Ruptured and sundered, my mind shattered the moment I touched the reservoir. Just a little more of the madness, just a little less of myself, and the knowledge became mine. The creature, this thing, possesses a knowing that is intrinsic to its existence. To be human, it tells me, was an accident. Life itself stumbled blindly into the curse of sentience. We are perversions, it says—beings never meant to wield such power, never meant to become self-aware.

  It is a cruel irony that we cannot comprehend the power we seek to master. Where we are born and stumble upon it, they are born of it. This fundamental truth is why our minds splinter under their weight. But in my descent, I have learned this: the burden can be shared, even shifted. The madness, the torment, can be transferred. The price is simply for another to lose their mind in my stead.

  At first, I didn’t understand what I had done. I didn’t know what it was. But when the truth revealed itself, it became my obsession. The reservoir must be completed, no matter the cost. Every so often, another must pay the price. Another must fall.

  And yet, doubt gnaws at the edges of my mind, what little remains of it. What if this price I pay is the very thing I sought to prevent? What if I have already gone too far? What if it has already begun to seep into the world, to taint it beyond redemption?

  What if I am not its master, but its avatar?

  Sneaking out was always a risky business. Sneaking out with gear, doubly so. Tonight though, Kurt was intent on his coup de grace of guile. Okay, perhaps not coup de grace, more like dupe de grace, but would be satisfied with that if it worked. He knew he was under close inspection, his mother wouldn't trust a word Kurt said when it came to protecting his family, and thus would likely have several eyes on him. Furthermore, she knew him well enough to know that he didn't like the idea of being stuck inside. He was a hunter, a trapper, and a tracker, he was meant to be in the Wilds. It was more of his home than anywhere else and keeping him confined to this camp would be sheer torture for him. He also knew that there was no way to get out without his mother knowing about it, but he was more concerned with her knowing about it in time to prevent him from his midnight dash.

  After thinking long and hard about how to get out without her knowing, he gave up. He knew there was no possible way he could get out without his mother finding out, but by redefining his goal he knew he could find success. All he had to do was remove any hope of avoiding the consequences, particularly the flogging and inevitable castration he would incur. When he got back, his mother was going to be pissed.

  He took three days to feel wholly himself. His first reaction, to leave that very night, was swiftly waylaid after his first night's rest. The severity of the situation had yet to dawn on him, he understood everything just fine, his town had been besieged, people he had known his entire life had either been killed by the Kressians or taken by plague. These were all people that played minor roles in his life, people that had trained him for a day when he was ten, or people that he'd see once every season for a new pair of boots or new woolen tunics.

  That was how he saw it as he drifted off to sleep, but the next day, as always, brought a new light. He had risen, greeted his mother, and began warming up to exercise in the field. Of course, the field was covered in tents, muddy, and the people there less than happy. So, he took to walking the grounds, hoping to find the space to practice his staff work. For a time, he was doubtful he'd find the space needed. Then, he spotted a fair gap in the tents with an adjacent gap across the aisle, enough for him to really spread his movements, just the way he liked it.

  He was midway through the dueler's routine, a series of movements meant to disorient a skilled opponent, when an older woman came walking by. He recognized her as Agatha Weaver, the village head of Metan.

  Well, the former village head, really. Her choice to prevent the call for aid was, in retrospect, a terrible decision. Though nothing formal had come about, she and the rest of the village were following the lead of his mother. This rise in status would have made most kids snooty, or self-entitled, but Kurt knew it wasn't his right to behave in such a fashion. His mother was incredibly competent, cleverly coordinated, and deserving of the role. For him to act any way but the apt and honorable son would only bring acrimony to a woman that didn't need anything else on her plate. Besides, Kurt wasn't the one that the village trusted, his mother was, and her accomplishments belonged to herself and no other. Kurt had his own accomplishments to endeavor towards, and when he was victorious in his goals, he wouldn't want anybody giving credit to someone else that wasn't involved. He hoped his mother would see it the same way.

  Agatha, despite her wealth, was subtle, political, and cold. That is why Kurt paused his work when he saw her crying. Taking his staff out of guard, he walked over to her. Her cloak was fine, made of bearskin that had been bleached a snow white, but that did little to distract from the dismay on her face or the tears so prominent there. Her eyes were rimmed red, and she choked something back before clearing her throat.

  “Elder Agatha, hail and salutations.” His mother's tutelage in formal language was finally starting to come in handy. Kurt gave Agatha an apologetic smile.

