Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sam’s scream, a high-pitched and startling sound, echoed throughout the Blackwagon in all its ear-piercing glory.

                He quickly used his feet to back up out of the bedroll he had been lying in and found his back pressed against the cold wood of the wagon’s frame.

                The Archjustice started down at him, still standing where he was at the head of the bedroll. His expression was unreadable from underneath his mask.

                “It-it’s you?”

                ‘Tis I indeed, Reader. He rolled the ‘r’ in the same extravagant tone his voice had held when he communicated to Sam during the Rites.

                Sam felt his lips quiver as he stared in confused terror. He could hear someone saying something to him but was far too focused on the holy official before him.

                What’s the matter, Reader? The robed man taunted, relaxed in his posture as he made his way over to Sam, before slowly bending over so that their faces were mere inches apart. Has the howler got your tongue?

                Sam saw him get carried off by that strange man named “Lector,” how was he here in the Blackwagon? How could he have snuck in without alerting anyone? It didn’t take long for the frightened Reader to arrive at a conclusion.

                 “Y-you aren’t…” Sam’s voice shook as he struggled to get out the words. “You can’t be real.” Surely he was just tired, this had to be merely an effect of exhaustion or perhaps something he had eaten.

                Oh, Androbeles leaned in even closer so that his concealed eyes were virtually pressed against the Reader’s own.

 But I am.

                Sam felt his consciousness decide it wasn’t having it and leave him, causing his vision to quickly blur and fade to black as his head slumped against the back wall of the wagon.

              Sam resisted the urge to wipe the sweat pouring down from his forehead, instead opting to keep his attention completely focused on the battle unfolding before him. And it was truly a battle, two trios of robed bodies competing for victory. Competing for freedom: competing for the fate of the Commonwealth.

“The will to overcome shall urge us on…

To brave injustice ‘til the stars have gone.”

                Bertrude, pass it to Ti’zo!

                If there was one thing being in the Downside had taught the Reader, it was that appearances can be very deceiving. This was evidenced by the speed at which the hunched form of the bog-crone Bertrude slithered to the side, nearly avoiding the implosion of an orange-clad imp before sending the Celestial Orb over to Ti’zo.

                The sphere appeared above the imp, and with perfect harmony, he zipped in a zig-zag pattern over to the enemies’ pyre. A bestial roar erupted to his side, and the imp didn’t have time to respond before an immense wave of Aura swept across him, sending him to Banishment.

“The favor of the Scribes arrives at dawn.”

                Volfred saw this from his place in the center of the court and narrowly avoided a white fireball, dodging forward. He barely had time to look up, quickly realizing that the hulking form of the demon that had banished Ti’zo was airborne and leaping in his direction. He blinked forward, vanishing underground for a split second before appearing right below the Orb, the celestial sphere coming into his possession.

                Which apparently was exactly what the horned man was planning.

                Coming out from behind a crystal pillar was the Nomad that had aligned themself with the demon, who sent forth their own aura in a quick surge that banished the sap, leaving the Celestial Orb free for the taking.

“Who shall rise again?”

                Which is exactly what the Nomad did, running to it to obtain it, and then sprinting their way over to the Nightwings’ pyre.

“Who lights the way for the aimless?

Favor is for the true Scribe-blessed!”

                Bertrude, don’t let them get any closer! We can’t take another hit!

                The crone weaved in-between the crystal shards dotting the landscape, and leapt out in front of the nomad, causing them to be sent back and away from the Nightwings’ pyre. Bertrude quickly followed up with a surge of her aura, banishing the nomad.

“Exalted by the flame’s ascent,”

                However, both the crone and the Reader had failed to realize the imposing demon that had come around from the side-

“Only the purest heart repents!”

                Watch out!-

                Sam was silenced by the sound of the Celestial Orb falling to the ground, its glassy surface clacking against the ash-covered marble. The horned man grunted tiredly, making his way over to the sphere and taking it between his hands.

                Nonononono, it’s only a few more seconds until Ti’zo-

“Repent!”

                The towering stone frames of Murr, Tithis, Ores, and all the others watched impassively as Oralech roughly tossed the Orb into the tiny, flickering blaze that was the Nightwings’ pyre, causing it to be quickly extinguished. Only a few remaining trails of smoke gave evidence to its existence.

                And, there it is, at last. The True Nightwings proved their worth. The Voice boomed from its omnipresent position. As for the Nightwings, they most certainly did not.

                Sam felt his legs give out, the sensation of his knees hitting the cold marble barely registering. They had lost. Oralech would go free.

                The Plan would fail.

                He blinked back the wetness gathering at his eyes, trying to stay strong for his friends, but was distracted by a flicker of red light from above that caught his attention. The Reader looked upward at the sky.

                The crimson constellations of the Titan Stars didn’t bother acknowledging his presence, only slowly beginning to fade away back into the blackness above. When they had first appeared, Sam experimentally tried a few in some of the low-risk Rites, but ultimately decided against using them. To him, the risks far outweighed any gains.

                Yet once the Final Liberation Rite began, he saw the twisted body of Yslach Astral-Born take form in the sky. Sam was confused, the stars of the Greater Titans had never taken form before of their own accord. He tried to wish it away, turn it off like he had done so in the past but it refused to fade. Just then the other Titan Stars next to it began glowing with red light as well, and in a ripple effect, all of the constellations had begun showing themselves in the sky.

                The Reader was panicked, and found that he couldn’t remove the presence of the Titan Stars. They had activated themselves.

They maintained their position in the sky all throughout the Rite, spelling demise for the Nightwings. It was as if the Greater Titans themselves had ensured their loss.

Now they were fading away, their job done, it seemed. They all disappeared, all except for that of the Astral-Titan’s. Its wicked form remained there as if to taunt him. The shape of the thing was almost like a sphere but bore sharp spikes and edges, and from both sides and its bottom sprouted some form of strange appendage connected to the main body by a smaller sphere-shaped body part. Staring at it causing the Reader’s head to ache slightly, and only after remaining in the sky for a few more seconds than its compatriots did it return to the same void as them, gone from sight.

His memory from that point on was hazy, he remembers apologizing and the Shimmer-pool turning the same shade of crimson that the Titan Stars had adopted. He remembers Tariq and Celeste approaching them, and Oralech, donned in the white mystic robes of freedom, being warned by the two. He remembers reaching out to the demon, pleading-no, begging for his case, using his abilities as a Reader to show them all of what they had done, and all of what they had done it for. He remembers the demon hesitating.

He remembers Oralech giving his freedom for Volfred’s.

When the demon had refused his freedom and offered it to the Reader, Sam didn’t hesitate to redirect it to the sap who had engineered the whole Plan they had dedicated themselves to. Volfred was hesitant at first, but Sam didn’t accept any ending to this story but the sap going free. He wasn’t sure what to think of Volfred when they had first met, the Reader was wary of him and even expected a form of betrayal from the older man. Yet he was pleasantly surprised by him as they grew closer over the course of the Rites, and both men found they had many things in common, such as their love of literature and history. By the time the final Liberation Rite had arrived, Sam considered the man a close friend and mentor.

And besides, it didn’t make sense for the sap to not go free on a logical level. The entirety of the Plan was all his doing: every agent who worked for it he hired and every move carefully plotted out he orchestrated. The new world he sought to build was going to need someone to be at its head, and every revolution needs its hero.

