The barn had gone unnaturally still. No priest rasped from the corner, no centipede scratched behind the walls, and the darkness no longer seemed to breathe. Yet Bastet could not shake the feeling that something remained in the silence, like an echo too deep for the ear to hear. He had already turned toward the forest when the emptiness of his waterskin and the ache in his stomach stopped him. Whatever horrors had lived here, the priest had lived here too. He must have kept something useful.
"Wait," Bastet said, looking back at the open door. "We should search the place."
Lilian followed him inside. The scene was just as they had left it, though without its master the barn seemed less like a temple and more like the carcass of one. A quick search of the priest's meager belongings, however, revealed only corruption. A small sack of grain in the corner was shot through with a creeping black mold that seemed to pulse faintly in the dim light. The water in a nearby cask was thick and black as pitch, smelling of rot. The place was tainted, its sustenance as twisted as its former master. Still, not all was lost. Half-hidden under a pile of filthy rags, Bastet found a sturdy, well-balanced skinning knife, its blade still clean. Lilian, searching a small wooden chest, discovered a long coil of waxed rope, supple and strong. They found a backpack, and Bastet put his flint and a tin pan he found into it. Their bodies were wounded, so Lilian cautioned against taking any of the priest's clothes, fearing it would spread infection.
The walk away from the barn was a grim, silent affair. The monstrous shapes that had haunted the forest had scattered in all directions. Without the chaos priest, perhaps nothing was binding them to this temple anymore. They would certainly wreak havoc on the Wesian countryside. But it was a finite chaos, a fire that would burn itself out. And Wesia could deal with it. This was far better than having the chaos priest endlessly spawning greater and greater horrors, or the absolute madness of a freed Chaos Baron. His shoulder throbbed where the centipede had bitten him. Bastet was still wearing multiple shirts on top of one another as protection, and Lilian tore the sleeve of the topmost one and tightly wrapped it around to prevent the wound from reopening.
He was tired. So much had happened, so quickly. Just a few nights ago he was nailed to a board, and his whole world was defined by four damp walls of his cell. Without knowing the reason for his torment, he desperately replayed the tragic events in his mind, as if looking for a sin that would justify it. Yet now… he had escaped Wesia's clutches, survived a mad god's paradox, and stood his ground against a man who sculpted with nightmares. He was no longer just a farmer from Briskwood. He looked at the strange, dark blade of Folly's Edge hanging from his hip. He had done all this. A quiet confidence, harder and sharper than any hope he had ever known, settled in his gut. If he could survive all this, then finding out what happened to Maria wasn't just a desperate dream. It was a promise he could keep.
His eyes wandered to the quiet girl walking beside him, who leaned on him for support. He had resigned himself to fulfill his duty towards Kreil, but she was much stronger than he possibly imagined. She faced the Baron when he could not, and her sharp words drove him back to chaos. Had he been freed, who knows what he would have done once he had no further use for them. He protected her, but Lilian had also protected him. Strangely, he already felt like he could trust her with his life. It seemed that Kreil was right, she really was special, after all.
They walked for what felt like an eternity, the forest slowly shedding its sinister aspect and becoming just… woods again. The adrenaline was long gone, leaving only a deep, bone-weary ache. A cold northern wind had left the morning frosty, and his nose ran from the cold. Now that they were no longer on blighted land, his mind was much clearer, and it finally felt right to talk without using whispers. Lilian had once again started probing into his connection to her father, and he had no choice but to keep avoiding the topic.
She must have sensed she wouldn't get a direct answer. He saw her glance at him, her expression unreadable for a moment, as if a scholar were choosing a new line of inquiry. Then, she offered a small, tired smile. "Back in Crelem, we have a mansion with a big garden, and a library with so many books that my father always jokes it's a mystery how the shelves don't give in to their weight," a faint, nostalgic light entered her eyes for the first time. "And trust me, no book remained unread. Dad had very definite ideas about my future and wanted me to follow the same path that he once took. Studying art, history, and the developments of thought." Bastet, thinking of Kreil's parting words, could only give a slow, sad nod. A flicker of something, not triumph, but a quiet, pained certainty, crossed her face. "You nodded," she stated, her voice flat. "We are from Irune, not from Crelem, and we definitely don't have a mansion." She looked at him, not with anger, but with a weary understanding. "So you didn't know him well. I see."
Bastet sighed, caught by the clever, simple trap. "You're right. We weren't old friends." He looked at her, his expression pleading for her to believe the one truth he could offer. "But I owe him my life."
She held his gaze, her expression unreadable. "So, where are you from, Bastet? And how did you and my father meet?"
