Limbs and neck—tall, thin like reeds—swayed gently in rhythm with the wind, translucent skin rippling like sails. Madwen eyed her rings: three of thirteen. Her magical reservoir: dry. The ritual to peacefully purge this omen from the living world would require at least an entire day’s energy; to subdue it, a day or two’s more. To use magic so conservatively had once been second nature, but decades of practice with her enchanted jewellery had seen that nature lost.

  Worne’s heart beat cold and quiet, ready to charge when needed but never before. Madwen’s beat in kind, as if tuned to the bloodknight’s. Worne’s hand rested still upon his blade’s grip. Slowly he pulled. The pommel shined in Madwen’s periphery.

  “Steady,” she said, voice soft but commanding. Worne halted his movement. He was an accomplished soldier, even a competent commander when the moment called for it, but when Madwen spoke, her authority trumped all, with or without a pouch of coin.

  The omen’s featureless face seemed to focus on both warriors before it like the insidious eyes of an oil painting. The feeling was eerie; uncanny. It should have inspired pure and absolute disgust in the omeness, yet its sheer grandeur commanded a sort of magnificence; an opulence that spoke to the mammalian desire for hierarchy in the most primal corners of the human mind. A calling murmured in Madwen’s ear, whispering suggestions of subconscious desires to bow—to worship. She’d nearly done so when she noticed the shadows creeping toward her, moving gently across the dirt and grass as if spurred by a setting moon, but no such vessel of light hung in the sky.

  The battle had already begun. Not now, but days ago. This being shaped the mind, but needed first to weaken it, like water to clay. None of the Gildaunian citizens could possibly have possessed the mental fortitude to resist such malignant instruction. Madwen could hardly do so, and Worne managed through biology alone. No. This abomination dominated those unable to resist. What was worse, it took command without the commanded knowing of its hold on their very being.

  Madness. Utter madness. It was time to put an end to it.

  The first ring; Madwen touched its magic, imbuing it with complete and total apathy, focusing a burden like no other on the gangly creature looming before her. Light spilled through imperceptible fractures along the bracelet’s silver surface.

  The creature retreated slightly inward. Deep creaking resonated within its long, hollow chest, emitting a sort of twisted purr.

  Worne trudged forward, each creak pounding rhythmically against his eardrums. He unsheathed his longsword and swung.

  A hand like shining obsidian whipped at a speed unseen, striking Worne clean in the torso. The impact seemed almost to hesitate before unleashing a magnificent force into the bloodknight. Thunderous wind howled past Worne’s ears as he blasted low through the frigid, humid air. A column of dust and stone exploded outward from Gildaun’s high wall.

  “Worne!” Madwen flared her burden, light warping, bending, rippling around the being as if space itself grew close to collapsing around it, yet still, it stood.

  It looked at her. Its smooth head bore no face, yet she sensed its gaze. This was no demon—no tormented soul of a deity long since passed. This was a god of old; an ancient relic pure as the earth itself. Were she to die here, then so was the will of the gods.

  The deity dashed forward, its willowy limbs trailing behind like a feather against the wind, moving with an elegance like that of an owl closely in silently on its prey.

  Worne’s horse bucked, hurling Ayube’s limp body to the hard ground as the mare galloped into the woods.

  Muttered words of surrender skittered through Madwen’s mind. She faltered back but already the creature’s head loomed before her—twice her size. Her breath trembled. A single strike like that imparted on Worne would end her life before she could even know.

  The god’s skin shined almost clear so close to her face. Thin, short creases lined the smooth surface before her, reminiscent of the patterned wings of a butterfly.

  Madwen had released her burden without thought.

  Stark emotions boiled within the omeness. This being, it was trying to enter her mind. She’d felt it since the first day—tapping away at her mental barriers until they weakened enough to overwhelm.

  Immediately Madwen retreated into her psyche. She touched the dwindling magic within her first ring, mixing it with her selfless resolve. Her ring shattered like a dying star. Her mind hardened, though more like drying mud than cooling steel.

  A confidence grew and flourished within her. The creature’s reach was far, but such reach lacked power. Her feeble attempt to fortify her mind with magic proved as much. If this deity sought to smite her through brutality alone, it could certainly do so, but it would never own her mind.

  Madwen smiled; content.

  An eye opened. Then another. Then another, then thirty, then fifty, until a hundred or more fixated entirely on the omeness, all curving around the creature’s head like one giant eye itself.

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  Despite a hundred gazes from which to choose, Madwen’s eyes fell naturally to the centre of the creature’s face, the only inches of flesh still featureless and smooth.

  The creature croaked once more.

  Every eye blinked in unison.

  “That’ll be a two shillings, that.” Gatrick removed the herbs from his scale; it came to balance perfectly on its own.

  “Two shillings? For a bundle of weeds?” Aodhán smacked his forehead. He’d always been one for a flare of drama.

  Madwen inspected the herbs. “Hmm, yes. Perhaps you’re right. Gatrick charges too low a price for such fine nettles.”

  “Been thinkin’ that me’self, I have,” said Gatrick.

  Aodhán squinted, watching the man with narrowed eyes. Madwen made sure to prepare herself for when Aodhán inevitably expressed his distrust of the the bushy alchemist, of course, as usual, only an hour after that same bushy man paid for two rounds of drinks.