Sam wasn’t upset as he saw Volfred enter the Shimmer-pool. He was told from the start by the Voice that Readers don’t get to go free. Everyone who was freed would serve a purpose. Hedwyn was a natural leader and diplomat, whether he knew it or not. Jodariel was a strong warrior and also served as somewhat of a leader for the Nightwings, ensuring they never lost focus. Rukey seemed to know just about everyone worth knowing when it came to needing a favor. Fae didn’t deserve to die in the Downside just because of what she was born as. Gilman too still had a future ahead of him and Sam didn’t think his reason for self-exile was valid enough to remain. Similarly, he felt that Pamitha should learn to forgive herself, and her connections in the Highwing Remnants, although likely distant due to her actions, still existed and could prove valuable to the Plan.

As for the Reader, what was he? Just some introverted bookworm who can hardly walk, let alone assist in a revolution. Even Ti’zo and Bertrude would serve a greater purpose if liberated than he. No, Readers don’t get to go free.

Neither do the undeserving.

He kept those thoughts to himself as he watched Volfred ascend to freedom, and to a better world.

The only regret he had was that he couldn’t have liberated more of the others, and that the stars hadn’t forced such a tragic fate upon them.

                A groan came forth from the Reader’s throat as his eyelids cracked open to meet morning light spilling in from the windows of the entry room. His neck felt sore from where it was awkwardly slouched against the wooden frame of the Blackwagon.  That wasn’t the first time he had dreamed of the final Liberation Rite, and it likely wouldn’t be the last.

He sat up, rubbing his neck in an effort to relieve some of the tension, and felt something shift in his lap. Sam looked down, seeing the greenish glow of the Beyonder Orb in his lap.

                He placed his hands upon the Orb. “Sandra?

                It was only a moment before he heard her familiar voice echo in his mind. “Yes? What is it?”

                “…nothing.”

The memory of the night before plagued the Reader. Was that a dream as well?

Sam reached over to where his cane laid before his disheveled bedroll and used it to prop himself up as he rose, hearing his back give out more than a few cracks as he did so.

“Hey Sandra,” The Reader spoke as he nudged his bad leg, causing him to wince. It was still sore from the events of the previous day. “Did you… hear anything last night?”

“Like what?”

“Just anything strange.”

The specter answered after a moment of silence. “I was, for a moment, under the impression I heard some sort of horrific banshee screech last night, but when I inquired to you as to whether or not you too had heard it you had already dozed off.”

“…oh.”

“Why? Did something happen?”

“No! Nothing at all.”

Sam entered the entry room of the wagon to find Almer face down and completely covered by his bedroll. The boy was completely still aside from the occasional grunt and kick of his leg. A quick chirp alerted the crippled scholar to another companion, this one not under slumber’s tempting hold.

“Screee-hi!” Ti’zo descended down from his nest onto the small, circular table in the wagon. He looked up at the Reader with a toothy smile decorating his small features.

“Good to see you’re up, Ti’zo.” Sam stifled a yawn and walked over to the cooking pot that Hedwyn had left in the Blackwagon. “Hey, could you check what food we have in here?”

An affirmative sound from the imp, and he was off to scour the bags of supplies they had lying around in the cabin. Sam cleared out all of the smaller tins from the pot and made sure it was free of any dust or residue.

The flapping of wings and a muffled “Scweee” caused him to turn around. Ti’zo had a sack he was holding by his mouth, its cloth weighed down by what was hopefully edible content. The Reader grabbed the sack and undid the short string around the top.

“Alright, let’s see what we’re going to eat for breakfast today…” He pulled the sack open, and both Sam and the imp gazed down inside.

Silence filled the cabin.

The two looked up at each other, both bearing expressions of worry and hesitation.

“Well… I mean, we can technically eat it.”

“Hreee-hoo…” Ti’zo’s stomach quaked in terror at the memory of the last time Hedwyn had “cooked” the substance. He wouldn’t be surprised if it had permanently corroded some of his taste buds.

“We probably should have nabbed some food from Barker before we left…” Sam sighed. “Well, it’s all we got. Hopefully looking over Hedwyn’s shoulder taught me enough to make sure this doesn’t kill us.”

Sam could see Almer stirring from his place on the bedroll, and sure enough after about a minute, he saw navy two eyes peeking from under the covers.

“…food?” The voice croaked.

Sam nodded. “Pull up a chair, I’m almost finished.”

The Reader reached into the steaming pot with a wooden ladle. He had cracked the door open to let out some of the steam but didn’t dare to cook outside in fear that the smell would attract howlers. Underneath the pot was not a fire, however, but the magma mug that they had retrieved from the Black Basin as a souvenir. Although it had served useful for keeping warm, Sam was informed by Bertrude that, upon agitation, it could grow to much hotter levels. It seems she was right, as it was currently hot enough to boil water with just a few shakes. It was a good thing the glass capsule it was encapsulated in was enchanted.

Almer shuffled his way out of the bedroll and stood. His hair was a messy mop of darkness upon his head, his eyes barely able to be seen through the black locks. He lazily reached up a hand to brush some of it out of his face and began tying it back with half-lidded eyes. “What’s on the menu?”

“Take a look for yourself.” Sam scooped some of the contents of the pot and emptied them into a wooden bowl, before placing a small spoon in it and putting it at the edge of the table. Almer tiredly pulled out a chair and unceremoniously plopped down in it and took a moment to inspect his meal.

Inside the bowl was some sort of brownish, thick muck. Most of it was liquid but some chunks could be seen floating around in the murky goo. Twirling his wooden spoon revealed the sludge to be heavy and dense, containing small crumb-like dollops.

“What…. is this?”

“Silt porridge, served fresh and with extra flavoring.” There wasn’t any extra flavoring, but Sam hoped it would maybe help it go down easier in a sort of placebo-like fashion.

Almer scooped some of the gunk with his spoon and raised it to his nose, sniffing. It didn’t seem to have any sort of scent. Sure it looked disgusting, but the boy learned from an early age not to judge food based on its appearance.

He brought the spoon to his lips but stopped when he saw Sam looking at him with an oddly large amount of intensity. Just over his shoulder, he could make out Ti’zo’s eyes, who watched him with no small degree of fear.

                Almer slowly lowered the spoon, his curiosity whisking away his drowsiness.

                “What?”

                “Hm?” The Reader blinked a few times as if coming out of a daze.

                “Why are you staring at me?”

                “What? I-I’m not staring at you, no-I’m… ruminating.”

                Almer blinked. “What?”

                “N-nothing, just continue as you were!” Sam suddenly became very intrigued with the pot filled with the “silt porridge” inside it, and began circling a spoon in it, his eyes downcast and avoiding Almer’s own. Ti’zo too looked away and was whistling some sort of tune.

                Almer snorted and directed his attention back to his spoonful of brown sludge. Without any further interruptions, he guided the spoon to the insides of his mouth and swallowed.

                Sam and Ti’zo immediately began staring as soon as they saw Almer no longer watching them. Both held their breath as they saw the boy experimentally toss the muck around between his cheeks, before swallowing.

                He went in for another spoonful and swallowed that as well. The imp and the Reader shared a confused look with each other before Sam decided to finally satisfy their curiosity.

                “Is it… good?”

