1. The Road Home Was Littered With Omens

  "S’cuse me, sir? Sir? Interest ye in somethin' fer the road?"

  Inla was lost in the comfort of his own thoughts again. The habit had become routine among the dwindling crowds of Sheadun as a means to ease his anxiety and organise his thoughts, but it wasn’t serving him as well as usual. There at the rim of the world, among the lost, exiled, and persecuted; amidst the peddlers of the forbidden, adventurers of fortune, and every sorry or hopeful soul in-between; he couldn’t find his peace. A sourness had him and it wouldn’t let him go.

  "Sir? Lad in the fancy armour… heh. Pretty penny t'spare, sir? Sir?"

  Once an exciting, but strange hub of cultures and curiosities, the infamous town at the foothills of the Ryne mountains had developed a dangerous taint. A nauseating unease had steadily settled into his bones over the years and blossomed enough for him to hasten his business during his monthly visits. It was undeniable that the once bustling streets were now sparse and stank of desperate intent, but somehow it felt like more.

  "Bossman? Sir? Sir—"

  Inla spun on his heels and glared at his stalker. A quick assessment of the man's gangly form and tattered robes told him that he was of no immediate threat; just another wayward soul prepared to try their luck with a warrior of Amona. Leathery skin from lifelong hardship, and the deep lines of time conflicted harshly with a younger man's suppleness, putting him anywhere between 50 and 70 winters old. "I'm not interested. Leave me be," he barked, feeling a flash of anger at his escape from the market being intercepted.

  "Heh… Ye sure? Grilled 'em up this morn, heh…" said the man, holding a curved stick with several dangling, frayed strings, completely devoid of the fish or meat offerings common to the market. "Keep yer energy up lad hulkin' that gear… heh—"

  Inla stared for a moment at the man's empty wares. "You mock me?" he asked flatly.

  "Heh… no lad. Pay n'heed t'me laugh, heh. Can't help it. In m'head see?" he said in earnest about his obvious vocal tick that Inla chose not to address. The man was otherwise completely oblivious to what was really asked of him and held his stick aloft with pride as if he held the seven crowns of the shattered kingdom themselves. He scraped at his scalp through ratty, black hair with the clubbed fingers of his other hand, giving the impression of something feral.

  His eyes narrowed. The man was clearly mad or vulnerable in some way, and he felt a pang of guilt for snapping so readily at him. "Forgive me. I’m in bad spirits and have no appetite, as delicious as they look. Here, for your trouble—" He reached into his robe pockets and produced his last silver coin.

  The man bit the coin and plunged it into his pockets. "Thank ye. Y'be a true gentleman in the dark of Sheadun," he said, winking and halting in the mud.

  He turned to leave and sighed in exasperation. He yearned for the road and quickly made his way to the edge of town.

  His Amonian heraldry and formidable weaponry ordinarily afforded him a wide berth by most, but there were bolder eyes on him of late that he didn't care for; a sentiment mirrored by the anxious chatter of merchants, whispering of madness and motivations beyond the whims of common man. Exotic markings, ritualistic murders, and talk of dark cults were not foreign to Sheadun, but had become commonplace. It was undeniable that something foul festered in the town that he couldn't yet completely realise, and it troubled him to his core. He feared for the innocents that called it home, and the vulnerable that unwittingly stumbled into its embrace. He worried for Rojani, her cohort, and the information-gathering Nodin operatives housed there. It felt like something was ripening in the dark hearts of the populace, something that desperately required their attention.

  Up until that point he'd resisted the urge to raise his suspicions to the Circle. For long years he made a point of cultivating an emotional detachment from the decision making of Amona, instead smothering his concerns with a blanket of cynicism, but time hadn’t remedied the situation as he'd hoped. He’d slighted and snubbed many of the Masters and bureaucrats for years, but exposing himself to their arrogance would have to be tolerated. He knew his meagre evidence would be met with ridicule, as much as he expected to be labelled a sensationalist and troublemaker as he had all those years ago, but there was simply no other option. He had to trust that cooler heads would prevail, if not for the moral cause of helping their fellow man, then for a strategic one, given Sheadun's proximity to their mountain home and the importance of their trade.

