A hundred eyes glistened under the hazy shadows of the canopy above. A single crow’s caw; a warning—an omen. Half-laying in the pressed dirt of the King’s road, Ayube’s breath trembled, his body unable, unwilling to move. The scream still stung in his throat, terror beckoning another to no avail, but it had done little to the tableau before him. The creature remained still, perched like a hound, a feminine figure steeped in shadows standing motionless before it.

  In all his dreams, in all his visceral nightmares, never could Ayube have imagined such a wicked fiend. But who was this figure daring to stand before it? Did it control the beast? Or perhaps… The thought alone terrified Ayube even further. He had to move, lest the creature’s stare turn his way. If his scream were not enough to provoke the gaze of a single eye, perhaps an attempt at escape would go ignored as well. But to calm his mind for even for a moment—

  “Prisoner!” a guttural shout called from behind.

  Prisoner? Daithi—it had to be. Ayube’s pounding heart ached, straining under the torrent of adrenaline coursing through his veins.

  A dozen voices screamed at once, all trapped within his mind, all uttering nonsense, but all imposing the same will: Run!

  When the heavy rains fell in the distant mountains north of his village, the ensuing surge of waters reddened by clay shook the ground beneath his feet. Ayube’s legs quaked much the same as that very ground; the will to move trickling from his mind, to his heart, to his stomach, until at last reaching his bare feet.

  Dirt flung in the air as Ayube kicked himself into a low sprint.

  “Where you going you fucking twat?” the gravelly voice yelled.

  Loose sticks cracked beneath Ayube’s careless scamper. Sprawling roots reached far and high. He’d been here once before when on the run from the Gildaun guard. He—

  “WE SAVED YOU!” The scream echoed throughout the woods.

  Saved me? Ayube thought. The sudden realization struck, staying his feet and halting his escape like a low branch from the trees surrounding him. That voice, it wasn’t Daithi’s, it was that man’s—the one he’d seen on the road before his imprisonment, the one who stood behind the omeness in the castle… the one who’d ripped the door from his cage earlier that night. That’s how he’d gotten here. He remembered now. He’d been carried by that man. Then the figure standing before the creature…

  “The omeness… Madwen!”

  The High Capital. Its name alone conjured ideas of grandeur—ideas of a city in the clouds, sparkling white in the blue skies, untouched by the gods below. The name, however, referred only to its rank and power, for the city itself laid low within the scarlet grasslands of Mladona—so low that the engineers charged with carving the great crevices to avert the floods spanned further than ten generations.

  Two bridges flanked the High Capital: the eastern crevice bridge, and the western. Madwen stood on the eastern, nearly three hundred feet between her and the dusty riverbed below. Few ventured across the massive structures, few except the merchants, unwilling to waste another day’s trip over the dry land to the south. Sefina was no exception. Madwen could see her in the distance. She was easy to pick out from the others since she was the only one to ever stop and fix blinders to her workhorses before crossing—most merchants cared little for their livestock.

  Whenever Sefina returned from one of her trade routes, her appearance had completely evolved. Her face was always the same—fair-skinned and beautiful—but her fashion was ever-changing. Last Madwen had seen her, she wore long, sweeping sheets of almond silks and had dyed her hair a buttery blonde. On this day, however, her look had transformed into total vibrancy with wonderfully colourful feathers trimming her billowing blouse, fitted pants embroidered with shiny patterns like fish scales, and chalky eyes of matte turquoise and brilliant azure. The small woman approached slow on her impressive wagon, and at last, lifted her face to see her dearest friend.

  “Madwen!” Sefina leapt from her wagon straight into Madwen’s arms, squeezing the would-be omeness tight. “What lovely surprise! Where is husband?”

  These were frequently the first words from her mouth; her voice always high, her Mlodonic accent always proud. With her shapely figure, sandy locks, and golden eyes, Sefina could have any man she wished—a fact that boded well for her hungry coin purse—but she only ever seemed interested in one man: Madwen’s husband.

  Madwen rolled her eyes, unable to withhold a smirk while the merchant squeezed and swayed. “Yes, yes. You know how the poor man is with heights. He’s somewhere back at the gate.”

  Sefina stared forward, eyes narrow; sharp. “I see him!” she growled like a pup.

  With purpose and vigor, the beautiful woman tossed Madwen to the side and burst into a mad dash toward the love of, apparently, both their lives.

  Madwen never worried, of course. Aodhán was unique among men in that he seemed to view both sexes in the same light; not quite attracted to either. Even when they’d first met, Aodhán only became romantically interested in Madwen after she’d shown vulnerability. Just the thought of Sefina stealing his heart caused Madwen to chuckle—What a strange woman.

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  Aodhán kept his back to the bridge, lest he catch a glimpse of the sharp, endless plummet below, but Sefina was quickly gaining ground. Madwen almost felt sorry for him, though doubtlessly, having such a beauty so publicly mad for him would keep his social ranking high among the locals.

  Madwen turned and grabbed the long carriage reigns, then slowly guided Sefina’s horses toward the city. As a farmer, Aodhán shared an interest in landscaping with the city engineers. He spoke to a group of them as they lowered equipment off the side of the bridge when suddenly one of the men stepped back and pointed toward Sefina. Aodhán turned too late. Within a moment the merchant had jumped and wrapped her arms and legs around Aodhán as he stumbled, but surprisingly maintained his stance.

  He’s getting better at that, Madwen thought.

  The walk to the city gates was short, but it did offer Madwen’s mind a moment of reprieve—one she did not welcome. Her schooling kept her mind busy; her thoughts flowing. Now, however, surrounded by an abyss on both sides and nothing but the sight of her friends before her, Madwen could no longer distract herself.