                Almer’s eyes directed their gaze back to him, and the young man swallowed before answering. “It’s alright, not the best I’ve had, but I wouldn’t call it bad.”

                Huh. Maybe Hedwyn’s cooking skills did end up rubbing off on me.

                Sam scooped some porridge into a bowl for him, and then into a smaller one for Ti’zo.  He gathered some of the gruel onto a spoon and lifted it to his lips, letting it run down into his mouth.

                And then promptly utilized every ounce of willpower in his body not to send it straight back out the way it came.

                His hand flew to his mouth and clasped over it in an effort to ensure he wouldn’t cover the table and Almer in a flurry of saliva mixed with muck. He forced the putrid substance down his throat with a hard swallow. Sam narrowed his eyes at Almer.

                “I thought you said it wasn’t bad.”

                Almer—who had almost completely eaten his bowl clean—looked up at the Reader. “It’s not.”

                “It’s abhorrent!”

                “Screee-hooo…” a faint voiced agreed.

                Sam turned to Ti’zo. The imp’s face had adopted a greenish tone, and managed to maintain standing at the edge of the bowl—where he had been sipping the porridge—for only a few more seconds before collapsing onto his back with a blank expression.

                “Ti’zo?” the Reader questioned. “You okay?”

                If the imp heard him, he didn’t respond, opting instead to simply let out a harsh groan.

                Sam looked back to Almer. “You call this “not bad?!””

                “It’s not! Don’t blame me because the imp has a weak stomach!”

                “I told you he was not to be trusted, Sam.” Sandra materialized from the orb, her frowning form crossing her arms and floating behind her lover.

                “Look, Almer!” Sam pointed to Ti’zo. “Look what your lies and deception have caused! Look at what they’ve cost us!”

                Almer’s face turned exasperated, his hand flying out to gesture in the imp’s direction. “WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? HE’S FINE!”

                Just then Ti’zo let out a hoarse gasp, the upper half of his body trying to get up, before collapsing, letting his wings fly out in either direction along with his tongue flopping out of his mouth in an exaggerated motion. His eyelids shut and he turned still.

                “Almer… you’ve killed him.”

                “Ugh!” The boy grunted and grabbed the large spoon from the cooking pot to scoop seconds into his bowl before getting up and walking off into the common room. “I’ll eat in the common room! Tell me when we reach Hollowroot.”

                Sam watched as Almer exited the cabin, and heard Sandra’s voice speak to him. “I didn’t take you as one who likes to tease, Sam. You’re usually so reserved.”

                “It’s kind of hard not to.”

                She chuckled. After making sure Ti’zo wasn’t actually dead, the Reader dumped what was left of the porridge out the door and began operating the piloting equipment for the Blackwagon.

                The Blackwagon groaned as Sam pulled down on another rope, causing its left wing to slightly open up further, allowing greater lift. He sighed, using the ropes to hold himself up and decided to take a moment to rest. Holding onto the ropes allowing him to take weight off of his bad leg, so he just left his cane leaning against the nearby wall.

                We should be close to Hollowroot by now. Sam figured. Ti’zo said that he was “recovering” in his nest but they both knew he had just decided to sleep in. A quick peek into the common room revealed Almer to still be awake, occupying his time by organizing some of the artifacts he had brought over from his own wagon. Maybe I should get Almer to switch out with me, so I can take a break.

                Oh, I could take the reins from here if you’d like.

                Turning to his right revealed the source of the voice: Androbeles.

                “Aah!” The Reader yelped, letting go of the handholds and tripping backwards so that his back was against the wall of the cabin, his cane leaning next to him.

                Surprised to see me? The robed figure taunted. What, you didn’t think the previous night was some sort of hallucination, did you?

                Sam grabbed his cane and put it in front of himself defensively.

                “You’re not real…”

                Oh for stars’ sake, we just went over this.

                “It was the porridge.” The Reader mumbled, trying to deduce the possibility of the man standing in front of him. “I must be hallucinating because of the porridge.”

                You know that’s not true.

                “Well, then why didn’t you appear earlier then?”

                I was getting a grasp on the situation. You know, Reader, I’m well aware that the concept of acting with a hint of intelligence is completely foreign to you, but do try to use that minuscule brain of yours.”

                Sam grunted in annoyance. Holding a hand against the wall to balance himself, he swept at the Archjustice with his cane. The walking stick went completely through him. Androbeles looked down and then back up at the Reader unfazed.

                “So you aren’t real.”

                Just how dense are you? The robed judge sighed and walked up to Sam, who edged away instinctively. He pointed his finger right at the cloaked man’s temple.

1. Am. In. Your. Head.

                “…which means you aren’t real.”

                Androbeles turned around and threw his arms up in an exasperated fashion. You’re impossible!

                Just then, in a sweeping gust of green ethereal mist and light, appeared Sandra. Her blind facial features appeared confused.

                “Oh, hello Sandra.”

                She nodded in greeting. “I thought Almer was in the common room.”

                “Y-yeah, he is.” Sam answered. Androbeles had turned around and seemed quite interested in the conversation unfolding before him.

                “Who are you speaking to then? Ti’zo?”

                “Uh…” A quick glance confirmed the imp to still be out cold in his nest, his chest rising and falling with deep breaths and a thick stream of drool pouring out of his wide-open mouth. “Yes.”

                What’s the matter, Reader? Don’t want your friend knowing about me?

                “I wanted to ask how close we are to Hollowroot.” The assassin said.

                ”Oh!” Sam sputtered, realizing he had abandoned the flight controls. Thankfully the Blackwagon was still on a steady course. He resumed his post at the rope-handholds and looked out the window, seeing the terrain having turned from a coarse sea of sand to a grass-covered expanse. “Not far. I think we’ll be there soon. Why?”

                “Just curious.”

                Oh, I never liked her. Androbeles had gotten closer to Sam, and was standing at his side with his masked face looking up at the phantom. The Reader didn’t need to see his face to know that there was likely a look of disdain and disgust that laid upon it. Always so… domineering.

                “You know her?” The question came out before Sam could stop himself.

                “Hm? Know who?” Sandra replied, the eyebrows upon her bronze face quirked inquisitively.

                “No one! Just talking to myself.”

                The look upon Sandra’s face said she was still curious but it seemed the blind woman decided not to question any further.

                Reader.

                Sam looked over to the Archjustice. “What?” he whispered as silently as possible.

                Androbeles simply poked the Reader in the middle of his forehead. He didn’t feel anything, but still swatted at the hand anyway. To no avail, of course.

                “W-what do you think you’re doing?” Sam hissed.

                The robed judge didn’t bother replying, opting instead to begin prodding and swiping at the Reader’s body.

                “Cut that out!”

                Androbeles did not cut that out.

                “Stop doing that!” The Reader warned, louder than he intended to.

                “Sam.”

                Sandra’s words came out in a calm yet stern voice. Sam knew what that tone meant.

                “Yes..?”

                “Who are you speaking to?”

                “Ti’zo…”

                “I hear him sleeping.” The assassin replied. “I’m blind, not deaf, and this orb can still pick up a good deal of what’s happening around it.

                Sam let out a long sigh. “I-…” He was distracted by the smug aura of the Archjustice who stood before him, crossing his arms.

                Oh, were you planning to keep me a secret?