  He didn't feel confident. Sheadun had always occupied contentious ground in the minds of Amonians, rivalled only by their feelings for the tribesmen of the plains surrounding it. The burden of his people was as great as it was unique and, as such, had created the necessity to forge strict customs, particularly in regard to resource management. Consequently, outside of their global Nodin network, they didn’t involve themselves with the churning and treachery of worldly affairs, on principle and for fear that it would drain their strength from where it was needed most. Trade was a necessary evil, and their warriors were honed from the eternal war, but they were no policing or ruling body for anyone but themselves. If push came to shove, he struggled to imagine a world where soldiers were dispatched to manage the shadow market, no matter how dire the circumstances were for their fellow man.

  However, Inla couldn't accept complacency this time.

  For all his detachment, something had stirred in his heart. He knew he was an idealist and had long made his peace with it, but he’d always pushed back against Amona's isolationist sentiment. The script of his life had taught him that duty was honour, and honour demanded that it was the moral responsibility of the strong to protect the weak.

  More than that, and for reasons he couldn't yet articulate, he felt compelled to act, as if his instincts were speaking of ill omens beyond his sight.

  He carefully navigated the hidden path between Sheadun and the hidden staircase to home, high above. The way had become overgrown and was in dire need of some tending; a task technically beyond Amonian purview but was still informally upheld in the interest of an easier commute for the unfortunate individual tasked with the monthly supply run. It was a chore widely considered beneath the average Amonian, and most loathed their selection, groaning of life on the road far from the comfort of their beds, but for Inla it was peaceful. As such, he'd abstained from ordering its maintenance to better extend his travel time. For him, there was something satisfying about knowing that the living world had the power to reclaim and endure all that had been taken from her; and these musings, along with every step, helped to unburden his heavy heart of concern and forget the weight of spices, textiles, trinkets, and exotic reagents on his back.

  Not far from the town entrance, and much to his surprise, the huddled form of a woman came into view just shy of the beaten path. She faced away from him and didn't hear his approach, too preoccupied with a task that absorbed her completely. His immediate assumption was that she foraged from the river banks or washed soiled plates, but a feeling of unease crept over him as he passed her. On closer inspection, her form was wretched, far beyond the ordinary squalor of Sheadun's downtrodden. Her skin was pulled tight to every bone, and her tattered clothes hung loose on her body, like she hadn't eaten in weeks. She was thick with filth from head to toe, except for a pristine mountain thistle that had been carefully picked and fixed through her hair.

  He slowed his pace to investigate her behaviour. Despite her condition, she was unusually animated at her task.

  "Well met…" said Inla tentatively, slowly approaching her from the side furthest away from Sheadun to accommodate her quick escape should she be startled or feel threatened by him. "I’m Inla, of Amona. Are you safe? Can I aid you in some way?"

  The woman didn’t react in any way.

  He took another step towards her and peered over her shoulder to spy on her preoccupation.

  Despite her ready access to the flowing water of the small river, her thin hair was unwashed and clumped. Clutched in her skeletal fingers was a white garment that he decided was likely a dress, though too small for an adult. The fabric was pristine and looked newly-spun, but where the ends draped carelessly over the limits of her thighs, the dark stains of wet mud inched their way past and across the hem. Riddled throughout were rust-coloured blotches of unknown origin that she feverishly scrubbed at with a rough riverstone, ruining the delicate weave.

  He tried again, this time closer and louder. "I am Inla. Is everything okay? I’ve just come from Sheadun with supplies. I can spare some food, should you need?"

  Suddenly, the woman's face snapped to meet his gaze in a swift and unnatural movement, as if wrenched by an invisible hand. The unexpected action startled him, and he stepped back a few paces. His hand reflexively rested on the pommel of the sword sheathed at his waist.

  She stared at him with an absent severity, and the gloom of the mountain curse cast deep shadows over her emaciated face. She was entirely expressionless, but periodically tilted her head from one side to the other like an inquisitive animal, as if she couldn't understand what he was. She remained silent.

  He said nothing. His bone-white scalemail heaved in tandem with his chest as he took a deep, grounding breath, allowing his burst of adrenaline to wash over him so he could think more clearly. He showed his free palm in a gesture of peace, hoping that it might put the woman at ease. "Greetings… Are you okay? Can you speak?"