  She watched as Sefina crawled around Aodhán like a spider, showering him in tiny kisses on the head as he shoved her face away with his palm. Why does Aodhán love me? she came to wonder. He should have despised her, detested her, loathed her with all his heart, but he showed nothing but support for his wife, even after all she’d put him through. He had to hurt too, did he not? Stupid, she thought, of course he does. But why did he not show it?

  “It was an accident,” he’d say. “How could I blame you if you had no control?” His words were meant as reassurances; as reminders that he would always love her. But why did they feel so dismissive? To remove the blame from herself placed it somewhere else, but then, whose fault could it have been if not hers?

  Madwen’s fingers trembled; her breathing unsteady. Aodhán froze in place; Sefina with him. Madwen looked low, the clopping horse hooves reverberating in her mind. She continued forward.

  The blame has to lie somewhere, does it not? If I were him, I’d blame me, so he must as well. So why lie? Is he afraid? Does he think me too weak to handle the truth? Why wouldn’t he? I was crazy then—mad! If only I… If only I…!

  The world started to fade, a whine steadily screaming in her ears, a rumble thundering in her gut. Madwen closed her eyes. Vivid images streamed through her vision: an infant’s babbling, toothless mouth, a handsome man’s woeful mourning, blood.

  Where was she? These people, they weren’t—What was this place?

  “MADWEN!”

  A pressure squeezed Madwen. Warmth touched her cheek and rested on her neck. Her shoulders sank and her eyes watered.

  “It’s okay,” a voice spoke, “Let me bear your burden. I can’t stand to see you suffer.”

  When at last the darkness had gone, Aodhán stood, embracing his wife.

  “MADWEN!” Worne screamed again. He was about to give in—how could he not? All hope seeping warm down his numb back. But the prisoner, the stranger, the chance to fight again, slipped through his fingers. Though Worne’s resolve would welcome it, this couldn’t be the end.

  Fucking twat, he thought. How many pathetic men with dreams of heroism had thought the same thing? How many bones lay in this forest, swallowed whole by the moss and wet soil?

  “Fuck!”

  Ayube lurked low, slowly skulking toward the man’s voice. The Clistetíran woods were nothing like that of the rainforests he’d grown up in. Both were equally alive, yet here the flora was so passive; spongy moss allowed to grow on all things, leaves few and high, trunks divided and thick, roots always reaching for the foot. He had little place to hide—his undoing just two days ago—but what else could he do? If something had lured him here over hundreds of miles, how could he expect to escape its influence through blind wandering?

  Finally he came to see it, the crater in the city’s wall. In the sun’s light, it shone boldly, but the cloudy moonlight had brought with it a sort of sinister perversion, like a lonely child crying in the night. From his position, he could see the city gate and the ghostly figures looming on top, watching.

  “Prisoner,” said the man, “Stranger!” he said louder.

  Ayube ducked lower.

  “Get out here you fucking twat.”

  The man sat back in his crater, his arms resting in the rocks and cobble, his head slumped forward but his sharp eyes high. He looked almost regal, like a king sat upon his rubble throne. Ayube had to squint to see the man, but the man seemed to stare straight through him. Tarnished by dirt, Ayube’s robes should have been nearly invisible amidst the inky shadows—his brightest feature, the whites of his eyes—that the man could see him at all was a wonder.

  RUN! HIDE! DANGER! Cried the voices in his mind, but Ayube stepped forward, into the dull light.

  “Good. Come here,” said the man, his vocal chords loose.

  Something stayed Ayube’s feet—a pulling in the back of his mind. The world twitched around him, ever moving in the corners of his shaky vision.

  “Quickly! Don’t have time!”

  The man’s shout jolted his nerves like a kick to a horse. He approached. Soon the shadowy figures from the gate disappeared behind the gentle curve of the wall, and all that remained before him was the sight of the massive man; broken. Blood dripped from unseen wounds, soiling the white stone in a dark crimson that turned nearly black in Ayube’s dull night’s vision. He seemed so powerful when first he saw him, but now…

  “Stand in front of me,” said the man. So Ayube did.

  “Those tress, the one with the two big trunks and the two to the right, leaning away. You see them?”

  Ayube turned, spotting the trees the man had spoken of.

  “Y-yes,” he Ayube, breaths shallow and tone weak.

  “Horse ran off in that direction. Need you to go there and find a chest. Would’ve fallen off at the speed it was moving.”

  “A chest?”

  “Find it, open it, and bring back the small brown vial with no label.”

  “Small brown… what is it?”

  “Don’t matter,” said Worne. “Bring it back here and I can save Madwen.”

  Ayube looked again into the woods. “But what if it is not there? How will I know where to go?”

  “Would’ve followed the smoothest path. Look for the lowest roots.”

  “Tell me the creature’s name, maybe I can call it back.”

  Worne began to huff, but the pooling blood in his lungs forced a fit of coughs. “It’s not a fucking dog! Get on it!”

  Ayube straightened his back and nodded hard. He turned to the woods. In the corner of his vision, it stood, still perched in front of the omeness, Madwen.

  “What is your name, warrior?” asked Ayube, staring back at the dying man.

  “Worne.”

  “Worne, my name is Ayube.”

  “Fucking get moving, prisoner!” barked Worne.

  Ayube stumbled forward into an unsteady run. A sourness stung in his legs. A fatigue pulled hard on his eyelids. The heartbeat pounding in his head kept him awake, but Worne had shown him his new-found purpose. If Madwen was his only hope, then this “Worne,” was hers, and Ayube would stop at nothing to help him. The only question remained: would his mind let him?