                The Reader gave him the best death glare he could before responding to Sandra. “Maybe I can show you.” He dug out the Beyonder Orb from the folds of his clothing. The orb functioned by linking the mind of whoever touched it directly within the realm of the orb itself, allowing for direction location and as the Scribes intended, practice of the Rites. If Androbeles was somehow a part of his mind, perhaps this would allow Sandra to be able to hear him.

                He held the glowing sphere between his fingers and felt the familiar sensation of light-headiness which quickly dissipated. “Alright, so-“

                Hello, sister of the Arch. Enjoying your imprisonment?

                The assassin’s head snapped in the direction of Androbeles. Well, it seemed that it worked. Sam thought.

                “I recognize that voice…” she muttered.

                You should, I’m told it’s as soft as velvet.

                Sandra narrowed her closed eyes. “You were with the Nightwings. With the demon and the woman.”

                Indeed I was.

                “How are you here?”

                That is the question, isn’t it? Androbeles folded his hands behind his back and let out a sigh. I was enjoying a rather comfortable house arrest, courtesy of your lovely Sandalwood, prior to my… descent.

                “House arrest?” Sam questioned. “That was your punishment?”

                I was put there awaiting trial. I know from your actions during the Rites that you lot tend to favor delusion as a philosophy, but-

                “Wait.” The Reader interrupted. “It’s been a year since the Commonwealth fell, and you haven’t been tried yet?”

                I was getting to that, Reader. The Archjustice loudly cleared his throat. Anyway, after the Commonwealth fell, they put me on house arrest to await my trial. However, it seems that there are some in this new government that do hold some shred of common sense. They argued and delayed my trial on the bounds that I had not committed any crimes—which is completely true—by the way.

                Androbeles must have detected Sam’s confusion and answered before the Reader could respond. You see, you cannot simply wish away a government in a single day. There are a good number officials in “parliament,” He said using air quotes, that still adhere by the righteous beliefs of what the Commonwealth was founded on. Loyalists, they apparently call themselves. They argue that all that I and other justices have done were committed under a different government, thus different nation, thus I cannot be tried.        

                “What would they have to gain from this?” Sam questioned. He glanced at Sandra, who was oddly staying silent during all of this.

                They seem to think that if they can put me back in a position of power, even one of a lesser statue than which I previously held, they will be rewarded by me. Which is true. Androbeles snorted. Or would have been, if it wasn’t for that damn vandal.

                “Vandal?”

                Big guy, about yay high, Androbeles said, putting his hand up about a foot above his head. Wears goggles and a big coat despite the fact that he’s in a desert, I believe you’ve met.

                “Lector.”

                Yes, well dear Lector saw fit to raid my home, destroying multiple priceless historical artifacts in the process, might I add, grabbed me and then ran off to the river. He had some other man with him whom which I’m not acquainted, but I don’t think we’ll be having to worry about him.

                “The river? Isn’t that right by the High Court building?” The Reader remembered being cast down the River. There were more guards there than he could count, no one should have been able to break in so easily.

                Yes, well after the whole “no more exile” thing, they didn’t really need to guard it that much anymore, if my trip there is any evidence. I did see one sentry or two, so the gateway to the river is likely operating on a skeleton crew these days.

                “That doesn’t answer how or why you’re here.” Sandra finally spoke up.

                Well, if you’re so smart you should be able to figure it out.

                “It was when Sam was at the bottom of the sand dune.” The phantom quickly deduced. “You used your abilities as a Reader to go into his mind.”

                Correct. It’s good to see at least one of you has some brains between them-

                “Get out.”
                Excuse me?

                “Escort yourself out of my Reader’s head or I will escort you to the next world.”

                A chuckle rang out from the Archjustice. I’m afraid that’s not possible. Androbeles replied, crossing his arms. I’m not just floating around in here aimlessly. I’m pretty sure that our mutual friend Lector didn’t intend on keeping me alive, so I made a split-second decision to more or less move in. Permanently.

                You can do that? Sam thought. He knew his abilities as a Reader have grown and were still growing every time he studied and meditated on the Book of Rites and its teachings, but to be able to propel your consciousness?

                Yes, I can do that. Androbeles confirmed. And since we’re sharing the same head I can also hear your thoughts, so I hope you don’t ponder on anything you want to keep private.

                Sam’s eyes widened. The situation he seemed to have found himself in seemed to be worse and worse by the minute.

                “Well then if you forced your way into his head, then you can be forced out.” Sandra’s lips were curled into an even deeper frown than usual.

                Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure of that. The Archjustice replied. I’ve studied and practiced the Rites far more than he has, and with the actual Rites gone, well, I’m not so sure little Sam’s flower will ever fully bloom, so to speak.

                The Reader found himself struggling not to shake in fear at the concept. “So that means…”

                I think its best you get comfortable with me. Androbeles edged close and swung an ethereal arm around Sam’s neck. I suppose you and I will be together for, oh I don’t know, the rest of your life.

                Sandra was growing angrier by the second. Even at her most irritated, Sam had never seen her face bear such an acute form of barely-restrained rage.

                Don’t get so fussy. Sam could feel the smile radiating from the Archjustice’s words. This will be fun!

                They arrived at Hollowroot a few hours before the Sun would take its place in the center of the sky. Sandra had made the Reader swear not only to dedicate hours of study to the Book every night but to actively ask around in Hollowroot if there were any Readers who could assist in his plight. They had decided to keep the information from both Ti’zo and Almer to not worry them. Sam didn’t like keeping information from them, but he didn’t want them to be any more worried about him than they already were.

                They landed the Blackwagon behind some trees just outside the settlement. Ti’zo opted to stay behind to watch the wagon, and with Sandra (reluctantly) retreating back into her orb and left in the Blackwagon to question her fellow Beyonders, Sam and Almer made their way into Hollowroot.

                It seemed like the outpost actually more advanced than when the Reader had first stopped by it. There was a small fence lined with sharp spikes around the perimeter to keep out howlers, and even some guards by the entrance, who lazily waved them by as they entered. The buildings were made out of shoddy wood, most looking far more like shacks than homes, but the amount of people walking around proved that many, if not most of the people who arrived in the Downsides that didn’t seek to travel or participate in the Rites called this place home.

                Fifty-nine bottles of ale on the wall, fifty-nine bottles of ale!

                It made sense why Hollowroot would be more populated than other places in the Downside. It wasn’t too far from the Sandfolds, being only in the next region over, and was probably the most hospitable out of all the areas in the Downside. Sam saw a good mix of harps, nomads, saps, and even a few demons making their way through the dirt paths that doubled as roads. The two passed by fields where some sort of tall, think yellow crops were being tended too by a few farmers. As Almer guided the Reader through the village, he began estimating that the population was probably around a thousand.

                Take one down!

                The boy guided him into an alley between two rows of buildings, a small gap blanketed in shade, and the two walked through, approaching-

                Pass it around!

                Almer pointed at the building they were approaching, it-             

                Fifty-eight bottles of ale on the wall!

                Will you shut up?!

                O I’m sorry. Androbeles’ voice echoed in his mind. The Archjustice apparently didn’t feel like conjuring a physical form into the Reader’s mind, opting instead to simply annoy him by projecting his voice into his head. Was I disturbing you? Just ignore me, I’ll be quiet. Where was I? Was I at 99? I think I was at 99.