  The woman's jaw suddenly snapped open. "Heee…" she wheezed, tilting her head to the sky. As she did, her entire body went limp, and she folded into a pitiful heap under the weight of her own bones, as if waiting for the earth to swallow her whole. Tortured gasps escaped her throat between sorrowful groans.

  Inla's mind raced. So pained was her expression, and so vulnerable was her form that he felt desperate to help her, but didn't know how. He wondered if she was under the influence of some dubious medicine from the market or toxic flora from the region that affected the mind, as was sometimes the case for naive travellers, but his knowledge of wound-care and alchemy was limited at best.

  He took a careful step towards her and leaned in. He didn’t want to provoke another outburst, but he wanted to better determine her state.

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  With a sudden jerking movement, the woman's head and empty gaze found him again.

  "Did you take something that is making you feel this way? I want to help you."

  She grinned at him through missing teeth, the smile never touching her eyes.

  "I mean no harm, but this isn’t a safe path for a lone woman. There are Humma or worse— " pleaded Inla in a last ditch effort to scare her to the safety of her home, playing on the local fears of the tribesmen despite knowing full well that the Humma would never take such a weak example into their care. He doubted she was lucid enough to understand his fear-mongering, as hollow as it was. He forced his own smile in an attempt to pacify her, though the gesture was foreign to him, and he guessed it was more a grimace than anything inviting. "— help me, help you."

  She didn't respond and only stared back at him, her empty grin having since melted away.

  "Look, I’ll guide you back to someone that can help," he announced, shifting his bags to his back to free up his arms. He carefully approached her. "Come now. I’ve a long journey ahead of me, and I can't be worrying about your fate."

  "Nooo! Nooo! Nooo—" shrieked the woman. With a speed that didn't match her condition, she lunged forward and dug her hands into the sodden ground, grabbing two handfuls of mud that she then heaved at him with all the might she could muster. The first fell short, but the second landed square to his chest with a damp thud, sending a rich splatter of brown over his armour and face.

  Inla stopped and sighed, examining his soiled scalemail.

  The woman burst into a strained, brittle cackle forced out from deep within.

  He frowned at her, then finally smirked at the absurdity of the situation. There was something child-like about the woman's new laugh that he couldn't help but be carried away with. Oddly, it made him feel hopeful that despite how lost she seemed, she was still in there somewhere. "Oh, is that funny to you, is it?" he said light-heartedly, fruitlessly wiping at his chest with his travel robe sleeve.

  The woman seemed to fade away, all glimmers of the real person underneath evaporating until all that remained were her deadened eyes. She now shuddered infrequently, like one might on a cold winter.

  He felt a bitter sadness at the reversal of her behaviour, wishing he understood what possessed her mind.

  The shuffle and scrape of approaching footsteps caught him off-guard. He looked to the road behind for the source and found the familiar, stooped, scrawny form of a man in tattered robes cresting the horizon. Inla groaned aloud, unconsciously rolling his eyes.

  "Heh… Ey’ lad, fancy seein' ye 'ere," said the mad man from the market.

  "Well met…" said Inla, bowing his head with a forced politeness. "Are you following me, sir? I would rather you didn't," he warned.

  "Followin'? Naaa, naaa… heh. Come fer Joe 'ere…" replied the man sheepishly, scratching at his scalp as before. "JOELYNN… heh! Ye not causin' this lad trouble are ye?"

  In a gesture Inla didn't expect, the man shambled forwards, knelt down, and wrapped their arms around the hollowed woman in a manner so sincere and intimate that he was rendered speechless. Joelynn leaned into the hug, but kept her gaze fixed on Inla. The murk of the mountain curse gave them an ethereal quality, and he felt like he’d slipped into a strange dream or painting. "You know this woman?"

  "Know'er? Aye ay' know'er. This 'ere ish Joelynn, me wife. She's a beaut, ent she? Heh…" boasted the man, beaming with genuine pride.

  "Your wife?"

  The man's eyes narrowed with jealousy. "Dun ye' get any ideas lad. This 'ere star's all mine gone 20 year now. Fall from heaven 'igh she did, rite inte me lap."

  "Forgive me, but do you know this man, miss?" said Inla directly to the woman.

  The woman said nothing, but blinked and raised a weak hand up to hold her husband’s.

