(Secondday of the First Week of Krakrenro, 669 AC)

  They came for Harriet that evening, storming into the inn led by the commander of the Empire’s troops in Fris. She waited in the cellar with Nicholas, listening to the clanking of armor and the commander’s booming voice demanding that Stevan hand over the one who destroyed the memorial.

  “What do you think they’ll do to me?” Harriet murmured. She sat on one of the barrels in the cellar, hands clasped in front of her and head bowed.

  “That commander of theirs has practically been frothing at the mouth to get rid of us,” Nicholas said, equally as soft. “I’m sure he’ll take the opportunity presented to him.”

  Harriet sighed. She always thought she would die for her country--first when they’d been at war, then after, when the war simply became more silent. Not like this, though. Not captured and put down like a rabid beast.

  “I’m sorry, Nick,” Harriet said. “I’ve always had a bit of a temper, huh?”

  Nick chuckled, though the sound was strained. “That you have, Harriet. I always figured it would be the death of me.”

  Harriet froze. “Nick, what do you--”

  The door to the cellar slammed open, several soldiers pouring down the stairs. Had Stevan sold them out or had they made him talk? Either way, he was a traitor to the cause.

  The commander strolled down the stairs, hands clasped behind his back, as his soldiers seized Harriet and Nicholas and forced them to their knees. “One of you destroyed a memorial made by the Empire,” the commander said. “A symbol of peace, ruined by the hatred of animals.”

  He stopped at the base of the stairs and turned on his heel to loom over the both of them. “I want to know which of you did it.”

  Harriet was the only one here with the magical ability to pull it off, and that was obvious by her hair color. Why would the commander even bother asking?

  Harriet spat at his feet--her first mistake. In the breadth of time it took her to do that, Nicholas said, “I did.”

  Harriet’s entire body tensed. “Nick, what--”

  “You don’t look to have the magical ability necessary to pull off such a feat,” the commander said. But he was smiling knowingly.

  This was what the man wanted. He wanted Nicholas out of the game.

  “I dye my hair,” Nicholas lied. “And you know that I have been staunchly against the Empire since you set foot on our land. Seeing that affront to our suffering was the last straw--I had to destroy it.”

  “Nick--” Harriet began, heated, but was silenced by one of the soldiers gripping her hair and yanking on it.

  “I suppose we have our culprit then, don’t we?” the commander said, still smiling. “Bring him. Leave her.”

  The soldiers handling Harriet shoved her to the side as they surrounded Nicholas and dragged him to his feet. Harriet pushed herself up from where she fell. “Don’t do this, Nick. What are we supposed to do without you?”

  The commander led the entourage up the stairs. Nick turned and smiled at her. “That’s right, Harriet. What will you do without me?”

  The way he said it made Harriet pause. The commander held the door open for his men as they escorted Nicholas out of the room. The commander obviously wanted this to happen--but Nicholas wanted this to happen, too. Why did Nicholas want this to happen?

  Because he wanted to inspire his countrymen. And nothing inspired people quite like a martyr. Not only that, but he was leaving Harriet in charge. Harriet, who made impulsive decisions fueled by anger. Harriet, who had destroyed the memorial.

  Harriet, who knew enough magic to lead a counter attack against the Empire if she had the people to support her.

  She didn’t want Nicholas to die. He was the only reason she was still alive, doubly so now. But, maybe, he simply had to die so that the people of Fris would rise up.

  Harriet watched them go, plans already forming. She would get the Empire out of her city, one way or another.

  And she would start with the priestess.

  They hung Nicholas the next morning. The sun was bright, the breeze was light--all in all, it was a beautiful day. The people of Shraven should have been enjoying it, but instead, they crammed into the city square to watch the unspoken leader of their city be hanged.

  Nicholas marched up the stairs to the gallows with his head held high, proud in this as he was in all things. Harriet watched from a distance, not quite part of the crowd spilling into the nearby streets, but not close to the front, either.

  A hush fell over the entire city as Nicholas stopped and they began preparing his noose. Before they slipped it around his neck, he bellowed, “This is not the end of Fris or the end of Shraven! Look to the one that leads you still. Trust in your spirits, your courage, and your strength.”

  A soldier put the noose around his neck and tightened it. Quiet sniffling could be heard throughout the crowd, but Harriet watched the procession with dry eyes. In his final moments, Nick told the people to follow her. She would not forget that. She would not let him down.

  “For Fris!” he shouted, just as they kicked the stool out from under him.

  His neck snapped cleanly. At least they did him that service--they didn’t leave him to hang and suffocate on his noose.