                Sam groaned and held his face in his hands as he followed Almer. The only good thing about this was that he could communicate with Androbeles without talking, so at least he wouldn’t appear crazy.

                “Something wrong?

                The Reader looked up, seeing Almer staring back at him, his face a mixture of concern and curiosity. “Just a headache. “ He responded. “That’s why we’re here, right?”

                “Right... Anyway, this is it.”

                The building Almer was referring to looked just as run-down as the rest of the buildings in the shantytown. It did, however, seem a little bit longer. The roof had an eave attached to its end, hanging over the edge of the building to protect from rain. Just under it on the wall was a medical cross drawn with white paint.

                “I’ll wait outside.” Almer leaned against the wall of the building and crossed his arms.

                Sam nodded, and doing his best to ignore the singing that was still occupying his mind, approached the door. He stopped just as he gripped the handle, which was more rust than iron. “This guy’s trustworthy, right? They’re not going to try to stick anything weird in me?”

                The boy looked over to the Reader. “Oh, yeah, he’s fine. He may seem a bit… intimidating, but he’s a really good doctor. I wouldn’t get him angry, though.”

                “Alright, I’ll try to make this quick.” Steeling himself as best he could, Sam swung open the door. He heard a bell above him jingle as he entered. The inside of the building was lit by the streams of light gently floating in from the windows, revealing particles of dust floating around the room. There was a wooden desk at the far right end of the room with a seat behind it that was unoccupied. Just to the left of the desk was a small hallway that had a door on both its left and right sides, and Sam could make out some sort of conversation coming from the left one. On the left side of the room were a few empty benches. The Reader figured this doctor likely heard him come in and sat himself down on one of the benches. He put his cane in both his hands and tapped away at the floor as he waited, still trying to ignore the stage whisper-singing of Androbeles.

                “I’ll be out in a minute.” Came a gruff voice from the left door of the hallway.

                It wasn’t long until the door opened, but instead of the source of the voice, it was a small harp girl that exited the room. Her wings were turquoise in color, and her hair was strawberry in color, pulled back into a thin ponytail. She couldn’t have been more than seven, the Reader deduced. She looked up at Sam.

                “Hi!” She waved her wing.

                “Er, hello.” Sam looked at her wing when she waved it, and noticed the distinct lack of any cut feathers or incisions made upon the wing. Her wings were unclipped, which meant she must have been born here.

                “Your hood is big.”

                “Uh, thanks…”

                “Oh, please excuse her.” A voice said. Coming out of the same room was a harp that looked very similar to the girl, aside from the fact that she was taller and more matured. Her mother, most likely. A look at her wings revealed them to be clipped, unlike her daughter’s confirming the Reader’s theory.

                “It’s fine, I don’t mind.” Sam wasn’t exactly sure if having a child in the Downside was the smartest thing to do, but it was refreshing to see someone who was untouched by the hostility of the plane and the nihilism that usually came with it.

                The girl walked over to the door and stood up her toes to reach the handle, and swung it open.

                “Valomia!” her mother chastised. “What do you say?”

                “Oh!” She turned around to the door that she and her mother had walked out of and yelled out just as they exited the building. “Thanks, Dr. Oralech!”

                Sam smirked as he saw them exit. Cute, he hadn’t seen a child since-

                Wait.

                Oralech? He heard Androbeles’ singing stop as they both came to the same realization.

                That Oralech?! They thought in unison.

                Sure enough, a large, familiar form exited the room the two harps had left. Four horns raised from his head, a broad physique, and white hair that came down his shoulders.  He still wore the orange uniform of his triumvirate with blue accents that he had worn during the Rites. “Don’t mention it.” He said, marking something down on a clipboard he was carrying. He headed into the room and looked up at the Reader, who was completely still on the bench. Their eyes met.

                Sam gulped. He hadn’t been alone with Oralech since their little meeting in the Blackwagon, and now there were no rules in any books that forbade him from snapping him in half like a twig, which the Reader had a feeling they both knew he could do very easily. The demon’s face was hard to read, his expression neutral as his orange eyes bore into the Reader’s own green orbs. Sam resisted every urge in his body to cower away or twitch in fear, trying to give his best attempt at remaining as outwardly calm as possible.

                “I didn’t expect to see you here.” The demon spoke, breaking the silence.

                “Uh, yeah, small world.”

                Sam nervously tapped his fingers against the bench’s armrest as the demon studied him. While Oralech did give up his freedom at the Fall of Soliam, the Reader would hardly have taken the action as a sign of acquaintance, much less friendship. He sensed some sort of understanding between himself and the demon and hoped it would be enough to get him through this unexpected doctor’s appointment. Sam had some very important questions for Almer after he got out of here. If he got out, that is.

                Oralech grunted, done with looking the Reader up and down, and walked over to his desk. His towering frame was disproportionate to the small wooden chair he sat on. The demon reached into a drawer in the desk, pulling out a small inkwell and quill. The doctor jotted some notes down, his eyes focused solely on the rough parchment that he was writing upon. “Have you just come here to taunt me or is there any validity to your visit?”

                “N-no, I didn’t come here to taunt you.” Sam stammered. “I came here to see a doctor, but I didn’t expect it to be you.”

                Oralech didn’t reply. It was only after a few more seconds of the rough sound of the quill’s tip scratching against the parchment did he speak again.  “There wasn’t anyone else?”

                “I haven’t heard of any other doctors offering service in the Downside.”

                More scratching sounds. Androbeles was being strangely silent. The Reader thought he may have heard Oralech stifle a sigh but wasn’t sure. “What is your problem, then?”

                Sam was about to speak but stopped himself. Sandra had wanted him to go get his head checked, more or less, but now that they both knew what the problem was, he wasn’t sure. Androbeles was able to force himself into the Reader’s mind through his powers as a Reader, so it wasn’t something that could be likely be fixed physically. Sam also had a feeling that telling the demon “Hey, your old friend who you used to travel with and was in the Rites with is now in my mind! He can speak to me but you can’t hear him! I’m totally not crazy!” may be a bit unwise.

                You best keep our little secret to yourself, Reader, lest you want the demon to think you a loon.

                You’ve been awfully quiet. Sam mentally retorted.

                Androbeles didn’t respond.

                “Ahem.”

                The Reader looked up. Oralech had stopped writing and was looking at his new cloaked patient expectantly.

                Probably best to lie and try to test what he knows, Sam decided.

                “Just a check-up of sorts. My bad leg has been giving me trouble ever since I uh… tripped.” The Reader lightly moved his right leg.

                Oralech stared at him for a few more uncomfortable seconds before rising to his full imposing height. “Follow me to the examination room.”

                Sam stood up and trailed behind the tall man. He was led into that same room the two harps had come out of. In the room’s center lied a wooden table covered with a thin white sheet, along with a small table to the side that had a small bag made of howlerhide. Oralech gestured to the table. “Sit down and wait here.”

                The Reader did exactly that, watching as Oralech exited the room. He saw him go into the door directly across from the one he had just entered, before the demon closed it. Sam was unable to make out what was happening in the room but could barely make out the trickling of water. Oralech returned momentarily, after retrieving his clipboard and writing utensils from his desk. “You were the Nightwings’ Reader.” It sounded more like a statement than a question.

                “Yes…”

                The horned man outstretched a gray hand, offering the clipboard to Sam. “Then fill it out yourself.”