  Satisfied by the gesture, he smiled and held up his own in surrender. "Forgive me. On my honour, I was scared for her safety. Had to verify. You never know."

  The man nodded, and his weary joviality returned. "Awhk, thank ye' lad. Knew ye were a good sort when aye set me eyes on ye'."

  "The road can be dangerous here. Your wife seems… vulnerable, without escort." He felt slightly foolish and patronising for raising the obvious with the familiar.

  "Aye she's fine. Aul Joelynn's head ent been all there since the wee'un went missin'," he said, waving a bony hand in dismissal.

  His attention piqued. "Your child is missing?"

  The man didn't respond and with a surprising strength, helped Joelynn onto her feet. He held her steady, letting her use him as a support.

  "But what of the merchant lords? Have you raised the matter with them?"

  Silence. In tandem, the pair both looked down at the dirt.

  "If your child is missing then perhaps I can help in some way? If you’ve someone, or somewhere I can investigate, I'm certain I can find some sort of information?" he offered, pulling the sheathed blade at his waist forward to demonstrate his conviction and capability.

  The man looked at him with sunken, desolate eyes and shook his head.

  Inla was stumped, but had the distinct impression that he wouldn't get anything more out of them. A final proposal came to him. "I’ve a contact in Sheadun that may be able to help you with basic needs. She likely can’t help with your child past information gathering, but food shouldn't be an issue. Seek out Rojani, towards this end of the market at the cheese stall. She’s known and shouldn't be hard to find. Her cohort is tough looking, but don't let that put you off."

  The man nodded in understanding without hinting at their intentions and turned to leave with his wife.

  "Farewell… Amonian…" rasped Joelynn, winking at him before being guided away towards Sheadun.

  The unexpected interaction had drained him, and once past the river, he stopped to rest by a small pool that was still enough for him to inspect the aftermath of Joelynn’s joke.

  He was looking weathered and well-travelled. On the road he sacrificed practical readiness for comfort, letting his mane hang low past his shoulders for the wind to find purchase. It made him look wild, which he didn’t mind, but his thick, raven-dark hair was tangled, straggled, and in desperate need of a trim. His jawline, chin, and lip were peppered with a week of patchy growth making him look more Sheadun rogue than Amonian soldier. The ceaseless nausea that plagued him of late compounded with his rooted loneliness to claim his appetite, ultimately culminating in a definition to his cheeks that bordered on unhealthy. His unusually vibrant, emerald eyes stared back at him from dark, purple frames of fatigue that contrasted heavily with his fair complexion. Scars of stress etched their corners, masquerading as the wisdom of age.

  Old romances had once claimed him handsome, which in the uncertainty and strife of youth had seemed important, but now as a grown man it felt like an empty confidence that had no value any more. All that mattered to him was that he was still in shape, and he was. He still felt strong and capable. His movement in training was as fluid and sure-footed as it always was, and travel to and from the mountains had kept his stamina robust and his mind keen. Irrespective of how haggard he looked, he was arguably in the best condition of his life.

  Inla dove his hands into the pool, unceremoniously shattering his image and splashing water over himself. The gesture felt cathartic. He refreshed himself and found the path again.

  Unlike the majority of Amonians—valley-born and orphan alike—Inla didn’t share the wide-shouldered, muscle-dense builds of the predominantly Haligernian-in-origin population. His eyes were not brown or blue, and his build favoured athleticism over strength. He was as lean as a wolf among bears, and it had been suggested that his birthplace was among the expansive, boreal forests of the north-west, home to their Trekhin founders, but he didn’t know for certain, nor care to.

  His differences ultimately came to define his development in mind and body. He used to be routinely underestimated or outright dismissed as weak, but rather than resign himself to a more scholarly life, he adapted. He realised early on in his life, after one too many bloodied nose, that he wasn't to be a brute warrior, and instead trained to be fast and intelligent. He learned that skill and an eye to exploit vulnerability was a satisfactory substitute for strength and size, and through a lifetime of hard work and conviction he’d scraped a reputation as a competent, if not deadly, soldier among the Amonian ranks.