He looked away from her sharp, intelligent eyes. Briskwood was a small, remote village, and opportunities for him and Kreil to meet would not come naturally. He had to give her a story that was more believable. "We met during the battle," Bastet said, his voice low and heavy with a duty she could not possibly understand. "He was with the Argent Covenant forces that attacked the city, as an advisor. When the battle turned… when he knew they couldn't win… he found me during the chaos. He knew they kept you somewhere inside." Lilian stared at him, her eyes wide, the exhaustion on her face replaced by fearful attention. "And we made a deal. He'd help me escape if I took you with me."
"He's never worked with the military," she said.
"Then it seems there are things you don't know about him," Bastet responded, averting his gaze. That much had to be true, since Kreil was entangled in some kind of a deeper conspiracy.
A thousand questions seemed to war behind Lilian's eyes, but she asked none of them. Her fingernails dug into her forearms. She gave a single, jerky nod. "He was really there?" she whispered, the fierce pride in her voice warring with her terror. "He came for me… Are we meeting up with him?"
Bastet looked into the distance. "No. He asked me to bring you to the Academy, no matter what." He finally met her gaze, his expression grim but gentle, and seized the opportunity to change the subject. "You also asked where I'm from. A village called Briskwood. You probably won't find it in any of the books in your father's library… The peddlers used to say that if the blight ever consumed the world, they'd settle right next door to us. They'd live for a decade or two till we caught up with the times." Bastet's expression turned sour. "But it's gone now. Wesia cleansed it. That's how I was recruited."
"They… cleansed it?" she whispered, the term sounding obscene in the quiet woods. "But… why? Was there an outbreak?"
Bastet just shook his head, the memory too raw. "They said it was tainted. That's all."
Lilian fell silent, the last of her probing questions dying on her lips. Whatever else Bastet was hiding, she could see that his story was not merely a puzzle to be solved. It was a wound.
"And you, how did they get you?" Bastet asked.
"It was my fault," she whispered. "I was restless. I wanted to see the world that I only read about in books. There were these ruins… the Sunken City of Olenos. Deep in Argent lands, but just half a day of travel from Irune. I begged father to let me go." A small, sad smile touched her lips. "He hired mercenaries to protect me. A dozen of them. It was… the happiest day of my life. I was finally on an adventure."
Her smile vanished, and her voice went flat and cold. "Then the sun turned purple. The ground… It felt like the whole world was being torn apart and stitched back together wrong. The Peldurun mountains that blocked the horizon inverted, sinking into the ground, only to pierce back through the earth miles behind us. The road home… was blocked. The mountains acted as a natural border, you see. We were lost. But the banners we had finally seen were that of the sword and chain. It was a Wesian legion. They weren't even looking for us, just claiming the new land. And we were just unlucky." She paused, looking down. "The others all died. All because I wanted to see a place from a book."
Bastet looked at the shivering girl, at the immense guilt she now carried, and saw a mirror of his own. "That wasn't your fault, Lilian," he said, his voice low and rough. "It was the world's."
She didn't respond. They walked onwards in silence for a long time. The forest was still damp, and he took every opportunity to squeeze the droplets collecting on the leaves into the waterskin that he carried. But it had ruptured during the fight, and could not carry much water without spilling. They were forced to drink as soon as a few gulps' worth was collected.
The trees weren't as dense anymore, and there was some indication that there existed a path here in the past, but it had already been reclaimed by the forest. The trees around weren't as tall, but the thick thorny bushes were no different than anywhere else. Seeing that Lilian was having difficulty pushing through the prickly foliage while wearing only a sleeveless dress, Bastet once again offered her one of the shirts that he was wearing, and this time she put it on. It was not easy to keep walking in a straight line since there were no landmarks, but Bastet saved them from going in circles by using the morning sun's position to advance south. If Lilian's memory served correctly, crossing the forest in this direction would likely bring them even deeper in Wesian territory, but going directly through blighted land was too risky.
After another hour, her stomach let out a loud growl. A faint blush rose on her pale cheeks. "I always thought you had to experience something grand to become a great artist," she mumbled, wrapping her arms around her belly. "Otherwise, you'd have nothing to convey with your work. I dreamed of an adventure my whole life." She let out a humorless, airy laugh. "This isn't how I imagined it."
"We're away from the worst of the blight," Bastet reassured her. "We'll find something." And they did, stumbling upon a patch of wild rhubarb whose tangy stems they devoured raw.
