapsed in on itself. It became nothing more than an enormous mound of chaff, liacyte, and molten rock, which was quickly solidifying. Finally, the zeffyr went dark. Thal’rin’s attack only lasted for a few seconds. Yet the entity was now dead, reduced to little more than smoldering gravel.

  Thal’rin bowed his head and simply “dismissed” the rift. Vincent felt the presence leave and he could breathe again. The High Channeler turned around and headed back toward them. He met eyes with The La’ark, who leaned on Menik for support. She fell to her knees into a fit of gagging and he ran to her. Vincent’s head fell and he stared at the grass with his mouth hanging open. The world fell with him, spinning with disorientation. He could hear his own panting, but he did not recognize it as his own. Thal’rin’s words came to him like echoes.

  "Water," he demanded, "Over there, in the barrel. There are mugs in my carriage."

  Somebody ran to fulfill his request while he held onto his sister.

  "We…we…" The La'ark struggled to speak with her parched, shredded voice.

  “You will tell me what happened later,” Thal'rin said, “but you are not well. You are on the verge of death, so save your words. You need a healer."

  Madrian came back with a mug filled with water. The La'ark took it with both hands and drank.

  "I will be fine," The La'ark croaked. Madrian went to refill the mug.

  Vincent let himself fall back on the soft grass and gaze upward at the sky. His breaths were sticky and he could feel the phlegm gathering in his throat. The world spun off his axis. People were speaking, but they seemed as distant and as impersonal as the voices of his schizophrenia. Footsteps approached and somebody tried to sit him up. This triggered another wave of coughing and gagging so violent, he wouldn't have been surprised to see blood spatter the grass.

  "Here, drink." Thal'rin said, placing a mug in his hand. But Vincent could not hold onto it, so Thal'rin had to hold it for him and tip it into his snout. At first, he gagged and sputtered, spilling the water all over his shirt. His body acted as if it was a toxin and it refused to accept. But he eventually managed to quench his thirst, drinking until the mug was emptied. He handed it off and another mug was placed into his hand.

  "High Channeler," Menik said, "I can take over."

  "No, shandan," Thal'rin said, "let me be useful for something. Find a zerok, seek out the rest of the caravan and let them know the danger has been averted. They fled East. Bring back the healers."

  Menik folded his wings as a sign of respect then headed off. When he left, Sergeant Dave was standing in his spot. His body was not fully formed. Rather, he was an abstract, partially shaded version of himself.

  Thal'rin placed another mug into Vincent's hands and told him to keep drinking. Dave moved his mouth and a second later, his words resonated in Vincent's mind as if they were being transmitted over a laggy connection.

  "You failed your mission, Cordell," he said. "Your allies are dead! You got them all fucked! How can you live with yourself? You….you…you…"

  Dave became like a broken record and his voice deteriorated, devolving into electronic monotones. The soil pulsated and breathed in sync to Vincent's own choked respirations. Phantom bugs broke free from the surface and began to crawl up the air until they burrowed into the sky itself. Vincent, caught in the throes of sickness and psychosis turned away from Thal'rin and heaved. He threw up some of the water.

  "He has game sickness, High Channeler," Jeris said, "He ate raw meat."

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  "Do you still have the Triasat, Vincent?" Thal'rin asked, trying to get his attention.

  "He does, but he did not want us to use it."

  "Why?" Thal'rin demanded.

  "I believe he wants to save it."

  "He is sick and he is in the throes of the Bane," the High Channeler said, "I need him well and present."

  "Vincent," Jeris said, "We need you to cure yourself."

  Vincent reached down to the pocket where he kept the Triasat…only to find that it was not there. The pocket had been ripped open and now it was hanging from his pant leg, empty. A trill of dread pierced his stupor.

  "It's gone…" he rasped.

  "When did you last have it?" Jeris asked.

  Vincent tried to think, but his mind was dying and a chorus of madness was speaking over everything and everybody. But he pointed out toward the zeffyr.

  "My pocket ripped…over there." It was all he could muster. His voice was becoming a swamp and every time he spoke, his words bubbled with phlegm.

  "Go find it," Thal'rin ordered. Jeris left them to go search for the Triasat.

