Hui Long:
Sometimes, I am gifted with dreams, being the Child of Spirits and all.
The dream I receive tonight is not a gift.
I awaken in a scorched field. A forest of stumps and black roots. A rocky valley spreads out below me, littered with dead souls. Men. Women. And, to my horror, many, many children. I have seen the way a battlefield transforms into a graveyard before, but never have I witnessed the dead in this quantity. Never in these droves.
Ahead rises the sweeping bluffs of a green mountain, upon which a sea of blackness and boils conglomerate. People: farmers, soldiers, bakers, farmers. Wrong people. They are sickly and emaciated, drooling red saliva and staring off into the distance, as if no soul remains behind their eyes.
At their head, a feminine figure sits upon a steed. She looks young, pretty even, dressed in an azul and maroon patterned brocade, quaintly accented by a white scarf.
And she wears a simple, plain, smooth wooden mask. Contradictions, contradictions.
That mask… I remember it from somewhere. It is not a pleasant memory.
Her steed is a great and terrible beast. An elk like creature with six legs, six eyes, large imposing antlers, and the asymmetrical wings of an angel and a devil. It too sports boils and rot dribbling from its maw. Black worms peek through its nose.
The woman is looking down at something ahead of me. Someone. His face is obscured by his long mane of crow-black hair.
At the woman's side, she carries a silver sheath. From it, she draws forth a raw, unadorned, unguarded and unhilted blade. I recognize that too— The Blade of Meteors. It is one of the twenty great blades of our world, a distant cousin of The Dragon Blade. But… why would she have it? Why not Asterion?
She grasps it from the iron stem and points the blade-end at the man ahead of me. It is a long arms blade of Western-make — unfinished, yet beautiful in its own right, glinting in the orange light of a rising sun that seems all too close to the world itself.
"You think you can hunt me?" a voice whispers. It is pure evil.
I unsheathe my blade and walk forward.
"Yes," the man in front of me says. And I know this voice — it is a voice that haunts my other, less prophetic dreams. The voice that calls me a liar, a thief, a traitor.
A forsaker.
Laughter carries through the wind. High and mocking, like a noblewoman.
"Oh please, you're nothing but a slave foolish enough to turn against his masters," the voice says. Then, masked woman kicks the elk forward, riding it towards the man. I sprint now, trying to reach Raiten before this… thing can take him.
But in this plane, I am too far.
When she reaches Raiten, she extends her hand rather than her blade. "I can help you in your journey — I am not so unmerciful as to turn away a fellow struggler."
Thankfully, Raiten slaps away her hand.
I see him turn now. His face is so different — so full of life and defiance. Back at the tower, when we fought, he looked so… malnourished. Like a boy trying to be a man.
Now he looks like a battle-scarred warrior.
The witch shrugs. "So be it."
Then, slowly, she takes her mask off.
…
I wake up, sweat dripping from my brow. Gareth snores like a bear next to me. The campfire crackles under the cloud-laden sky, where stars shine through the grayness, illuminating the pointy shadows of the Boar Ranges far ahead of me.
And now, I have a choice to make.
Do I continue on my path, pursuing Basilbane? Or, do I find out who this thief of Asterion is? This woman that menaces my oldest friend.
My oldest friend, who hates me now.
I sigh, running my hand through my hair. My more prophetic dreams, like that one, have inklings of truth buried in their folds. An army of the sick. A field of the dead.
I don't know.
I don't know whether this is some trick of Basilbane or a real threat that deserves my genuine attention. I don't know which conflict to endure.
So, I sit and wait, muddling it over through the night.
And come morning, I make my decision.
…
Erot:
I watch my granddaughter heave and wheeze, her sickness boiling out of her in puss and blood.
I watch my daughter follow suit for staying in Dandy's room too long. Now, I listen to them talk to each other, back slumped against the door, head in my hands.
Every day is torment. Every waking moment is torture.