  Madwen placed her coin on the hardy table, then stowed the wearynettle in her satchel. “You’d think he’d have grown used to it by now,” she said, eyes wide in jest.

  “I don’t care if it’s the coven’s coin or your own, the day I grow used to spending two week’s wage on a bundle of flowers will be the day I die!” Aodhán threw his head back, careful not to whine too quietly.

  Gatrick had placed his apothecary squarely within his greenhouse. Whether he did so to show off his wares or simply to bathe in the warmth of the sun with his plants, Madwen loved it all the same. It reminded her of home. Though not physically very distant, travelling to and from her small farmhouse took time, time she needed for her studies, and time she lacked to visit her loving husband. He made the effort to visit her as often as he could, though it was hard to see the constant discomfort on his face. Aodhán hated cities. He hated the High Capital. He loved the people—the common folk, at least—but something about the tall buildings kept him in a constant state of heightened awareness. His continuous complaints didn’t help either. But still, he came to see her, for he loved her.

  “I’ll be seeing ya on the morrow, ma’am,” Gatrick tipped his head and Madwen did so in kind, her glossy, black ponytail swinging as she spun to leave.

  Gatrick’s ivy-lined greenhouse did well to remove oneself from the noise of the bustling city, the sudden explosion of noise never ceased to take her off guard.

  “Father of hells, you see that man near every day? Should I be worried?” asked Aodhán.

  “Of course not, darling. You know I love my men tall, big-bellied, and black of hair.”

  Aodhán looked at himself: short, toned, and head thick of chestnut hair.

  “You cheeky mink!” Aodhán playfully pushed Madwen into the street. She laughed and pulled him with her. They stood for a moment gazing into each other’s eyes with warm affection. Madwen was happy, but when she saw it made Aodhán happy as well, she looked away.

  “Did it get taller?” asked Aodhán.

  Madwen lifted her head. The handsome man stared upward toward the end of the street. The High Tower: Pedestal of the High Crown. Impossibly thin and a mile tall. One rarely saw its top unless the weather was especially perfect. Children of the city rumoured that it had no end at all, some going as far as to sneak beyond the city walls just to see its peak.

  “So they say,” said Madwen. “But only when an omeness chooses to spend their energy to do so. They say that once it hit a mile in height, most simply lost interest in the endeavour. Though, apparently, on occasion a level or two is added.”

  “Have you ever thought what it might be like? To be the High King?” asked Aodhán, busybodies swerving around the pair in the centre of the street.

  “Seeing as I’m a woman, no, I have not. Don’t tell me you do.”

  “It’s hard not to. Imagine the power; the ability to end so much suffering, perhaps even all of it,” Aodhán said, a glimmer of hope glistening in his pale green eyes.

  Madwen smirked. “Darling, no one can do that. Not even the High King.”

  “S’pose you could though. S’pose you could end suffering once and for all. Surely, you’d at least try, no?”

  Madwen twisted her face. “I suppose I don’t see why I wouldn’t if I had the power to do so.”

  “MADWEN!”

  Madwen looked about the busy street, suddenly aware she was surrounded. “Did you hear that?”

  Aodhán pulled his wife gently by the hand. “Come, I can’t shake those criminal prices from my mind with that bastard’s prissy greenhouse so near.”

  “But you love Gatrick!” laughed Madwen.

  “At the alehouse, perhaps so, but not when he’s robbing me wife blind!”

  “MADWEN!” Worne’s voice rang hoarse, bloody spittle dripping from his lips. Madwen’s silhouette stood straight; unmoving; the foul monstrosity perched on all fours before her as if ready to pounce. Small dots twinkled on its face under the dim, cloud-covered night.

  Why didn’t she fight? Why didn’t she move? Her bracelets had dimmed to nothing. Had she given up? Had the creature finally pierced her mind?

  Laying upside in the cratered city wall, vision blurry with dust, blood, and sweat, Worne stared below his waist. As hard as he tried, he felt nothing. His legs refused to move; his toes refused to wiggle. An incredible pain pulsed all through his body—all but in his legs.

  Gotta move!

  Worne twisted his right arm to feel at his back but instead saw bone.

  “FUCK!” he screamed. Time was running short. There was no telling what vile magic had enthralled the omeness, but every moment she stood motionless could have been her last.

  Breathing short, sharp breaths, Worne steeled himself and twisted his left arm. He groaned, a thick vein thumping in his forehead. Using his fingers, he lifted his back less than a hand’s width and felt at his spine.

  FUCK!

  A stone, similar to the one that cradled his head, had pierced his spine.

  His hand free, Worne collapsed back into the rubble, staring into the grey sky. This was it. He’d beaten Daithi to within an inch of his life, there was no hope that the man would save him, even if they were kinsmen of Oliveer. His only remaining hope went galloping into the forest.

  Perhaps this was for the best. Centuries of furious torment would finally come to rest at last.

  “…You,” murmured Worne. “You in there?”

  Nothing spoke in return.

  “Come on then… show me something before I die…”

  Again, nothing.

  “After all I fuckin’ done for you.”

  Worne saved his breath. He tried to conjure images of his ancient life, but instead saw only the darkest fog. He’d come to expect—

  “AHHHH!” A deep, young voice screeched.

  Worne rolled his head toward the omeness. She hadn’t moved; neither had the creature, but something was moving: a dark shadow, shaped like a man.