                The Reader took the clipboard, and Oralech also gave him the inkwell and quill. Sam had to make sure to ensure no ink was dripping from the feathered tool before writing with it, as he was not sitting at a desk, but took the utensil to the parchment and read the paper before him. It was a form, obviously printed by some sort of stamping-press, with information meant to be filled in blank boxes. All of it was just basic patient information, like name, age, race, and medical history.

                Huh. I didn’t know Oralech could read. Sam thought.

                If the local Archjustice had any comment, he kept it to himself. Sam didn’t dare dwell on his forced companion’s silence out of fear of provoking another hellacious tune. It was a minute before Sam returned the clipboard and utensils to the demon.

                Oralech took the clipboard and read over it. “You didn’t write your surname.”

                “It’s a bit of a mouthful.”

                “You’re older than I thought.”

                Sam didn’t respond. He didn’t think he looked much younger than any other twenty-four year-old’s he had met.

                Oralech continued examining the clipboard. “Your writing.”

                “…what about it?”

                “It flows. Like Volfred’s.”

                “Oh, you mean its corvin.”

                The demon’s eyes met the Reader and simply blinked in response.

                “I-It’s a form of penmanship, used to be popular in the imperial age. By connecting the letters you can write both faster and fancier. Volfred taught me it.”

                Oralech didn’t bother replying, responding instead by simply placing the clipboard by the bag along with the utensils. “Disrobe.”

                Sam swallowed. “Excuse me?”

                Oralech sighed, like he had repeated this dozens of times. “There are many infections and ailments in the Downside that can sometimes take place in more unseen locations. In order for me to make sure you’re healthy, you have to disrobe to your undergarments.”

                I hope you’re not shy, Reader.

                Oh, shut up.

                Doing his best to ignore Androbeles’ vocal return, Sam removed his cloak and hesitantly reached up to remove his shirt. “Is this really necessary?”

                “If you want to ensure you won’t end up killed by a parasite or infection in a few weeks, then yes.”

                Sam sighed and slowly removed his shirt, his eyes catching the sight of his torso. The Reader’s chest was absolutely covered in scars, from the abdomen to the height of his collarbone. All caused by the whip from his public lashing. As if a cherry on top, the black brand of the Hollow Star contrasted with the pinkish scars that surrounded it.  Sam quickly removed his trousers and looked away from the sight of his blemished body.

                The Reader didn’t like looking at his scars. He wasn’t ashamed of them, Sam knew full well that it wasn’t his fault for receiving them. But, unlike some boisterous soldiers he had encountered earlier in his life, nor was he proud of them. He saw no reason for the myriad of old wounds all across his chest and back to be any reason for boast. But still, Sam was perceived as weak all his life, and he didn’t want people seeing his scars and thinking him even weaker. He fought the urge to cross his arms in an attempt to conceal what little he could as Oralech reached into his bag to retrieve some tools.

                To the doctor’s credit, he didn’t flinch at all once seeing Sam’s damaged body, only examining them closer. He put on a set of white gloves from inside the bag and placed a finger over the black brand. “Have any of your scars given you any trouble? Become yellowish or swollen?”

                “No.”

                “Do they hurt upon contact?” He poked the brand.

                “No.”

                Oralech gave a sort of half-nod, before standing up and circling around the Reader’s back. “Arms up.”

                Sam followed his instructions. His mind raced for topics to make the situation any less awkward. “So… where did you get all these supplies?”

                “Volfred.”

                “Oh, you two keep in touch?”

                “Sometimes.”

                “That’s good.”

                Oralech stayed silent as he continued his work. The Reader wasn’t exactly super talkative, but even he could carry a conversation better than this.

                Don’t blame yourself, Reader. Androbeles said. He never was a good conversationalist.

                I think that’s the first time you said something to me that wasn’t some form of insult or patronization.

                Don’t get used to it.

                “Your leg.” Sam was brought out of his mental conversation by the demon. “Can you still feel everything connected to it?”

                “I believe so.”

                The demon doctor tested the reflex of the Reader’s right leg with a small hammer regardless. For a badly injured limb, it actually looked quite normal, aside from the surgical stars surrounding the knee, which was shifted a little more rightward than it would be on a normal leg.

                 “How was it injured?”

                Sam had lived with his impairment for most of his life and was far more accepting of it than his more recent injuries. “Harp bombing run. Caused a cabinet to fall on it.”

                “How long ago was that?”

                “About …eighteen years, I think.”

                Oralech, to no surprise of the Reader, didn’t respond and merely continued further examination and questions.

                Sam clipped the clasp of his cloak. “Um, thank you, Oralech.”

                The doctor grunted in response as the two exited the examination room, heading back to the entry area. 

                The Reader had tried to pry and see if Oralech had any sort of information regarding Readers or strangers coming down the river but had only received small, one-note disconfirmations and small shrugs. He fought the urge to sigh. “Do I owe you anything?”

                “No.”

                The demon sat down at his desk and began writing on another piece of parchment. Sam nervously tapped his cane on the wooden floor. “So that’s it? No problems?”

                “None that I could find. You seem healthy, if a bit underweight, but I suppose that’s normal here. More exercise would be an improvement.”

                “It’s a bit hard to exercise when you can hardly walk.”

                “I knew a man who had both his legs blown off on the Bloodborder. Could lift more than anyone else I’ve ever met.” Oralech retorted. “There’s never an excuse for not exercising.”

                Sam just blinked as the demon continued writing whatever notes he was currently occupied with.

                You’re lucky he stopped there, the voice of Androbeles chimed in. He would go on about apples and nutrient regimens.

                Oh, that reminds me! Sam thought, the Archjustice’s comment bringing back a thought from earlier. “So... you’re literate?”

                “Somewhat.”

                “Did Volfred teach you that as well?” Sam felt something tingle in the back of his head, but it was cut off by Oralech’s response.

                “No.”

                “Oh, was it Brighton?” The Reader winced as he felt the tingle suddenly transform into a sharp pain that pierced his skull like a sudden migraine. He bit his tongue to avoid groaning in pain.

                Oralech looked up, setting his quill down so that its tip rested on the edge of the inkwell. “Volfred told you about him?”

                “Y-yeah, he told me.” The pain suddenly disappeared. Sam had a pretty good idea of what caused it, though, but didn’t want to dwell on it in fear of Androbeles launching a second psychic attack. Perhaps it was a touchy subject.

                The demon looked at him for a second more before returning to his paperwork. “Yes. It was Brighton who taught me to read.”

                                “Oh.” The Reader brought a hand up to rub the back of his head in an effort to massage the area where his cranium felt like it was going to burst. “Well, thank you again.” He turned to leave.

                “Goodbye, Sam.”

                The Reader’s hand was on the doorknob when he was stopped by the demon’s words. Guess I’m not “the Shadow” anymore. Hoping this meant that whatever relationship was between the two was bettered, Sam exited the building.

                The Hollow Star.

                Also known as the Reader’s Brand, the Hollow Star is what all those who are charged with the crime of literacy have imprinted onto their body via a branding iron. Since literacy was not permitted within the Commonwealth, the origins of the symbol have been more or less lost in time. Many in the Commonwealth knew not what it really meant, only that it was a sign of literacy: an act comparable to treason, and thus those who bore its black mark were to be avoided.

                Those who have managed to uncover and decipher the text from old, forbidden tomes know its true source.

