Between the boundless dark smog overhead, the absence of natural lighting, and the infinite landscape that denied any sign of progress, Rowan had no way of knowing how close or far they were from their destination. Law, he didn’t even know what their destination was and he wasn’t sure Morrigan did either. Not that he’d ask her, considering her temperament as of late. Every time he thought he had some semblance of a grip on her nature, she broke his fingers. Rowan didn’t necessarily mind Morrigan’s unwillingness to warm up to him, or at least he didn’t when the only target of her wrath was him. Now that Achaia was involved, however, he didn’t want to rock the proverbial boat.

  He looked back at his new sister: she was back to the child he first met in the labyrinth. Her tears had long since dried and her stoicism was up to guard her from any further Morrigan encounters, but she was certainly hurting. Rowan’s steps were heavy with guilt regarding having not immediately nursed her wounds, but he surmised that would only draw further ire from Morrigan. So, much as it pained him, Achaia would have to wait until they got to their destination and had a moment of reprieve. The Pact of Providence was not something to be taken lightly, and Rowan would do everything in his power to still operate as he’d like within the blind spots of Morrigan’s decisions.

  Morrigan herself was quiet as well; silence was far from a change of pace for her, but something felt different. Rowan met her pace briefly to observe out of the corner of his eye, and she seemed to be somewhere else entirely. He pulled out his logbook and began jotting down all the thoughts he’d had lately regarding her but couldn’t previously record.

  Morrigan Queen in the flesh. The records made her sound like a creature beyond the scope of human inspiration and even this fails to properly encapsulate how magnificent she is. She’s powerful, resilient, a force of nature, really. But she is indeed still human, and it only takes one conversation with her to be certain of this. She’s stubborn, arrogant, callous, rude, and I’m a bit mad at her. I always try my best to just write out observations from an academic standing, yet this is feeling more like a journal. I digress. Morrigan stands at almost three kēnēts tall and a scowl seems to be her natural expression. But there’s something beyond it. I’m sure of it.

  Rowan shut his log when he felt something attracting his gaze past its pages: a break in the monotony of crag and wasteland—the verge of a forest. At least, it looked like it was a forest, or perhaps what counted for a forest in the offscape.

  “Morrigan,” Rowan muttered, hesitating to get her attention.

  Still, she didn’t respond.

  “Morrigan?”

  The second name prompted Morrigan to snap her head toward Rowan.

  “What? Speak.”

  She was certainly caught off guard, neck-deep in her own thoughts; Rowan wasn’t sure introspection was the sort of hobby for her as it was for him, but he was curious about the common ground.

  “Is that where we’re headed?” Rowan asked, pointing to the clearing on the horizon.

  Rowan couldn’t help but make note of her hesitant tone as she replied.

  “It is as you say.”

  “I didn’t even think the offscape produced foliage." Rowan said. "I wonder if the organisms there fit within the Kativazch taxonomy. How is the plant life even drawing nutrients to sustain itself? And—”

  “Enough," Morrigan hissed, squinting in the direction of the forest. "This is strange: we arrived quicker than anticipated by a wide margin.”

  Rowan’s brow furrowed at her words. Mayhap she simply misread the t?l?vazch? But she seemed to know what it was when Mogrim first revealed it; though Morrigan was arrogant and brusque, she’d yet to let her ego get in the way of the task at hand. Rowan believed she wouldn’t have led them out into the wastes without understanding how the t?l?vazch worked. Removing that notion, Rowan tried to work with the possibilities left.

  Even without being able to judge the time appropriately, Rowan estimated they’d crossed approximately six kētrals’ worth of wasteland: there was no sign of the labyrinth or the mountain they’d left behind at the start of the day. That said, they weren’t moving at too quick of a pace; Rowan was thankful Morrigan wasn’t too demanding in their traversal, considering her insistence they leave the labyrinth within a set timeframe. The forest seemingly popped up out of nowhere, so what did it mean?

  “There’s not enough info to go off of," Rowan shook his head. "But we’re going in, right?”

  Morrigan’s gaze recollected her drive, free of whatever was weighing on her mind previously.

  She nodded, “Whatever fētis I seek lies within. Come along.”