  After the shandan was gone, the High Channeler tried to speak to him. But he was overshadowed by the chaos of schizophrenia. Vincent was no longer aware of what was going on. Nor did he care to be. Some part of him knew that he was fighting to breathe, that the wheezing he heard belonged to him. Somebody lifted him to his feet and guided him toward a carriage made of some sort of chitinous material.

  "You can sleep in my carriage for the night," somebody said.

  They entered it and Vincent was guided to a bed inside. He practically fell down on it like a lifeless ragdoll.

  "You are safe now, Vincent. Get rest."

  He flitted in and out of consciousness as his body warred with its sickness. Time passed. He heard voices and opened his eyes to see unfamiliar snouts looming over him. Damp rags were placed on his forehead. Strange medicines and elixirs were administered. He was given rehydrated herbs and forced to chew and suck on their juices. Finally somebody found the vial of Triasat that had fallen from his pocket and administered it, purging away the schizophrenia and game sickness. But he was still exhausted and riven from sleep deprivation. So he shut his eyes. He flinched, expecting another explosion, expecting The La’ark to wake him up, or to find one of the Puppeteer’s grinning faces greeting him. But Thal'rin's words seemed to repeat themselves: "You are safe now." So he swaddled himself into the sheets and fell into a deep sleep for the rest of the night.

  ***

  Vincent stirred late the next day. After weeks of laying in nothing but hard cots, waking up on an actual bed felt like being held in a mother's embrace. It felt so luxurious and wholesome that he dropped back into sleep a few more times before waking up proper. It was the smell of roasted meat and spices floating to his nostrils that prompted him to sit up. He opened his eyes and looked around Thal’rin’s carriage, taking in its details for the first time. The High Channeler did not travel in luxury. Though the carapace it was made from was exotic to Vincent’s eyes, and it was roomy, it was not as excessively posh as one might have expected.

  There were some cabinets, and a cubby with scrolls tucked into it. And there was a table that appeared to fold in and out. But they were pragmatic rather than luxurious. And of course, the carriage was tall in order to accomodate the wings. Vincent reluctantly pushed himself out of the bed, even though he would be perfectly content to keep laying in it. The carriage wobbled and squeaked as he approached the door and opened it.

  Though the Triasat had purged the game sickness and the schizophrenia, it had done nothing for his hunger. And he still felt phlegm and dust in his scratchy throat. He did not know what the "rules" of the nectar's healing was, but apparently it did not expel all contaminants. It was near noon, judging from the sun’s position. The caravan had not moved from its spot. However, the owners of the other carriages had returned and the sky was filled with zerok flyers. They were orbiting the remains of the zeffyr, which was little more than a large mound of sediment. Behind it was a trail of destruction. Dark clouds polluted the sky in the distance.

  Vincent swayed where he stood, in awe of its devastating power. Everybody seemed to wander about in shock and disbelief, reflecting the zombie-like state he was in. Somebody was wailing, though she was too far away to see.

  “Oy, you’re awake?” Menik said. He was sitting in front of a large fire with a massive pot resting over its flames. “Come get something to eat.”

  Vincent didn’t need to be persuaded. He made a beeline for the pot. The others were also gathered around. Tuls put a bowl into his hands and filled it with stew. He had no idea what was in it, or who cooked it, only that the smell was making him ravenous. There were no forks or spoons, but the bowl had a tapered spout on one side. He lifted it to his snout and poured the contents into his mouth.

  Oh my God, he thought.

  “Been a while since we had actual food, hasn’t it?” Madrian asked.

  “Yeah," Vincent croaked. His throat was still filled with grit and phlegm. Menik was right though, it had been so long since he’d eaten, much less had a home-cooked meal. A tentacle slithered through his teeth, and he tried not to imagine what kind of creature he was eating. Not that he cared. Right now, it was the best thing he had ever tasted.

  “Here, saved you a leg too.” Menik picked a bundled-up cloth on the ground and unraveled a limb that resembled an oversized turkey leg. Seasoning blackened its charred flesh. Vincent was rabid with hunger. He didn’t say anything to anybody, he just ate. He didn’t even bother with his usual ritual of tearing the food into bite-sized chunks. He simply devoured.

  Vincent clamped his snout around the leg and wriggled it back and forth. The flavor nearly made him giddy with delight. The spices were fragrant and hearty, and the meat, though slightly gamier than turkey, had a very similar taste. He stripped every bit of flesh from the leg until he was left with the bone, which he could not stop gnawing on. It was an unusual urge and at first, he didn’t realize he was doing it. The pressure felt good against his teeth. It felt right, as if he had awakened some alien instinct inherent to the Falian form.