  “Hail to you, young Hunt. First to the line, second to the house of Metan.” She sniffed but seemed to put herself back together. “I trust you know what you're about this morning?” She choked a bit as she spoke, maybe not gathered completely.

  “I am in the midst of practice, I doubt there is a better time to stay in shape than when an enemy lies at our gates.” He said, putting on an inquisitive air and tilting his head.

  “Justly so, but I am,” her eyes blinked rapidly, “I am remorseful as to your ability to practice. The space-” she choked off for a spell and swallowed, “I sincerely wish that space wasn't available.”

  Kurt looked to her and raised an eyebrow. “I'm sorry Elder, I didn't know.”

  She nodded, grim sadness melting across her aged face. Her lips trembled, and her frown deepened. She whispered, “didn't know?”

  Kurt shook his head, “no, I didn't. Was this your kin?” As far as Kurt knew, she had children, but some had become recruits to the Monastery, some died as a result to living in such a harsh environment, and others moved to Gwendon. He didn't think she had any kin in the village itself.

  “Yes,” she nodded somberly, “she was my kin. My sister's granddaughter, a good soul, entirely too young, too kind, and too caring.” She scratched at her hand, which drew attention to the black spots covering her skin, where she scratched the blackness moved. It reminded Kurt of something, but he couldn't place it.

  “If I may ask, who was she?” Kurt asked, not sure how else to proceed.

  “Oh, you knew her quite well, she had plenty good to say about you, even when you went missing.”

  Now Kurt was curious, and perhaps a bit alarmed. Scowling, and not without a little uncertainty, Kurt asked, “What was her name?”

  “Diana.”

  That was the beginning of his spiral. Though he'd never admit it to Dorian, Diana was Kurt's first real kiss. They had never made love, Kurt knew they were both too young, but the exploration of romantic curiosity was never off the table for them. She was kind, attractive, and could light up the room with her smile. She was intelligent but cared more for herb lore than creating schemes. Brilliant really, but despite having a sharp mind she never used its edge to harm.

  Kurt didn't like how things ended and had missed her throughout the last year. He spent most of the rest of his day figuring out who had died. He was ashamed that their absences weren't enough to jog his mind, he had to look them up, had to see the names. He went through all his mother's paperwork and had scoured both lists of the dead. The plague had claimed Diana, along with several of those in his age group. Other kids that he had shared labors with, trained with, ate with, bled with. Rivals, even enemies, gone. It felt like just last week he was feasting in their company, now their bodies were ashes.

  Then came the list of those that had died in battle. The Kressians had attempted to knock down the gate and apparently found some success. They had been battering the gate while another group quietly laced part of the wall with Gwam dust. Apparently, though the method worked at removing part of the wall, it also announced the breach in the Metan defenses, which his father, having not left yet, met with force. He had led the charge against the breach, and despite his bold actions, he had made it out with nothing more than a gash across his leg. Others weren't so lucky.

  Master Kel had been on the list. A few others from his class were too, but it was Kel’s name that hit like a punch to the gut. The gruff, knotted man had met his end in that raid, and to his credit, he had gone down fighting. Not for Metan, though, since the place was rubble now, but for the people. That stubborn old bastard had died defending them.

  Kurt did not cry much these days. There was too much to do and too much to survive. But for Kel, he had wept. The thought of the man’s sacrifice was the only thing keeping him moving, scraping together the last grain of resolve he had left.

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  That grain sat there for a full day before he could act on it. He spent the time prepping supplies, not in some big bundle since that would be too obvious, but in smaller stashes ready for a quick grab and go. The sack of food he had hidden in the makeshift kitchens was crammed behind a door in a small pot, one he could grab in a hurry. He would need it for more than food. A pot could boil water, and he was not about to relive his last experience with dehydration.

  Three days without food. Almost three days on a single flask of water. He could still feel the dry ache in his throat, the way his mouth was so parched he could not even spit. That memory was burned into him, and there was no way he was letting that happen again.

  Kurt had also taken to keeping the stave Dorian had given him with him everywhere, telling his mother it gave him a sense of assurance. The rest of the things he needed were small, knife, twine, flint, and flask, which could easily be kept with him. The sketchy part was concealing his travel cloak, bedroll and his tent. Those he stashed beneath the bed he had been using, and simply prayed to the Gods that his mother wouldn't catch on before he was already gone.