                The belief of Astralism stretches back from almost as long as when some harps decided to shed their wings, and even in the modern Sahrian Union it still holds status as the most common religion practiced by the populace, seconded only by worship of the Eight Scribes, which is roughly followed by one of every ten citizens. In its practice of worshipping the stars, chief theologians in the imperial days deciphered omens and portents from the celestial entities. The shooting star was a sign of prosperity and fertility, especially to farmers and others who worked in agriculture. The rare presence of an eight-pointed star foreshadowed a harsh change, like a long winter or harsh summer. But no symbol was as dreaded and inauspicious as the Hollow Star.

                A symbol of plague, a forewarning of disaster; the Hollow Star was despised as a harbinger of misfortune. It looked like any normal five-pointed star, but its body was a void of black in place of the vibrant colors the astral entities usually held.  And after every appearance, death and misery followed.

Thus it was forbidden in the Astralist Sahrian Empire to ever draw, depict, or otherwise recreate the unholy emblem. In the late days of the Empire, when Soliam Murr still reigned, it is said that some of the minor kingdoms at risk of subjugation by the empire would attempt to use this taboo as a psychological weapon in warfare in their efforts to avoid conquest. The northern princedom of Asgrim, for example, had their soldiers paint their shields with the symbol. Unfortunately for them, that only angered the legions of Gol Golathanian, who brought them to heel in a war that lasted less than a month.

Any who was charged in literacy would be branded with the symbol at the end of the public lashing ceremony. The harsh treatment of the literate served as a warning to those who would attempt to gain the skill, and as a punishment to those who did. The punishment of being a Reader was worse than that of high treason, and while there are some who were exiled who were literate, very few were exiled for being literate. Almost all Readers kept their skill a secret, and those who failed paid a terrible price.

Lector was one of the latter.

In summary, the Hollow Star was, for want of a better description, a symbol of antithesis to everything the Commonwealth held dear. Which is why Lector was spending his time painting it into the back of his coat.

“I’ve never seen you with your coat off before.” A voice said from his side.

The convict didn’t bother responding to the harp, focusing instead on ensuring that his recreation of the symbol was as accurate as possible. The white color he was using contrasted well with his dark grey coat, which he had laid flat on the boards of the blackwagon.

                He saw her cross her crimson wings out of the corner of his eye, her avian body leaned against the wall next to the doorframe. “Whadd’ya painting?”

                “Aren’t you supposed to be piloting the wagon?”

                “Relax, the drive-imps are stupid but smart enough to make sure we don’t crash. So, whadd’ya painting?”

                Continuing to ignore her, Lector finished the final touches on his coat’s new addition and stood up, letting the paint dry as he dropped the brush into an empty jar.

                “Wow, aren’t you just a ray of sunshine?” The woman’s words, to the surprise of neither of the two, were ignored as Lector walked past her and into the main room of the wagon. The harp trailed behind him, uncrossing her wings. “Does this have something to do with that guy from earlier?”

                Lector turned to face the woman. Her skin was white like ivory, and mostly concealed by her talon ace uniform: a light gray double-breasted jacket that was tight to her torso to permit flight, and similarly tight black trousers she wore on her legs, ending just above her avian feet, where all could see her sharpened talons. Her face was heart-shaped, and deep brown eyes accentuated her black bob cut, the dark locks neatly falling around her head.  The woman stood at about average height for a harp, meaning the man before her easily dwarfed her in size. She didn’t seem bothered by that. “You seemed quite obsessed with him. Does wittle Wector have a cwush?”

                The convict snorted and pulled down the collar of the thick black wool shirt he was wearing, showcasing the black star branded onto his chest. Hints of pink scars against pale flesh could be seen around it. “He and I share the same brand.”

                She squinted her eyes, leaning in to examine the symbol. “Is that supposed to mean something?”

                “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

                Now it was her turn to snort. “Right, because you nomadii are just so much smarter than us harps.” She jumped up onto a nearby table, sitting on it and swinging her feet back and forth. She nudged the unconscious form of Androbeles with her foot, who had been placed in the chair and was now slumped over. “Hey, is this guy even alive? You think he would’ve woken up by now.”

                “His retrieval is my job, not yours. Worry about yourself.”

                “Oh, like there’s anything I have to worry about!” The harp cocked a grin. “There isn’t a single damn place on the Bloodborder there where my name isn’t known. But what bothers me is this whole job.” Her cocky smirk quickly turned into an agitated frown. “How come I had to be the one to talk to the Commandant?”

                “You seem to have fared well enough.” Lector slowly made his way throughout the wagon. It was loaded equipment that could prove useful to them, and the convict had already made use of the paint the previous occupants had left. “I take it she was agreeable?”

                “It’s not like we gave her much of a choice.”

                The tall man arrived at a small end table which held a few copies of the Book of Rites. He opened one and began to flip through it with gloved fingers. “You didn’t seem to have any problems getting the blackwagon, either.”

                “It’s not like they were even protecting it!” The harp threw her wings up. “The wyrms just flat-out abandoned it in the middle of the sea! On some deserted island, no less!”

                “I don’t see the issue.”

                “The issue is that my talents aren’t being put to use! There’s one reason I signed up for this whole gig,” The harp said, sliding one of her feet into the space between the seat and the back of one of the chairs placed by the table. In a quick movement, she beat her wings, generating some lift as she ascended into the air with the table. She then quickly slid her avian foot out of its hold, causing the seat to fly upwards, and in a quick airborne flip, brought down her foot with its talons outstretched. A sharp crack radiated throughout the cabin, and the pieces of wood and splinters of timber that fell down in a shower where the chair once was. The harp landed gracefully, both her feet hitting the ground at the same time. “And that was to claw, to pierce, to fight! And instead, Makadon has me stealing wagons and blackmailing public officials.”

                “You’ll get your wish soon enough. Trust in Makadon.”

                The talon ace groaned and took her place back on the table, resuming the swinging of her legs. She glanced over at Lector, who seemed to be reading from the book in his hands. She tried but failed to make out the man’s eyes under his large goggles. “Can you even see out of those things?”

                “Yes.”

                “Don’t you get hot under all of those clothes?”

                “No.”

                “Why do you wear that big hat?”

                “Maybe it blocks out the sun. Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe I just think it looks cool. Is there a point to these questions?”

                “Just trying to get to know you, nomadii.” the harp sighed, blowing a stray lock of hair out of her face. “They teach us as fledglings in flight school to familiarize yourself with your comrades. Since we’re working together I figured I might try that, but I don’t even know anything about you, and you don’t seem too keen changing that anytime soon.”

                “But I know about you, Vilay.” Lector had been staring at the same page for some time now, but his face didn’t move an inch away from its attention on the book. “I know you graduated top of your class. I know you led operations that nearly brought the Commonwealth war effort to its knees. I know are one of eight women to be ever awarded the White Wing.”

                He saw that Vilay had a grin spread across her face once more. “And?”

                “And that you were dishonorably discharged for attacking a Union patrol after the Scribes’ Return.” His goggled eyes looked over to the harp, his words somehow clear from under the silver fur scarf he wore. “How did it feel? Did you enjoy the society that held you up as a hero turning on you? Did you like how the government that backed you betrayed you faster than any ace could ever fly? Did you savor the feeling of being unable to do the one thing in life you love?”