It was early afternoon when the trees finally cleared, revealing a sun-drenched valley below. A silvery mountaintop gleamed in the distance. Lilian's exhausted face lit up with a spark of genuine excitement. The city that lay on the foot of the mountain looked golden from the other side of the valley. The passing wind whistled with a gloomy sound as it breezed through its ruined buildings, whose broken symmetries left one to wonder how beautiful they would be if they were whole again. Centuries of neglect had decayed it, but it looked like there were other elements that contributed to its demise, ones far more violent than the tooth of time. The tattered rooftops of the houses collapsed from the boulders that struck them, and the once brilliant marble walls were scorched black from intense fires that burned the city. The palace that once towered at the city's heart seemed to have suffered the most damage, and its shape was barely discernible now, with many craters scattered in its garden. It evoked a somber feeling in Bastet, like the loss of this city was a loss for all mankind.
"It's beautiful," she breathed. "And so… familiar. A city this big… it has to be in the histories, I just…" she clutched her hair, as if trying to squeeze the knowledge out. "I'm not sure…"
Bastet's gaze dropped to the vast ruin sprawling at the base of the mountain. "We ought to be careful. Stormbridge looked abandoned too, but it was a Wesian stronghold."
Lilian nodded. "Either the effects of the purple sun still make it uninhabitable, or it has been reclaimed. In both cases, it's dangerous. But a city that large… there might be something left to salvage, or trade for. Water. Tools."
Bastet reached under his shirt and took out his waterskin "It ruptured during the fight. We won't make it far without it."
Lilian reached for it and took a sip. "What do we do?"
Bastet's gaze was fixed on the distant, broken city. "If it's anything like Stormbridge, we can't hope to stop here. The oath forbids me from lying to any higher ranked Wesians, or even attempting deception. Without your father's help, I could have never escaped. We'd be fools to walk back into that again. If they ask what I'm doing there or who I am, it's all over."
"Well, that is going to be a recurring issue." Lilian cupped her chin. "But I'm not bound by the oath. I could do the talking. And we can try to stay clear of the world of guards, magistrates, and commanders. Take the longer, dirtier path."
"Even if you try to do the talking, I won't be able to stay silent in response to their questions. And you can't exactly go alone. We have to be more careful, and make sure there are no shiny breastplates around."
"A city that size, even a reclaimed one, can't be a perfectly sealed fortress," Lilian thought out loud, "There will be cracks. Broken walls. Old sewers. I can't see much from this distance, but," she pointed at a marble path leading straight to the main gate, "as long as we stay away from that, we should be good."
Bastet stroked his chin. "No, see where the marble path meets the dirt road? It's been raining. Let's look for footprints, and see if this city is really as abandoned as it looks."
The river that curved around the city formed a steep valley which was hard to traverse. It took them a while to find a side where it would be safe to walk down from, but even so the unsteady and wet ground had them carefully picking where they step. The river looked to be two hundred feet wide. It wasn't shallow enough to cross, and Bastet could not swim. It took them the better part of an hour, scrambling along the bank, until they found a fallen log stout enough to bear his weight. He clung to it, kicking awkwardly as Lilian, a surprisingly strong swimmer, steered him through the shockingly cold current. They hauled themselves onto the far bank fifty yards downstream, shivering and soaked.
"Keep moving," Bastet got up, "We have to warm up. Let's follow the marble road as far back as it stretches."
The plan was to stay near the road and head back, but the bushes and weeds were too thick to traverse. He cut the path forward with Folly's Edge, but ultimately got too tired, and they agreed that it seemed secluded enough that they wouldn't be discovered if they walked back on the road itself.
Once they reached the end of the path, the wet soil revealed long narrow carvings in the mud you could expect from the wheels of carts. Judging by the direction of the hoofprints, whoever it was that went in was still there. And if it was a Wesian group, Bastet remarked, it would be a terrible mistake to freely approach them.
"What do we do?" Lilian said, still cold from the river. "I'm tired, and hungry."
"We should move back into the woods, where it's safe," Bastet decided. "Let's spend the night there and see if they leave by tomorrow."
"It was cold last night. We should try and get some cover."
"We're not on blighted land now, and no one knows we're here. You look for food, and I'll make us some cover."
They moved a bit deeper into the woods until they had found a clearing. Bastet carved a circular shape into the ground with a stick, and then stabbed the stick into its edge. He tapped on it with a stone in order to impale it deeper into the ground. He then placed a long but slender sapling in the hole that it created, repeating this eight times in total around the circle's edge. He bent the saplings towards the middle, tying them all together with fern stems into a dome. He placed fern fronds around it, and then tied them to the wooden frame in layers. It was messy work, but they had a little thatched hut that they could spend the night in. By the time he was finished, Lilian had brought two shirt-fulls of raspberries and blackberries. The shelter kept out most of the wind.
"You know, we weren't allowed to go into the woods," Bastet said with a distant look, "but I've made a lot of these huts by the edge of our fields. My sister and I would spend many nights like that. She'd bake us bread, and we would eat it warm. But father didn't like it."
"How old is she?"