  Rowan extended his hand out to Achaia as they neared the mouth of the woods, she gripped his hand despite her persistent sorrow. Rowan was relieved: she didn’t seem completely withdrawn, yet.

  By the time the trio had officially stepped beneath the canopy of trees, it was evident to Rowan that his first impression of the forest belied its true nature. It was less of a forest and more of a swamp. The area was dominated by trees, sure enough, but the moisture-logged soil beneath their feet caught Rowan’s attention first and foremost. Rowan crouched down and pulled his knapsack off his back, sifting through it for an empty vial. Upon finding one, he scooped up some of the dirt and corked the vial.

  “Strange: the content of the vial shares many traits with hydric soil—it’s even gray like one might expect. But there’s no water here; it appears to be histosol.” Rowan muttered to himself as he bagged the sample, made some notes in his log, and swung the bag back over his shoulders.

  “Come: there is much traversal to be had.”

  Rowan heard Morrigan’s words, but it was Achaia who had his attention. She lifted a leg and shook her foot, then did the same with her other foot.

  “We’ve been at this for quite some time now." Rowan noted. "Perhaps we could make camp? The target’s here after all, so there’s no rush, right?”

  Morrigan turned back, gripping her scowl tightly before finally dropping it in an exhale. “Fine. But not here.”

  The trio walked for almost a kētral before Morrigan halted again. She ravaged nearby motes of vi like a cave-ripper would its prey and hunched forward, letting the energy flow over her.

  “Scary.” Achaia whispered, though she didn’t look away—perhaps her fear was trumped by her curiosity.

  Morrigan grit her teeth and grunted as she reached over her shoulders with both hands. The gesture was not unlike Rowan fishing through his backpack, except Morrigan’s fingers dug into her flesh. She exhaled sharply as she ripped her spine free, panting as her body repaired itself. Rowan could never look away whenever Morrigan was fashioning a tool or weapon: the Scholar was intrigue incarnate. He watched the blood run down her back as her skin closed up and she went to work on her spine. Rowan had to believe she’d been using such distinct equations for most of her life, yet the bonesmithing he saw in the labyrinth compared to her current efforts were like night and day. She was far slower this time around; was it a matter of what she made or how much vi it took to fashion it? There was no way to tell without asking her directly. In truth, Rowan enjoyed not knowing for certain and instead speculating on the facets of Morrigan’s abilities. The spine was nigh unrecognizable from its original shape: the majority of the once-spine was a long pole with a rigid handle. Opposite of the handle was a flat poll, convex cheeks, and a wide bit—Rowan estimated its arc to be twice the width of a normal axe.

  Rowan felt bad about Morrigan performing all of the manual labor, but as she fell tree after tree, her wild grin quelled any concerns. The trees—he still didn’t feel completely confident in calling them as such, but didn’t have a more apropos term—were strange enough in their appearance, but stranger still was their hollow center. As Morrigan cut them down, Rowan observed them closely. The gray trunks were wider in circumference than trees he’d seen before, yet the cylinders lacked a core of sorts. Instead, they were filled with a viscous fluid Rowan could only assume to be the origin of the histosol beneath his feet. The burgundy leaves at the top had long spines coated in some sort of adhesive liquid.

  “The same fluid leaking from every part of the tree, but at a higher concentration perhaps?” Rowan muttered to himself as he took notes on his surroundings in his log. Stranger still was the absence of atmosphere indicative of a natural biome. “Where are the fauna? I don’t even see insects.”

  “Bugs are cool, sometimes.” Achaia said, her confidence waning by the end of the sentence.

  “I think bugs are cool too.” Rowan said, patting her head.

  Achaia nodded, a faint smile on her face. Or perhaps Rowan was just being optimistic.

  Morrigan cleared out a space for the party and stacked the fallen trees to the side. “We cannot lay atop this…fētis: it is untrustworthy.”

  “What does that word mean, exactly? Fētis?”

  Morrigan wore her annoyance on her face as she debated responding at all. With her mind made up, Morrigan continued to make her point.

  “Elevation would suit our needs; I have stripped the defenses from the tree and you”—Morrigan pointed a finger to Achaia—“will make yourself useful and fashion a platform.”