  When the time came, it was late. Generally, there was a switch in guard duty every night. That was where he hoped to slip out, preying on one numb skull in particular. Thinking ahead, Kurt sneaked over to the kitchens and grabbed his travel rations before he headed back to his room, heart pounding as prayed to Kressor to go unseen. He knew he was lucky to be inside, and knew it was the privilege of being his mother's son, but living luxury didn't supersede the wellbeing of his father. No, he had failed in protecting Dorian, he would stop at nothing to keep the rest of his family together. He was reminded of his failure to Dorian as he hefted the beautiful staff Dorian had made him. The fighters on the front, the name “Hunt” engraved on it, the way it was etched to look like flames. It was a masterpiece and motivated Kurt, mostly for all the shame it burdened his soul with. He held his pack on the top, carrying it like a bag rather than a pack mostly to mute the sound. Silently, he made his way out to the brisk air and headed towards the furthest watch tower, the one closest to an old deer path that led right to where he needed to be.

  Kurt was surprised when the woman from the guard tower on the first night grabbed his shoulder, spinning him on his heel. He had to admit, in the dark she looked a might bit more attractive, but his focus was high, and he didn't let the thought distract him.

  “Where do you think your heading?” She asked, sounding irate. Then she grabbed the pot, peeked inside, and shook her head. “Oh no you don't, Emilia I-.” Kurt raised his hands and interrupted before her voice could get too loud.

  “Wait, I know what it looks like, but I'm actually heading over to see my cousin.” Kurt was stretching the truth, he knew, but he had to try.

  “Uh huh, sure. What do you need this food for? Flint too? You must be taking me for a fool if you think I'll believe you.”

  Kurt sighed a long sigh and stopped playing the child. He wasn't that, not anymore.

  “What's your name again, I'm sorry, it slipped my memory.” Kurt asked.

  She glared at Kurt for a long moment. “Ash. Short for Ashley. Why?” Her glare could rival his mother's, and Kurt could tell she was growing impatient.

  “Listen, Ash, there's one of two ways this can go.” Her eyebrows shot up at the remark, but Kurt plowed ahead. “You can try to wrestle me down with whoever Emilia is, I'll ditch my pack here and simply go without. I know I can survive, but I have a mission and without my supplies the likelihood of surviving drops significantly.”

  “Yes, and the other way this will go down is Emilia and I hold you down while your mother comes out here and tans your hide!” She was getting suddenly vicious, like this was personal. Oh well.

  “No, the other way this goes down is you turn away, act like you never saw me, and in turn aid me in getting the men back here. We're half a village, plague or not, we need unified people if we're going to get through this. You know this as well as I do, just look around you? What has become of Metan?” Kurt gestured to the camp, the sprawl of tents, the weeping, the most recent smoking corpse. “We can't go on like this, and I'll be damned if I'm stuck in here waiting to die. I won’t, and I won’t let my father die out there alone either. Help me or don't, but I'm taking that pot, my supplies and I'm getting out of this camp tonight.” Quick as a cat, he reached out and snatched the pot back, it was quite small and put it under his arm. “But I'll warn you now, the second you try anything, I'm shouting “raid” at the top of my lungs.” He matched her glare, something he would seldom dare with his mother, turned and started walking.

  “Wait.” She said, but Kurt kept walking. “Wait, you big bastard.” She whispered it as a shout, the frustration clear in her tone. Kurt paused and looked over his shoulder at her. “My husband, Barnabas, he's out there too. We lost our only child, he left in anger and grief. If I let you go, will you give him a message?”

  Kurt paused and turned to look at her. He nodded once.

  “Tell him,” she paused considering, “tell him that he was... tell him that the Gods give back every time they take, tell him that his family might not be the same but he still has one. Tell him to come home to us.” She whispered the last bit, and a small part of Kurt envied her pain. He wasn't masochistic, he envied that she had so much to lose. Kurt could hear the desperation in her voice, he could hear her love there too. He'd have done more than nod if he thought he wouldn't get choked up, but he knew better. He nodded, turned, and began walking.

  Walking wasn't the right term for it, he slogged his way through the muddy encampment, some people still awake and talking by firelight. One lesson Master Kel had taught him about fire, as it is illuminating, it’s also light blinding. Kurt didn't even skulk, he just kept a steady distance from those fires and walked as though he were on a mission. Nary a soul begged a question, and if someone did, he simply ignored them. After the muddy slog, he made it to the guard tower.

  The young man sitting on guard was a distant cousin of Kurt's, his great uncle's great grandson, or some such nonsense that was generally implied with any small town. The other problem with small towns or villages ran along the relative size of the young man's mind, small towns meant small brains, this case especially so. Vincent Tanner wasn't necessarily simple, more so oblivious with a dash of distracted. He was the worst kind of guard, which was another good reason why Kurt came here.