  “Telo’s wing, you were famished,” Madrian said.

  “I heard you got game sickness,” Tuls said, “Are you well now?”

  “Game sickness?” Vincent repeated. He vaguely remembered somebody saying something about it.

  “You ate raw meat. Your body was not used to it.”

  “Oh...I’m feeling better. What happened? Where’s Thal’rin? And The La’ark?”

  “He’s nearby,” Menik said, “talking to the diplomats who were traveling with him. As for The La’ark? She is recovering. Healers are attending her.” He stared at the massive mound of sediment in the distance. “A zeffyr...a damn zeffyr...”

  Vincent looked around. Well-dressed Falians stared into the mountains. A few of them wept while others growled in outrage and spoke in hushed whispers. They sounded like haunted spirits.

  "The healers have been up all night," Tuls said, "Not just attending The La'ark, but the Shaydos as well. The smoke and ash made them ill. They had to have other zerok exchange water with them."

  "Exchange water?" Vincent repeated.

  "When zerok have their young," Tuls explained, "they bring back water and regurgitate it directly into their mouths. The Shaydos were too weak to fly to a water source themselves, so that is what had to be done. Their comrades flew out to a body of water, gathered it and brought it back."

  Vincent saw Glimmer resting in the distance. The eye on his throat was shut and the feathers were matted. He was not looking good.

  “Did you see how furious the High Channeler was?” Jeris asked.

  “Of course he was furious!” Madrian scoffed, “This is an act of war!”

  "I agree," Menik said, staring at Vincent. His expression was unreadable, but Vincent saw questions in his gaze. Why would Jalhara send a zeffyr after him?

  “Thal'rin's power is unlike anything I have ever felt,” Tuls said, “I never thought I would see the High Channeler wield such a thing. Did anybody else feel like dropping to the ground? I could not speak.”

  "Mmm…, felt like I was being judged," Madrian said with something akin to reverence in his voice. "The Weaver is truly with us…"

  Vincent noticed how hushed the camp was despite all the activity. Tense whispers passed from person to person. He remembered back to his childhood when the airplanes hit the World Trade Center on 9/11. Everybody went quiet as they watched the footage. The vibe was similar here. The mountains burned and nobody knew how to process it. They were in shock.

  “Raise your snouts, Shandan,” a deep, unfamiliar voice called out. Menik perked up.

  “You brought more food?” he asked, “Good man, Ezrai.”

  Vincent looked up to see a hulking Falian walking toward them, carrying in his arms a large basket with steaming loaves. Ebony scales covered his entire body, save for his eyes, which were outlined with white circles. His snout was shaped like a spade and his horns, dipping upwards like an antelope’s rack, were longer than most. The horn guard that covered their tips had an open space between them, through which a small curious snout poked through. It belonged to a winged toddler that clung to his back. Walking next to Ezrai was a young boy who shared his coloring and the same shovel-like snout.

  “Fresh out of the oven,” Ezrai said, “Caln leaves, pelkin meat, herbs of the violet tear. All fresh.”

  “You spoil us,” Jeris said.

  “The champions of Admoran deserve a champion’s meal,” Ezrai said. He noticed Vincent. “And who is this?”

  “Vincent Cordell,” Menik said, “He is the one who was sleeping in the High Channeler’s carriage.”

  Ezrai stopped and stared at Vincent. He moved his snout from side to side and furrowed his brows “I have not seen eyes like yours, Vincent Cordell. They change color.” He turned to the soldiers. “Have you seen this?”

  “Aye, we have,” Madrian said, “but we are too polite to say anything.”

  “Ha!” Ezrai chuffed.

  Though there were dire undertones in his voice, he put on a cheerful facade. Perhaps it was for the kids' sake. The little dragonoid on his back squirmed, so he crouched down and let the young one climb off. She flopped unceremoniously onto the grass and tried to stand up, using her father’s leg for support. Two bumps where her horns would soon be dotted the top of her head. Ezrai’s son stayed close to his father and kept looking toward the zeffyr's remains.