  The square was completely silent. Harriet took a deep breath and shouted, “For Fris!”

  For a moment, there was nothing. Then, her call began to echo around the square, more people rallying the cry until it became a chant, “For Fris! For Fris!”

  Soldiers began moving through the crowd, forcing the people of Shraven to disperse. Harriet kept her head down and wove through the mass of bodies back in the direction of her house. Nick told them to look to her, and when she arrived home, she found several townspeople already waiting for her.

  “Spread the word,” she told them. “We fight back tonight.”

  Harriet spared a single thought for Wanily before banishing it. If she decided to stay with the priestess, then she was the enemy, too.

  Dahlia couldn’t muster up the energy to get out of bed for most of the day. She simply laid and stared at the ceiling and wondered how everything had gotten so mucked up. One of Darik’s men stopped by and informed her that Nicholas had been hung, completely surprising Dahlia. She thought Harriet would be blamed for the crime--since that was certainly what made the most sense--but apparently Nicholas had confessed to destroying the memorial. So, in turn, Darik had destroyed him, and Dahlia had been completely powerless to stop it.

  And now she had to go crawling to Darik and tell him she wanted to return to Tiranda. She hated it, but what else was she supposed to do?

  After the soldier left, Dahlia went back to bed and had remained there for several hours.

  Wanily was worried about her, of course. She stuck around the church and practiced her magic or read her book for most of the day. She tried making conversation with Dahlia a few times, but after several stilted responses, she would let it drop.

  Dahlia needed to get over this. She would go home and be with her brother and she’d be able to help Wanily, too. It really was for the best, she figured, but then, why was it so hard?

  She just hated feeling like a failure.

  By the time she finally managed to sit up in bed, it was well into the evening. Wanily was in the main room of the church, probably practicing her magic. She glanced at the kitchen, her stomach giving a rueful reminder that she’d only eaten breakfast that morning. Had Wanily eaten? She hadn’t even been paying close enough attention to say. She should probably check on her.

  She stood and made her way into the main room where Wanily was studying an astro-orb. She glanced up at Dahlia and smiled, clearly relieved to see her up. “How do these things work, anyway?” Wanily asked.

  Dahlia sat next to her, frowning. “Well, there’s a crystal inside it, I’m pretty sure. I think that’s what powers it, but as for what spells they use to actually work...” she trailed off with a shrug.

  Wanily huffed. “I guess I’ll just have to find out when I go to college, huh?”

  Dahlia smiled. “I guess you will.”

  It was around then that Dahlia smelt something burning. She frowned. She didn’t recall seeing the fireplace lit, but maybe Wanily was cooking something. “Wanily, did you light the fireplace?”

  “No?” she said, setting the astro-orb aside. She frowned suddenly, sniffing at the air. “Oh, something’s burning, huh?”

  Dahlia shivered, suddenly, feeling cold and off-kilter. Something was wrong. She turned toward the door only to stop short. Across the wall, patches of flames were slowly growing in size and strength. Smoke billowed from them, wafting high into the rafters above.

  “Oh, Amera,” Dahlia breathed. What should she do? The door was quickly becoming engulfed in flames, and there was no way she had enough water to put out so much fire.

  “Shit,” Wanily said, jumping to her feet beside her and eyes wide as she watched the flames. “Um, we should get to the window, right?”

  “Yes, the window,” Dahlia said, rushing toward the living quarters with Wanily hot on her heels. It was wood like the rest of the building, but the flames hadn’t yet spread to it. She undid the lock on the window and tried to push open the panels. However, a second after they began to swing open, they suddenly snapped shut. Dahlia yelped, pushing harder on them, but they refused to budge.

  It was like when Wanily had used her old magic to make things move, but exactly the opposite. Instead of no movement and then sudden lurching, Dahlia had managed to begin opening the window only for it to slam shut. But this couldn’t be the work of magic, could it? Maybe the hinges were stuck?

  Even just the thought seemed ridiculous. Something was going on here, something more than that.

  “What’s wrong?” Wanily said, moving to stand beside her. “Is the window not opening?”

  Dahlia shook her head, prompting Wanily to try pushing the window open with her. Still, it didn’t move even a fraction of an inch.

  Wanily huffed, “Okay, keep pushing,” she said, her brow furrowing in concentration. But even though she was clearly trying to use her magic, the window still didn’t move. “Why isn’t this working?” she growled, pushing and banging on the window.

