He opened his eyes, watched the world split and crumble until nothing but the jade-paved street remained. He walked on the bridge through the void, catching glimpses of what have been in the crystal shards and splinters falling like rain all around him.

WHAT IS YOUR PURPOSE?

The commanding voice wanted to know. He couldn't go on, nor could he answer. Up ahead, he saw a faint wisp of light and fell to his knees. Something tried to crush him. Choking, he opened his mouth, but the words wouldn't come out.


Dawn's earliest light washed over him, and he took a deep breath and forced himself in an upright position. It was cold, still, and he shivered while reaching for his clothes. His thoughts flooded into the silent morning as he rummaged through a pile of clothes in search of the amulet.
He found and kissed it before hanging it around his neck, warding off the thoughts clinging to him after another strange dream with a breath exercise. Packing, what little he had, in his backpack and getting prepared for yet another day in the forge. He had a lot to think about, memories from days long passed by -


The gobble came there every dawn and every dusk, climbing around near the mine. Voron observed him for quite a while, while the strange creature sat there, benign and the face turned crystal-ward, occasionally blinking. Maybe he was some kind of shaman, maybe some sort of seeker for a bigger truth than his tribe could imagine.
The gobble just sat there on the rock for a while, sometimes touching the amulets and charms he wore around his neck. He never payed attention to the miners below him, gnawing at the rock with their steel teeth, greedy looking for the precious ore. And neither did the miners pay attention to him.
Voron picked up a few lumps of ore, looking at the miners around him, going about their mundane business. The gobble looked down before starting his descent. He didn't come far. One of the miners, a tattoed Ynnwn, grabbed him. The gobble yelped, fighting back only to be beaten and strangled by the Ynnwn. It happened fast, and no other miner did bother to stop sweating and look.
The Ynnwn tossed the dead gobble into the river and walked off. Voron was silent while the river carried to body downstream and continued to work.
It was late in the evening when he left the mine with a load of ore. He followed the river a short distance before turning left, towards Ojaveda.
He stood on top of the hills when he noticed torches on a sandbank down in the river. A few gobbles sat around the corpse in silence while the river flowed past, black and dark.


At least nobody disturbed him while he refined the bronze he made. Hammers made metal sing, bellows hissed and the forges crackled, but other than that it was silent. It was a good place to think, and it kept his hands busy. Not that the same applied to his thoughts, he couldn't silence them. Later that day, it started to rain, but the dermorian didn't mind. It were her teachings and the teachings of the order that occupied his spirit. He observed the drudgery of the others, so focused and yet fighting against the restrictions that their craft dictated upon them, that live dictated upon them.
He knew that she'd never liked him working like that, although she'd liked what his hands made. From great pain, great beauty emerges in the solemnest of all hours. He remembered the words Aramara spoke, remembered the small piece of paper in his pocket. It was late when he headed towards the inn, and still raining. There was a shout, and a cry. Voron raced towards the alley. It could be a trap. He weaved a crude spell and reached for his dagger. Shadows, running away, disappearing into the night. Someone lying there, in the middle of the alley. The dermorian swore.

He barely noticed the rain dripping into his collar. She was lucky, the wound was minor, barely a scratch. Mother would be furious – after all, he was supposed to protect each and everyone all the time everywhere.
“Shh. Everything will be alright.”
A soft dim light danced between his fingers as he weaved a more delicate spell, channeling crystal energy through her. He smelled the mud, the blood and the salty tears on her cheeks, the fear and the pain sticking to her skin like perfume. She sobbed and clawed her hands into him, trying to find comfort and warmth. “Voron?” she whispered.
A sudden fear reached for his spine – that she would catch a glimpse inside him through the veil of intimacy, see the hate burning inside him, the cold he'd wrapped around him like an old coat.
“I'm here. Don't worry.”
She shivered. It was wrong to think like that, a source for new pain and all that. He wished he could get up and vanish just like that; becoming just another shadow. People sure didn't want it to happen, people he knew and whose words he carefully examined. People, that, in the inner core, would understand him, yet condemn the raging thirst inside him.
They would not understand, but that didn't matter. He pressed his teeth together to calm the fury inside.