Takemeadow apparently, has just received its first turned. Some poor child who got infected much earlier than Dandy — apparently, it took five men to kill him. Things will only get worse from here, that much I'm sure about.
News of the plague spreads like wildfire. Pigeons and passing traders warn of its slow-march towards the South.
I sigh. My old bones are now tightened, muscles coiled. I feel a rage that has not sparked within me for a long time. Dormant was my inner flame. Now it sparks again, cold and whispering.
You must rally Fangshade. It tells me. You must see your wife once more.
And that terrifies me, more than anything else.
I am frozen by indecision. My mind tires of hearing Dandy cough and talk like she's dying. My heart bleeds.
But for now, I must rely on Raiten. That young man and that damned shark are my only hope.
I pray that he slaughters the witch.
…
Sorina:
I can't even bear to look at Raiten as he beats up Umbrahorn.
He knows what he's doing is wrong. Surely, he knows.
But perhaps that is what I'm telling myself to cope. Perhaps he was right 'I know you!' I told him.
'No. You don't,' he responded.
My mind is hazy and I'm losing my voice. It's the first time I've cried, truly cried, in a long while. It's pathetic. I'm pathetic. I couldn't even save my one friend. I shake my head, watching from a watchtower as Raiten leaves with the Mancers.
My second argument with Pamela didn't go well. Greedy bitch wouldn't change her mind.
My eyes start glistening again as I stare at Raiten's back. Angrily, I wipe the tears away with my robe.
Now is not the time to mourn.
I clench my fist.
The least I can do is help the people of Havenmarch get through this checkpoint without being tolled. But to do that I'll…
"Princess Sorina," a voice calls to me from behind. I turn to find Riddeck of all people, bowing down to me. His eye is still swollen from when I ambushed him.
I look upon him with some measure of caution. He looks like Pamela's dog.
"I no longer have any claims to Catolica," I tell him. "So you can just call me Sorina."
"I'm afraid I must insist on calling you Princess," Riddeck says. Then, he unsheathes his sword. I back away, hands going to my dagger blades, but rather than attack me, Riddeck holds his blade out like a gift.
I raise an eyebrow. "What is this?"
"Forgive me, Princess. You may not remember me, for you were very young. But before I joined the royal retinue of soldiers, I served your father."
"You were Maddox's soldier?"
"His military advisor, Princess," Riddeck says, not without a tinge of pride. "Maddox Nunez is the greatest man I've ever known. Leaving his service was a tragic mistake of mine. A mistake that I want to remedy." He extends the blade further, holding it reverently. "Please princess. Accept me into your service."
Shocked, I keep a straight face while trying to think through this offer. Maddox. My father. Brutal, disparaging, and abhorrently committed to his own strange code of honor. I always disliked the man. But, if memory serves me well, his soldiers liked him well enough.
I try to remember Riddeck's face, but I can't for the life of me. Its been too long.
This could be a trap of Pamela's, I think for a moment, but then I dismiss the thought. She'd be more direct. She's tactful enough to realize I don't have to be dealt with by lies and deceit. She's Queen. She could banish me for all she cares, especially since I've distanced myself from Catolica.
But this… this could be an opportunity. Still, I remain wary.
"This would be treason, betraying your Queen," I tell him.
He shakes his head. "No, my princess. A soldier of Catolica must serve all of Catolica, not just the Queen."
"You say you served my father," I tell him. "What was my father's favorite saying then?"
Riddeck smiles. "Ashes pave the road to peace." He says it with an air of nostalgia, as if remembering the very conversation in which he first heard it.
I sigh. Then, I take the sword from his hand and press the flat of the blade against his head. "With this I name you, Riddeck of Catolica, Riddeck of Nunez, serve me and be me my blade, my steel."
"These words I do accept," Riddeck says. With that, I give him the blade and he rises to his full height, towering above me. "Your orders, Princess?"
I look at Queen Pamela, who's too busy issuing orders in the campgrounds to notice our interaction. "I've got some ideas.