  Dahlia coughed, the smoke starting to curl through the lower parts of the building. She rushed back to the doorway leading to the main room, blanching when she saw the flames quickly spreading through the space. She whirled back around to Wanily. “You know how to make fire, right? Do you know how to put it out?”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “Um,” Wanily started, eyes wide, “well, that’s a lot more complicated, and I haven’t quite figured it out yet.”

  Dahlia glanced back at the flames, at a loss. How did this fire even start? Why wouldn’t the window open? And why did Dahlia have such a bad feeling about all of it?

  “Can you figure it out now?” she said, moving back to the window and trying to wrench it open again.

  Wanily’s gaze fell before she visibly steeled herself. “I can. I have to, right?”

  She marched to the doorway and stared down at the fire. That was all that Dahlia saw before she focused back on trying to get the window open. She shoved and hit and kicked it all to no avail. By now, she was coughing more than she was actually breathing, and she heard Wanily similarly coughing behind her. Then, a sudden flash of light flared through the room. Dahlia whirled around to find Wanily smiling.

  “It’s working! I think,” she said. She swayed in place for a moment before widening her stance. “Woah. That takes a lot of you, though.”

  “Can you keep doing it?” Dahlia demanded, looking between Wanily and the way light of the flames continued to flicker across every surface in the room.

  Wanily nodded and seemed to focus again. A beat passed before another flash of light blared into the room. Dahlia cautiously abandoned the window to stand behind Wanily. When she began to sway again, Dahlia caught her shoulders and held her in place. She glanced back at Dahlia, nodding, before focusing back on the room of flames. It did seem to be working, if the charred sections of floor and walls absent of fire were any indication. There was a lot of fire, though, and it continued to spread even between Wanily’s conversions from flame to light.

  It wasn’t going to work, Dahlia realized. Wanily was trying her best, but there was too much for her to do and she wasn’t a strong enough mage for it all.

  She swallowed hard as one of the rafters snapped and fell into the inferno, causing the flames to roar even higher. Wanily was doing an admirable job of keeping them from the room they were in, but she was quickly losing ground to the fire.

  It was a losing battle. Dahlia had more than her fair share of experience with that. But she wanted to help someone, right? She didn’t know if she’d be able to get out, but she could at least try to save Wanily.

  “The chimney,” she said, gripping Wanily’s shoulders. She was trembling from the exertion of her magic, and it made Dahlia’s chest tighten. “We can go out through the chimney. You’ve learned how to use gravity magic, right? Can you use that to get us out of the chimney?”

  “Maybe?” Wanily said. “Living things tend to be at least a little resistant to magic, except for, you know, soul magic, but--I can try.”

  Dahlia nodded and grabbed Wanily’s pack, thrusting it into her arms. Wanily stumbled back, clearly drained from trying to put the fire out. Dahlia wasn’t sure this would work, and the longer she thought about what was about to happen, the more she panicked. So she just wouldn’t think about it, she decided.

  She seized Wanily by the arm and all but dragged her to the empty fireplace. “Use your gravity magic to help you climb up.”

  Wanily eyed Dahlia. “What about you?”

  “I’ll be right behind you,” she said. “I can try climbing up on my own, and if that doesn’t work, you can help me once you get to the top.”

  Wanily regarded her suspiciously for another moment, but a roar of the fire behind them seemed to convince her to start moving. She slung her pack on her back and stepped into the fireplace. She took a deep breath--a mistake since she started coughing--before she jumped. It was like she was moving through water, the way she started to just float up into the chimney. Dahlia could just barely hear her scrabbling to hang onto the rocks of the chimney before she must have jumped again.

  Dahlia, feeling confident that Wanily wasn’t going to fall onto her, crawled into the fireplace and stood up. It was dark with smoke inside, and Dahlia immediately started coughing again. She put one hand on one side, the other hand on the other, and attempted to start climbing up the chimney. It was too dark to make out any hand or footholds however, and Dahlia quickly found herself slipping back to the bottom.

  “Dahlia!” Wanily screamed. Oh, at least it sounded like she had reached the top. “I can use my magic on you! Try again!”

  Dahlia put her hands on the rocks of the chimney again, feeling very lightheaded. She started coughing again and found her vision was starting to go black around the edges. She tried to jump like Wanily had, but she only went up a normal amount and came right back down.

  She thought she heard Wanily cursing above her, but she couldn’t be sure if she heard right over the roaring of the fire behind her. Then, she heard something snap in the building, and indescribable heat and pain flared all across her body.

  She screamed. And then, nothingness.

  Harriet watched the church burn with grim satisfaction, just like when she had destroyed the memorial. Things didn’t have to turn out this way. If the priestess had just left sooner, Nicholas wouldn’t be dead and Harriet wouldn’t have to resort to this.