  Ezrai uncovered the basket, grabbed one of the smaller loaves and handed it to his daughter. She grabbed onto it and flopped onto her side in the grass. It was far too big for her to eat, being nearly half her height. Yet she curled around it and embraced it with both her legs and arms like a feline holding a toy. She gnawed on the crust while her tiny teeth scraped against the surface. Occasionally, she’d kick at the loaf while she held it. It was an instinct that human toddlers did not have.

  “You said these came out of an oven?” Jeris asked, “You brought an oven with you?”

  “I feed diplomats,” Ezrai said. His deep voice was filled with ebullience. “It is what I do. It is my path. For this reason I have two wagons. One is to sleep in. One is an oven on wheels. Here...eat. Eat. And eat!” He passed out the loafs to each soldier. “As the zerok say, ‘we are one feather’. You took care of the storms, and so I return the favor.”

  Vincent accepted a loaf of bread from Ezrai and thanked him. It was more akin to meatloaf under the crust than traditional bread. There were chunks of meat throughout and, like the stew, it was loaded with herbs. It was just as exquisite as the stew and the leg.

  Oy, Caleet, did you make these?" Menik asked, taking a loaf.

  Ezrai's son looked at him. "No," he said shyly, "But I…I helped."

  "Do you help your father cook often? Is that what makes it so good?"

  Ezrai scoffed at this and waited for Caleet to answer. But his son kept looking at the mountains with a blank expression on his snout.

  "That was a terrifying monster," Menik said, clearly trying to comfort the youth. "But we are safe now. High Channeler Thal'rin protected us. He is powerful, more powerful than you can imagine."

  It was clear Caleet was not convinced. Nobody was. The silence spoke for all of them. It was filled with their unspoken doubts. The only being who appeared oblivious to the destruction was the winged toddler crawling on the ground.

  “I never thought…I never thought I would see one of those things again," Sperloc said. It was the first time Vincent heard him speak since the previous night. His voice was oddly devoid of inflection. "Such things should not exist."

  "You have seen this thing before?" Ezrai asked.

  "I was just a kid…" Sperloc spat, clenching the ohnite scroll in his hands. "It was the day of my cousin's capping ceremony. They were celebrating in my hometown. But my father, my brother, and I were outside of town skipping water. There was a pond with a cliff nearby. We would spread our wings, leap, and if you hit the water just right, you could skip across it. When my father decided it was time to head back for the ceremony, we got out. Dried ourselves. On our way back we felt something pass through us."

  Sperloc sounded like a confused child, trying to make sense of things. "Then we heard it. A noise that sounded like thousands of insects. We saw the sky open up over our village and one of those things come through. It destroyed my home. All that was left was smoldering houses and a blasted canyon where it had rutted the land. And the bodies…did you know that if you are heated up fast enough you will explode?"

  "–Oy, Sperloc!" Menik said, clapping his hands.

  Sperloc snapped out of it and glared at Menik. But then he saw Caleet staring at him and he shut up. Ezrai bowed his head in acknowledgement.

  “Interesting times we live in,” he said, “Dark times. There are entire villages worth of people, wandering, displaced by the ‘stormspawn’. Too afraid to return to their homes. You have seen these things?”

  “We have,” M'kari said.

  Vincent, not wanting to hear M'kari talk about the stormspawn, got up and walked around. He did not have a destination, he just wanted to move. So that's what he did. He was like a stick caught in the current of a slow-moving strait. Everywhere he looked, he saw creatures like him, wandering aimlessly. Confusion and terror wracked their snouts as they looked on at the distant apocalypse. Guards wearing the Meldohn colors, shades of black and purple, continued to patrol. Eyes followed Vincent, as did curious whispers. If he closed his eyes, he bet they would sound just like his phantoms.

  A fit of coughing came out of nowhere and he headed right back to get some water. He coughed so hard tears were coming out of his eyes and he could hardly breathe. Menik pointed him to the water barrel and he immediately quenched his parched throat. It was filled with grit.

  "Are you still sick?" Jeris asked, "I thought the nectar was supposed to cure everything."

  "There's still a bunch of shit in my throat," Vincent rasped. Suddenly the shandan all stood erect and folded their wings in front of their chests. Vincent turned around and saw Thal'rin standing there.

  “Shikas,” he said. At this, they relaxed and dropped their wings. The High Channeler walked around, answered a few questions, and even made a few jokes. Then he reached Vincent.

  “Are you well, Vincent?" he asked.

  "I'm better."

  "Will you walk with me?"