“Hey! Back away from her!”
Two guards came running towards them, one held a torch and flooded the small alley with its warm light.
The women reached for her sword, but the other guard put a hand on her arm. “Calm down. He isn't trouble.”
The female Ylian relaxed and stepped closer.
“What happened?”, she inquired.
“Ambush.”
The Dermorian kneeling beside the sobbing Ylian woman looked up. Questions were forming on the guard's lips, but she fell silent as she met the elf's gaze.
“You are safe now. Don't worry. We will catch the one who did this to you.”
The Ylian knew herself these words to be nothing but thin shells, and when she looked at the Dermorian his empty eyes scared her more than all the instructors during guard training. There was nothing beyond them, two windows to the void in a face that was nothing but a mere, grey mask.

They all were long gone when a silhouette in a purple robe peeled from the shadows of a side alley. It picked up a small piece of paper, studying it before crumbling it.
Foolish.


Heavy rain beat down at the roof. The windows were long gone, the current owner did not care much about this building. It was cold and damp, but no one ever came here. Which was why Voron did not care.

“Ahh, Marked One. I started to wonder when you might show up.”
He could not see the robed man's face, but he knew that he was smiling. There was a dull glint to be seen below the hood. The Prophet was staring at him for a while in silence, but no answer came.
“You are burning again. Good, good. What you are looking for is near Ojaveda – but are you sure you want to search for it, again?”
There was something about this bodyless whisper that felt so old, so unknown yet hauntingly familiar. Voron remained silent. There was nothing to decide about. The Prophet nodded. “Fine then. Déven.”
The Dermorian put a fist against his chest and bowed his head to the robed man.
“Tjèn.”


It was almost too easy. He observed the barn until nightfall. All of this felt so repulsive; the mask he was wearing, the blackened steel with poisoned edges, the approach through a small ditch. He had sworn not to do this again.
Yet it had do be done.
Yet there was no other choice.
He felt he was himself again, and it felt good.

He got the first of them right outside the barn. The man didn't make a sound, just slumped down into the grass.
To the barn, silent.
The grass below his boots was wet, alive. It was irritating for a moment. He was used to damp stone, to echos – but the vegetation swallowed what little noise he made.
They were talking inside, boasting about their deeds, the thrill of the ambush and what they did to their victims. He took a long breath and sneaked towards the barn's entrance. A throwing knife slid from its oiled sheath -
The fire went out as the spell clashed over it.
“Hey, what - “
They were three. He threw the knife and knew from the scream that he'd hit. His blades jumped into his hands with a metallic hiss and he couldn't help but smile. Not that they would see it under the black cloth.
It was a fast paced dance, the time spent training was paying off now.

The leader stumbled back and brought his short sword between himself and Voron. His eyes spilled over with panic.
“Look at you.” The Dermorian used the voice how he had learned it long ago. “Not much confidence left now, hm, Ilis?”
The man flinched, his eyes moving in preparation of an attack. Marked One could see the sweat pouring from his skin.
“Not so fearless after all, are you?”
The man's attacked was easily parried, and the Dermorian pointed the tip of his other saber at the man's heart. Another attack, a quick set of blows - he punched the man to the ground and kicked the short sword away.
“Get up.”
The man tried to crawl away from him.
“I said GET UP!”
The Marked One grabbed him by the collar and pulled him on his feet, whirling him around, his face close to the man's.
“Ah, this sweet smell of fear.” He smiled slightly. “Sweetest of all perfume, don't you think?”
The man was young, one of those thrill seeking thugs. The kind of brat that believed in their own superiority, the king of all thieves, savages and marauders. Dabbled into knowledge to powerful to handle, perhaps – the Marked One would inspect this little cult altar of theirs later.
“Lemme go, lemme go!”
He was slammed against the barn's wall. The old planks creaked.
“For that, you don't whimper enough.”
The man started to shiver and eyed the dagger's blackened edge.
“You just can't - ”
Marked One put his gloved hand over the man's mouth.
“Send the Mistress my regards...”


Flames consumed the barn and everything that was left inside. The altar had troubled Voron most, and he destroyed it without a second thought. The bodies were in the Death Realm already. It was cold, but he didn't really feel it. Nothing but a nuisance in a dance slowly ending. He breathe the breath of a new dawn; a new dance awaited. For the first time in more than a cycle, he could look his reflection in the eyes when he washed himself in a small lake.


She found a small letter on the doorstep the next morning.
“Those who tell you “Time heals all wounds” lie. But find solace in the fact that your kind can forget, dream and hope.
-V”

And she started to cry.



1904 words. I hope you enjoyed.
Comments are much appreciated.