  Other than the snapping and roaring of the flames destroying the church, the small area around Harriet was quiet. Most of the people of Shraven were off fighting the Tirandan soldiers. Only a handful stood with Harriet and watched the church burn.

  Once the building was nothing but ash, Harriet would move on to fighting the soldiers with her countrymen. But for now, she needed this.

  She hadn’t cried when she saw Nicholas hanging, body swaying, but she was ashamed to find tears falling now. She didn’t understand it, but maybe catharsis was like that.

  There was a small measure of guilt over Wanily’s needless death, but hundreds if not thousands of children had already died in this war. What was one more when that one sided with the enemy?

  Except, as Harriet watched, she spotted movement on the roof of the church. She stood, shocked as Wanily shimmied her way out of the chimney and all but collapsed on the wooden roof. She leaned back over the chimney and started shouting something, but Harriet couldn’t make out what it was over the roaring flames. Then, part of the roof caved in, and flames shot up from the chimney, forcing Wanily to scramble away.

  Quite clearly, Harriet heard her pained screech of, “Dahlia!”

  Harriet grimaced. It seemed Wanily had escaped the flames only for the priestess to succumb to them. Maybe Wanily wouldn’t have to die along with her after all. She turned to one of the men with her. “Come with me.”

  He nodded, ready to follow her to the ends of the globe if necessary, and stuck close as she headed to the side of the building. “I’m going to launch you up there,” Harriet told him. “Grab the girl, come back to the edge of the roof, and I’ll slow your descent down.”

  He nodded again, and Harriet focused on him, lessening gravity to the point that he began to float. She pushed on the man, propelling him up toward the roof. When he reached the lip, he climbed over, and Harriet let go of her magic on him. She heard Wanily screaming as he, presumably, grabbed her and dragged her away from the chimney. She was struggling in his arms when he appeared on the edge of the roof again, and when he jumped over the side, Harriet was quick to redirect the energy of his fall so he landed lightly on the ground beside her.

  Wanily stopped squirming when she caught sight of Harriet, and Harriet’s man set her down. “Why are you here?” she demanded, voice hoarse from the smoke. “What did you do?”

  “What I had to,” Harriet said evenly.

  “You killed her,” Wanily screamed. “You lit the church on fire and stopped us from opening the window, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  Tears streaming down her face, Wanily cried, “Why?”

  “She was a poison to my country,” Harriet hissed. “She had to leave or she had to die. She made her choice.”

  “You don’t get it!” Wanily screeched. “You’d already won! We were going to go to Tiranda. We were going to leave the whole stupid continent at the end of the week.” Wanily flung herself at Harriet suddenly, weakly smacking her fists against her. “Her brother is dying. She wanted to go back to Tiranda and spend time with him. It was over!”

  Harriet hadn’t known that, but even hearing it now, it made no difference, she decided. “Nicholas is dead because of her,” she said, shoving Wanily away. “He left me in charge. That priestess and the Empire made an example of him, so I made an example of her.”

  Wanily very nearly fell over but managed to right herself. Panting, skinny features wicked in the light of the roaring flames, she sneered at Harriet, “All Dahlia ever wanted to do was help you.”

  “I never wanted her help,” Harriet snapped. “None of us did. Now, you have a choice to make, Wanily. Stay and help our fight, or leave and hope I never see your face again.”

  Wanily glared at her. “If I never come back to Fris,” she spat, “it’ll be too soon.”

  She turned on her heel then and left as quickly as her shaky legs could carry her. Harriet looked to the man with her. “Make sure she gets out of the city,” she said. As much vitriol as Harriet had hissed at her, she didn’t want to see Wanily die senselessly. “Then see about helping the others.”

  He nodded and began to tail Wanily. Harriet took a deep breath and headed back to her small group. She had a city to take back, and she’d succeeded in the first step. Now, to drive out the rest of the filth.

  Eko woke to the sound of something bipedal and clumsy--so, a human--approaching. He slunk out of the hollowed out tree trunk he’d made a small nest in and took better cover behind a rock just in case it wasn’t Wanily.

  Thankfully, it was Wanily, but Eko immediately knew something was wrong. Not mentioning the late hour, she stunk of smoke and Eko could hear the distinct sound of her crying. Alarmed, he let out a chirp and bounded out from behind the rock over to her.

  She all but collapsed next to him. She was covered in streaks of ash, her clothes ruined by it, and her eyes were bloodshot. “She’s dead, Eko,” she cried, voice hoarse. “Dahlia is dead.”