  “Vincent, I'm here to alleviate you for the next hour. Night watch cap'n needs to speak to ya.” Kurt said as he put his first foot onto the ladder and began his ascent.

  “Wha-what?” Vincent replied sheepishly, jostling himself to wakefulness.

  “Cap'n needs to have a talk with you.” Kurt replied as seriously as he could.

  “Oh, man, do you know why? It's not my sister, is it?” Vincent rose with a sudden panic, eyes going wide for just a moment. He had grown since Kurt had last seen him. Large, and in the dim light looming. Kurt put his hands up in a placating gesture.

  “Relax, nothing of the sort. Something about a routine?” Kurt rubbed the back of his head, acting as though he'd been caught. He whispered through a smile, nodding as he spoke, “I'm pretty new to this, I'm not really sure.” He shrugged, “but she didn't seem angry. Ooh, can I sit here?”

  “Um, sure, just make sure you don't nod off. Hey, what's with all this stuff you brought?” Vincent pointed.

  “Oh, well, if you swear you won’t mention it, I'm working on a project, trying to make a gift for my mum'. Do you want to see?!” Kurt let his voice crack and spoke rapidly as he asked. Telltale signs of an attention starved young man, excited to impress his elders.

  Kurt, ashamedly, had one such experience with a kid he had been teaching to track. The more he engaged with the kid the more the kid would just ramble on, and if Kurt was being honest he simply didn't care what the kid was talking about. Kurt would endure the tirade out of politeness, or nod trying to end the conversation by agreement before a real discourse began. The entire experience was obnoxious, as there was no real safe exit.

  It was with this thought in mind when Kurt took a deep breath, signaling the commencement to the tirade, when Vincent said, “Sorry Kurt, I've got to go. Better check and see what the cap'n wants.” Suddenly quiet, he started climbing down the ladder when Kurt started jabbering at him like a squirrel. “Well, okay Vince, another time though! See you in an hour, got bunches to tell ya. Don't ya wanna know where I've been? Okay, well, see ya later!” He only heard a poorly covered groan as a response, smirked to himself, and started knotting his rope.

  Twenty minutes later, Kurt had successfully transported his supplies and managed to get his rope untied without making a sound. He swiftly gathered his rope, grabbed his things and ducked into the brush. Early spring in this part of the Valley could have explosive vegetation growths, spots where broad leaf bushes would sprout in mass, then spread. Usually, by mid-spring, the trees will sprout their leaves, blocking most light and preventing these bushes from spreading. Right now, though, they made excellent cover, and Kurt took full advantage to take a moment to get prepared properly. There was a trick to skulking about at night, a lesson all deviates should learn early on. Don't be loud.

  This little incite could be a hard lesson to learn, and the thought spurred him into a spiral of musings that led to: Lesson one of “Studies of the Astute Deviate of Mischief, The Law of Silence.” Needless to say, by the time his head space had made it there, his bags were securely fashioned, and he was idly checking the volume of his movement.

  Sound-checking was always tricky. Absolute silence wasn’t possible, not really. The trick was in relativity. For instance, avoiding the notice of a quietly perched opossum in a tree was tough but manageable, if you were prepared for nudity.

  Memories of learning his trade aside, Kurt’s current challenge was simpler. He only needed to move quieter than the crackle of a fire or the rush of a stream. People were far easier to distract than animals, which made it easier to slip past. He knew there were scouts posted, but he also knew this place better than anyone alive. I guess Kel’s crown passes to me now. The thought struck him with a pang of sadness, but it also steeled his resolve. He would not let the memory of his mentor down.

  Sometime later, he was standing at the closest tip of the Wilds. Despite the changes from foot traffic and siege, he'd know these trails and slopes blindfolded. He was reminded of the bold freedom he felt every time he was there. The taste of the air on his tongue, inhaling deeply through his nose, clearing his senses, the soft curve of the rolling hills under his feet, and the moonlight that illuminated the next rise. In this place Kurt wasn't the flippant older brother, or a modestly triumphant protector. Here Kurt was something else entirely. A man in his element, even more so than having a bout in the yard, this place wasn't like a second skin, here the second skin came off.

  Kurt took a low crouching stance and headed to that next rise, trying to get over it before anyone noticed his absence. As the incline increased, so did his need to rest, the muddy hills acting more like sand than stone. He found himself moving from tree to tree in vaulting movements, until he slipped and nearly fell headlong into a tree. He bit back a curse and continued with his mission. It was going to be a long night.