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  “Um-I don’t-I don’t know—”

  “Sounds like fun." Rowan crouched down beside Achaia. "Can I help, Fig?”

  “Um…uh-huh.” Achaia responded, nodding.

  “Tsk." Morrigan said as she stepped beyond the clearing she’d created. "I will go patrol the perimeter.”

  “Be safe out there,” Rowan said.

  “Mada.”

  Rowan looked at Achaia and shrugged. He walked over to the pile of trees to assess what they were working with. Sure enough, Morrigan had stripped the outer layer of the logs and removed the leaves entirely.

  “I dunno how to make a platform,” Achaia whispered, standing beside Rowan.

  “Sure you do.” Rowan said, pulling his log back out and drawing a sketch. “You just need to make a box with legs, like this. See?”

  “But how?” Achaia asked.

  Rowan furrowed his brow: it appeared as though resetting her back in the labyrinth had unforeseen consequences. Such an issue wasn’t a problem, though. Rowan could help her. He’d love to. He doodled some symbols and numerals beside his sketch of the platform in his log.

  “Remember when you made all the feathers in the labyrinth?" Rowan smiled. "They were so soft, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “This will be so much easier. I just need you to arrange the vi—”

  “Vi?”

  “The glowbobs,” Rowan snickered.

  “Oh.”

  “So you just need to arrange them like this around the pile of logs. Okay?”

  “Okay.” Achaia nodded, yet her movements conveyed her hesitance.

  “You can do this, Achaia." Rowan said. "I believe in you.”

  Her wavering hands steadied as she painted a picture with the vi around her. Morrigan’s relationship with vi was so one-sided, so brutal. And Rowan couldn’t have a relationship with vi, let alone perceive what that relationship would look like. But Achaia? Achaia was a natural. She didn’t have to beg or plead with the glowbobs, she didn’t force her will upon them, and she didn’t use them in a clinical or mechanical sense. No, watching Achaia manipulate the vi was more so like watching two friends at play. Once the equation was set, it hummed with energy as the veil of cyan encapsulated the pile of logs. A thread of vi connected the veil to Achaia’s hands as if the energy itself was waiting for her to act.

  “What do I do?" Achaia stammered. "What do I do?”

  “It’s okay. Just relax and picture the image here.” Rowan pointed at the sketch, holding his logbook out for Achaia. “You want the logs to be this. Logs. This. Logs. This.”

  “Logs. This.” Achaia muttered as she closed her eyes and fed the vi her imagination.

  Rowan watched with pride as the logs melded together, creating a platform about fifteen kēnēts wide and fifteen kēnēts long. Achaia opened one eye first, only seeking a peek at her work.

  “Wow. I did that?”

  “Yep, and you did a great job, Fig. Morrigan won’t be able to help but appreciate this.” Rowan smiled, hoping to ease any concern Achaia still might be feeling, but her face conveyed the adverse effect. Her hair sat limply at her shoulders, frayed and damaged, no different than a gash across one’s back.

  “How about I fix your hair up?” He hesitated to say anything, but the words slipped out anyway.

  Achaia gripped for where she used to meet her locks and clutched at nothing. “I-I don’t think—”

  “We don’t have to if you don’t want to, Achaia.” He paused, trying to think of how he wished someone had spoken to him in his youth. “But I let you down earlier and I’d love the chance to make it right.”

  Achaia said nothing for a while—Rowan was sure minutes had passed when she finally spoke again.

  “Will it hurt?”

  Had it hurt before? The idea made Rowan’s heart ache.

  “No. Not a bit.”

  Achaia tenderly stroked her short hair and nodded.

  The advantage of the platform made it easy for Rowan to work; he sat Achai on it, standing behind her. He slipped his bag off his back and knelt down in front of it, fishing through it for his toiletries. Past Rowan knew the offscape would be a long-term trip, so he outfitted the bag with everything he might need. Reassembling the contents of his bag back in the labyrinth took longer than he’d have liked, but he felt pretty confident he’d done so correctly.

  “There it is,” Rowan smiled as he pulled the hygiene kit from his bag. He unzipped it, grabbing a comb and a small pair of scissors. “Thanks for letting me do this. I can see why you’re so attached to your hair: it’s so pretty.”

  “Yeah.” Achaia’s voice broke as she sniffled.