  As he picked his way through the thick brush, Inla looked up to the familiar, but ever-mysterious and eternal gloom that choked the sky above the Ryne mountains. The atmospheric curse thinned along the foothills that skirted the vast range, allowing the land to grow verdant under the freed sun. A thick treeline and all manners of lush flora were fed by countless thundering waterfalls that tumbled down from snow melt and mountain springs high above. A permanent fine mist clung to the land where the water fell, obscuring the rise of the great peaks from a distance and fuelling the rumours of their nation among the clouds.

  The steady, meditative roar of flowing water and dream-like haze always lulled Inla into fanciful thoughts of adventure. He imagined himself free from the burden of duty, far from the great enemy, and divorced from his troubled relationship with Amona itself. He thought how simple it would be to veer off the path and disappear over the plains for exotic lands, to become anyone or anything he wished. Somehow, however, his mind always returned to the bittersweet nostalgia of home.

  He knew he wasn't alone in that sentiment. Many Amonians also struggled with a wanderlust that came and went with the tempering of youth, but at 30 winters old, he couldn't be counted among their ranks any more. It was evident that his own restlessness was a more nuanced and persistent distraction, something that would be considered unusual or cowardly if he dared speak his feelings aloud.

  Many a time over the years, he’d tried to parse the splinter in his mind, but with little success he was forced to accept the simplest conclusion; that it was less about wanting to see the world and more that he felt out of place where he was. He belonged, but he didn't; he was at home, but he wasn't. In his darker moments on long winter nights, he felt like he didn't exist at all. He knew there was no lone event that could explain his trouble, but it persisted all the same and stained every moment as the riverbanks did Joelynn's shift. The best he could do to explain away his melancholy was to claim it was an emergent property. The endless strands that made up the tapestry of his life just happened to weave together in such a way that the picture coming into view wasn't to his liking, and he didn't know what to do about it. All he knew was that running wasn't the answer, and though his troubles found him in his moments of quiet on the road, or before sleep, they were a luxury that could be set aside when necessary.

  He kicked a rock in frustration to punctuate an end to the tired topic and picked up his pace.

  After an hours travel along the winding path, past trees and startled birds, past the Humma tribute box stuffed with patterned cloth and ale for their ancestral cousins, the ancient, weathered staircase came into view.

  Tens of thousands of steps had been fashioned from bare rock by Amonian hands to better connect the early settlement high above to the world below. The effort must’ve been nothing short of monumental, and Inla was forever in awe every time he began his ascent, making sure to pay his respects to the names of their ancestors etched onto memorial stones along the path. The hundred-or-so chiselled boulders were hidden in natural, limestone voids that doubly served as resting ground between each gruelling staircase.

  The way was treacherous enough to dissuade any opportune traveller and was informally referred to as the first trial of acceptance for any stranger to the valley. In his lifetime, he’d only seen one man find his way to the top, and he failed the second trial by fleeing in terror from the Sinti.

  The staircase was a test of boldness and courage; important traits coveted by his people along with respect. Despite his many differences, Inla was in perfect agreement that respect, in all its forms, was paramount; a sentiment that was upheld by almost all of his people to varying degrees. There may be bullying, mockery, and in-fighting; and there was certainly gossip, bitterness, and ambition, but ultimately they all held respect for one another, because the consequences of if they didn't would be certain doom. For most, this was practical and common sense, but to him it was much more. He believed that there was a fundamental morality common to all man that could be tapped into, and if practised, could reverberate through the world in ways none could fathom; perhaps even making all of Erdgard a better place. Conversely, if ignored or corrupted, then the world became a darker place. It was a simple philosophy born from sleepless nights, but it felt more and more like a truth to him as the years went by.

  Inla made good pace. After two nights and many rests later, he stumbled over the final step, exhausted and awash with a sense of achievement. He was longing for a warm meal. Passing the last cairn that formally marked the end of his journey and the highest point on the trail, all that remained was a short descent down, past the sentry station, and finally into the valley of Amona itself.

  Two impeccably maintained standards proudly showed the black spiral of his people, decoratively framed in a black shield on a field of white. The dyed canvas fluttered in the breeze, welcoming him home.

  "HALT!"

  A boulder of a man in full Amonian regalia appeared and sauntered confidently towards him, expertly balancing a spear on his forearm while anchoring it under his shoulder. He quickly closed the gap until the tip scraped harmlessly against Inla's metal scales. "Speak the words or die, stranger."