Bastet's voice lowered, a rough edge of pain returning. "She… she would have turned twelve last month." He paused, looking down. "I tell myself she's still out there… the logic says she must be…" He shook his head. "But… I just don't know for sure. I don't know if she's… around, anymore."
Lilian lowered her head. She found it difficult to choose her next words. "You know… I don't think the Maker would really just… let the souls of the dead be gone forever. The heavens did fall but… as an artist, he surely would have come up with a better ending. Maybe you'll meet again…"
"He chose to make the world the way it is…" Bastet bitterly smiled. "And if life down here is to his liking, then I don't think he quite fancies happy endings." He shook his head again, pushing the dark thought away. "I don't know her fate. It's all a blur, but I think she lives. We need to return to Briskwood to confirm it. That is our first destination."
"I don't really know where we are though." Lilian lowered her gaze. "Somewhere north of the Peldurun mountains, I think. When they captured me, I don't remember the road to Stormbridge. Do you?"
Bastet shook his head. He woke up in the cells. "I doubt they'd haul us half way across Aetrea though. Briskwood is probably nearby."
"But it's blighted land now, we would need to know which law was broken. There won't be any food, and we really need a map before we can even think of stepping foot into the chaos-infested wilderness"
Bastet nodded, the weight of their needs pressing down on him. A map, water, food, tools… the list was long, and the dead city outside was their only hope.
To chase away the grim silence, Lilian picked up a handful of leftover fern stems. With nimble fingers, she began to weave them together. "My father taught me this," she said, her voice soft. "He said an artist's hands should never be idle." In a few minutes, she had crafted a small, intricate doll, which she handed to him.
Bastet took it, surprised by the delicate strength of the simple toy. "You talk about your father and art all the time. Was everyone in the Covenant a sculptor or a poet?"
A small, sad smile touched her lips. "No. But art is… the foundation of who we are. It's the source of magic."
"What does art have to do with magic?" Bastet asked, his brow furrowed.
"Everything," she said, her expression earnest. "After the Maker left, the world was in despair. The first Wesian Inquisitors taught that our fate was a tragedy, a grim duty to be endured. But a lone poet named Sete wrote a comedy. He made fun of the Maker's Contest. The world can shit on you, but it can't make you care about the stink, he said. He portrayed our fate as a cruel joke, but a joke nonetheless. And to a joke you can respond differently than what the Maker intended. You can laugh at it."
Lilian looked at him as she started making another doll. "It showed that art had the power to defy the Maker's intention, to deny his will. Magic merely built onto that idea as its foundation. The classics got it all wrong. Art was not a mirror to be held up to reality, but a hammer with which to shape it."
Bastet looked at the doll in his calloused hand. "A good story," he said, his voice flat. "But it seems the hammer can be used to build a prison as easily as it can be used to break one."
Lilian opened her mouth to argue, but saw the weariness in his eyes. The fight had gone out of him. She fell silent, her fingers continuing their work on the new doll.
Her voice, when she spoke again, was softer, more distant, as she lost herself in the memories of her father's library. Bastet listened, his head resting against the wall of the small hut. He offered a few warm memories of his own. Her voice was a low, steady murmur against the vast, silent darkness outside. He tried to follow her words, to hold on to the names of artists and philosophers he'd never heard of, but his exhaustion was a physical weight, pulling his eyelids down. By the time she was describing the intricate debates between the schools of thought he did not know, Bastet was already sound asleep.
***
That night, he had a dream. A little girl was walking through a city of white marble, right next to a twisted pine tree. Her mother and father were holding her hands when suddenly, the sky stretched open, revealing a single, terrible purple eye that gazed straight at her. With a horrified expression, she heard a voice echo from the void. "I know you are here." The next moment was complete, absolute darkness. He saw nothing else. But he knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that the little girl would cry forever, alone in that blackness, and that nothing would ever be able to console her.
He woke with a gasp, drenched in sweat, the girl's silent scream still echoing in the hollows of his mind. The hut was dark, the fire dead to pale embers. Lilian was sound asleep. He was alone with the terror. And then he felt it. A faint, low thrumming against his hip. It was the sword, Folly's Edge, humming with a cold, alien energy, as if in recognition. That was enough to tell him this had not been merely a nightmare. It was the second promised clue. His hand flew to the wooden fox in his pocket, his mind racing. He had met a girl in a dream, yes. But that wasn't Maria. It couldn't be. The city of white marble was not Briskwood. If anything, it strangely resembled the ruins before him. So what was this? A trick? A lie? No, he quickly dismissed it. What he saw was real. It was an echo, an undeniable wound in the world. But the connection between that girl and Maria was a maddening, impossible riddle. And he knew that the answer, somehow, lay in the ruined city below.