  “I’m sorry.” Rowan said, stopping for a moment. He reached out slowly, watching for any sign of rejection, and hugged her from behind. “I let you down back there. It’s my fault and I’m sorry.”

  He was crying as well: he hated being so incapable. The pair cried together for a bit before Rowan continued to work on her hair.

  “Sorry for crying on you.” Rowan said sheepishly.

  “It’s okay." Achaia nodded, sniffling. "I cried too.”

  “It is okay. Crying’s therapeutic, you know.” Rowan wasn’t sure where he’d heard it before, but he could definitely tell he was repeating someone else’s words.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means it makes you feel better.” Rowan gently ran his fingers through Achaia’s hair, picking out any excess debris.

  “Does it really?” She asked, wiping her nose on her sleeve.

  “You don’t think so?” Rowan asked as he turned back to his bag, looking for fleisch powder.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then take my word for it, okay?” He still wanted to apologize further, but there was something more important he wanted to get across. “I’m going to be a better big brother for you, Achaia. I promise.”

  “‘Kay,” she replied flatly.

  “And it starts with teaching you how to wash your hair.” Rowan found the container and popped it open. “This is fleisch powder and it’ll make your hair nice and clean.”

  “Really? How?”

  “Well first,” he pinched a small amount between his fingers, “you go like this. Go on, grab a bit.”

  “It’s fluffy?” Achaia asked, looking for a proper description of the powder she pinched with her fingertips.

  “Sort of. Next step, you make your hands hug.”

  “Hands don’t hug.”

  “Sure they do: like this, right?” Achaia giggled as Rowan spread the powder between his palms and gently massaged it into his scalp. “Mmm, it feels so soothing.”

  Rowan made exaggerated sounds for Achaia’s entertainment as he guided her to mirror his movements. When her fingers first met her scalp and scrubbed softly, she responded with a squeak.

  “Feels weird.”

  “Weird bad?” Rowan asked, continuing to spread the powder through his hair.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “How about the smell?”

  Achaia closed her eyes and took a whiff of the odor overtaking her proximity. She cooed at the sweet fragrance, but struggled to place it.

  “It smells…good.” Achaia whispered, giving up on finding an apropos word.

  “I’m glad." Rowan said. "The scent is from a flower called a vastock. They grow in such lovely shades.”

  “Vastock?”

  “Yeah,” Rowan said as he finished cleaning his hair with the fleisch powder. “It’s also sometimes called a cutter because of the thorns on its stem. They’re sharp, but I don’t think the vastock should be judged on its thorns alone. Right?”

  “Right.” She responded.

  Rowan could tell she was smiling even if her demeanor remained unchanged.

  “Now you’ll smell like a vastock and whenever I need to find you I’ll just”—Rowan closed his eyes, took exaggerated whiffs of the air, and then tickled Achaia from behind—“find you like this.”

  “Stop, stop; what are you doing?” Achaia stammered through a laughing fit.

  After messing with Achaia for a bit longer, Rowan brushed the rough cuts as best he could and trimmed it into a healthy bob. As he cleaned up the ends, he noticed two locks longer than the rest. Such a thing would occur when one haphazardly cleaves hair with a bone knife, he surmised. As he continued styling Achaia’s hair, he decided to leave the two thick tendrils. As unintentional as Morrigan’s styling attempt was, the two locks did frame Achaia’s face well. He returned his tools to the hygiene kit and pulled out a small mirror. As he snaked an arm around Achaia for her to see and was met with another squeak, an astonishing revelation came to the surface: Achaia had never seen a mirror before, so she’d never seen herself either.

  “It’s okay,” Rowan whispered reassuringly. “That’s you, see?”

  Achaia slowly reached out and gripped the mirror with both hands. She ran her thumbs across the smooth, glossy texture and looked at the face staring back at her with wonderment.

  “That’s me?”

  “Yeah." He gestured to her hair, to which Achaia reached out and touched it, her eyes still on her own visage in the mirror. "I know you loved your hair, and you still can, see?”

  “Uh-huh,” Achaia nodded. “Thank you.”

  Her words were simple and small, but they lifted the weight on his heart with ease.

  “Happy to do it, Fig.”