  Eko let out a chirp of alarm. He nuzzled against Wanily’s shoulder as she began to cry again. “Fris hated her so much they killed her and tried to kill me,” she choked out. She sniffled sharply and let it out in a shaky breath. “We’re leaving Fris,” she said. “And we’re not coming back. Not ever.”

  Eko nodded to her. Whatever Wanily wanted. Wherever she went, Eko would follow.

  She let out a high keening sound, burying her face in her hands. “She never even got to say goodbye to her brother,” Wanily sobbed. Eko had no idea what she was talking about, but it was clearly upsetting Wanily. He sat next to her, pressing the side of his body to hers. “And now her parents are going to lose two children. It just isn’t fair.”

  She took a shuddering breath. “But Harriet lost her family to the war, too. Maybe none of it is fair. But does that make it right?” Eko didn’t know how to respond, but Wanily continued, “I don’t know. I just know that I don’t want to stay in this country anymore. I’ll learn old magic somewhere--anywhere--else.”

  Eko nodded, at a loss for what else to do. He had half a mind to go into the city and kill whoever made Wanily so upset, but he knew she wouldn’t want that. Despite being a creature of the old gods, she wasn’t the kind to seek revenge.

  “I think I need to rest a little first,” Wanily said softly. “Keep watch for me?”

  Eko chirped in affirmation and laid next to her when she set out her bedroll and curled up in it. And if she started crying again, Eko merely laid his head on her shoulder and let her cry herself to sleep.

  Dahlia blinked her eyes open to see a hazy, gray sky partially blocked by curling mists. She sat up slowly, trying to get her bearings. The ground beneath her was white stone, smooth and shiny despite the mist that wafted around her. Uncertain, she climbed to her feet and tried to look around, but as far as the eye could see, there was only thick mist around her, white ground beneath her, and gray sky above her.

  She knew this place. Well, she didn’t know this place. But she’d read about it. She had never been a scholar but even she knew of Gehenna, the place where souls hated by the gods were sent after they died. But that didn’t make any sense. The old gods stopped sending people to Gehenna after the war between them and the new gods.

  So why was Dahlia here?

  She must have died in the fire, but that didn’t answer why a god would hate her enough to not only send her to Gehenna but break the pact between the gods to do so.

  She was suddenly aware of a presence behind her and whirled around to find, high above her, two glowing, orange eyes watching her.

  She knew this part, too. The shepherd of souls and agent of Moss--Bryo, the reaper. He was supposed to watch over the souls in Gehenna and, mostly, explain what the punishment consisted of.

  Indeed, after a beat where Dahlia gawked at him, he started speaking. “Human mortal,” he said in a whisper that Dahlia could hear clearly despite its softness. “For your crimes against the gods of our realms, you have been sentenced to an eternity in the mists of Gehenna. I will now outline what you can expect from your prison.

  “There is no escape from the realm of Gehenna,” Bryo continued in a murmur. “You will not be able to contact anyone, living or dead, in Gehenna. Amendment: mortals referred to as mediums have the ability to converse with those trapped in Gehenna.”

  Dahlia had heard of mediums, though she had never met one while she was alive. Maybe that would change now that she was dead, she mused.

  For some reason, she felt strangely calm about all of this.

  “You do not have the needs of the living,” Bryo said. “This includes items such as food, water, and sleep. You are condemned to wander the mists of Gehenna, a land of unchanging solitude, until the gods themselves are wiped from existence. I am the Guardian of Gehenna, Bryo, the reaper. I will ensure you do not escape your sentence. Thus concludes the explanation of your punishment.”

  Dahlia watched Bryo, expecting those glowing, orange eyes to disappear. But they continued to linger high above her until she finally asked, “Are you going to just follow me the whole time?”

  “You should not be here,” Bryo whispered. “Just like the boy. Why are you here?”

  What boy? Dahlia was about to ask just as those orange eyes winked out of existence, leaving her alone in the mists of Gehenna.

  She gazed around herself for another long moment before sitting on the ground and letting herself weep. She never got to say goodbye to Quiv. It seemed pointless considering he was going to die soon, too, and she could only hope he didn’t end up here. Those in Gehenna were said to quickly go mad in the never-ending, misty landscape.

  She looked up at the hazy sky and found herself praying. Just like always, she received no answer, but it did make her feel better. Maybe, as long as she kept Amera in her heart, she wasn’t truly alone.

  And Wanily was alive because of her. That was a small consolation, but a consolation nonetheless. Dahlia hoped she would go on to do great things, even if she herself was no longer alive to see it.