                Her grin turned into a grimace, her eyes gaining a dark glint to them. “What are you trying to say?” She continued when Lector didn’t respond. “What does any of that have to do with anything?”

                “Nothing at all.” His eyes turned back to the Book.

                It only took a few moments for the irony to dawn on Vilay. She groaned, rolled her eyes, and stormed off into the wagon’s other room. “You can pilot from here on out.”

                It was only a few more seconds before her voice rang out again. “And your hat doesn’t look cool. It looks stupid!”

                “Noted.”

                Sam slowly crept around another tent, ensuring that no one was watching him. Once he was sure he was still unseen, he crossed the open space of the camp as fast as a man with a cane could walk and ducked into a larger tent, his eyes being met with the familiar belongings of Barker Ashpaw.

                Phew, he didn’t see me.

                Yes, Reader, you are quite adept at assuming the role of a vermin skulking around. I’m glad we can agree on that.

                Ignoring his mental ride-along partner, Sam examined the room. Barker’s tent was as unorganized as anyone would think it would be, supplies of all sorts lying everywhere. A small blanket spread out in the corner apparently served as the cur’s bed. He quickly began sifting through the supplies, moving spare uniforms, strange talismans, and anything unrelated out of his way.

                I know that it has to be around here somewhere…

                “OI! READAH!”

                Uh oh.

                The familiar jingle of a chain confirmed Barker’s presence, the Reader turning around to see the black cur looking up at him with a very displeased look on his face.

                ”Uh, hi Barker, I’m just-“

                “I don’t give a shite! Where were you last night?!”

                Sam blinked, confused. What could he be talking about?-

                Oh. Supper duty.

                Shit.

                “I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you.”

                Barker snorted. “Mate, you best not be makin’ excuses. I wont the full story, and it betta’ be a damn good one!”

                Sam gulped, wiping some sweat from his forehead. “Well, it all started when we went to the giant ball of poop…”               

                “…and he said I was fine, so we decided to head back.”

                Barker stared up at the Reader, his expression unreadable. “So wot you’re sayin’, is that da bloody Archjustice Andropees-“

                ANDRO-“BELES!” Sam winced from the loud shout that originated in his mind, holding his head with his free hand.

                “-da ninth was somehow brought down here, and ‘den some bloke with a big hat kidnapped him, and ran off with some harp into the sunset?”

                “Well I think he was kidnapped before he came into the Downside, I don’t see how else he could have gotten here, but yeah, pretty much.”

                The air in the tent was tense and the all-encompassing desert heat wasn’t helping relax the Reader’s nerves. Sam swallowed nervously as he saw Barker mentally contemplate the bizarre situation.

                “Eh, I believe it.”

                “Wait, really?”

                “But that don’t excuse you runnin’ off and shirkin ya duties!”

                “I’m really sorry about that! If I knew I was going to be out all day, I would’ve told you.”

                The cur sighed, his red mohawk gently swaying in the hot breeze that came in through the tent. “S’pose you couldn’t ‘ave known. I forgive ya, but tell me if ya gonna run off again when you have supper duty!”

                “Right!” Sam promised. He breathed a sigh of relief. He was lucky that Barker was far more forgiving than he could seem.  Unfortunately, he didn’t think that the cur would be so forgiving about what he was going to tell him next. “So, there was actually something I needed…”

                “Hm?” Barker’s ear twitched.

                “Well, I wanted to head over to Big Bertrude’s-“

                “Dat old bog-crone?”

                “Yes, her. She’s usually familiar with what’s happening in the Downside, so I thought we should see if she knew anything. But it’s been a while since I’ve been to her encampment, so I was looking for your map.”

                “Dat old thing? Think I got it ‘round somewhere, ya check under the matt?” He jerked his head toward the blanket in the corner.

                Sam walked over and, carefully kneeling down with his good leg, picked up the blanket. Sure enough, there was a rolled up piece of parchment under the comforter. The Reader grabbed it and stood back up. Unrolling the map revealed its contents to be true: a complete map of the Downside, each celestial landmark mapped and each region named. “Wow, I didn’t expect such a detailed map. Thanks, Barker.”

                “Don’t mention it mate, so long as ya give It back when ya done.”

                This cur’s accent is insufferable, Reader. Muzzle him, would you?

                Ignoring Androbeles, Sam folded the map back up, stuffing it in a pocket concealed by his cloak. “Alright, I’ll hopefully be seeing you soon, bye-“

                “Wait a minute. You’re leavin’ now?”

                “…yes.”

                “Wot!” The cur’s ears perked up, his teeth bared as his anger returned. “How are ya gonna make up suppah duty if you run off?”

                “It would also be nice if you could… spare us some food for the trip.”

                The cur’s jaw dropped, unable to believe what he was hearing.

                “I’ll cook supper for a whole week when I get back.” Sam promised.

                Barker squinted.

                “Two weeks!”

                “Damn right you will.” The black cur snorted. “None of dat shite the others cook taste like the stew you make.”

                It was from watching Hedwyn that the Reader had learned the basics of cooking with what was available in the Downside, and Sam couldn’t help but feel more and more grateful for the questions he had asked the man before he was liberated. Though sometimes it would seem that the skills he had picked up on were more of a curse than a blessing.

                “Well, out ya go! Got an adventure or waitin’ for ya, right? Don’t come back ‘til ya ready to cook!”

                Sam closed the door to the Blackwagon, walked over to the nearest chair and collapsed in it with a sigh.

                “Scraaa-hi?” A voice asked.

                The Reader turned to the sound’s source, seeing Ti’zo looking at him inquisitively from his nest. “Nothing, I just think I may have made a deal I’m going to regret down the line.”

                Oh dear! Actual labor! The thought of it must terrify you, Reader.

                The young man just groaned, holding his head in his hands.

                “You’re back.” Almer walked in from the common room. “Did you find a map?”

                “Yes,” Sam answered, retrieving the folded piece of parchment from the folds of his clothing and putting it on the table.  “I think I can pinpoint where Big Bertrude’s camp is. It’ll take us until nightfall to reach it, maybe even more. Did your father teach you how to pilot the wagon?”

                “Yes, why?”

                “We should probably take shifts so I don’t pass out and drive us into the ground.”

                “Fair enough.” The boy answered. “The sooner we find out-“

                A knocking sound interrupted Almer, the banging of something rapping against the Blackwagon’s wooden door repeating thrice. He looked over to the Reader. “Expecting company?”

                “Barker said he’d send someone with food for our trip,” Sam stood up and walked over to the door. “I figured we- or, most of us would rather not eat silt porridge.”

                Almer mumbled something under his breath, but didn’t make any further comment. The Reader turned the doorknob and pulled open the door, revealing a white-haired brown-feathered harp holding moderately sized sack between her talons. She was currently flying just a hair off of the ground, and wearing a light white shirt under a brown jacket and similarly colored pants that had some dust and sand stuck to them.

                “Hello!” Shanna greeted. “Mind if I come in? This thing is pretty heavy.”

                “Oh, go ahead.” Sam moved out of the way, allowing the harp to duck into the cabin and drop the sack of food onto the floor. Landing shortly after, Shanna stretched her wings before turning to the cloaked man. “That’s quite a bit of food. Expecting a long trip?”

                “Not really, but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared.” The Reader answered. Almer wordlessly made his way over to the sack and untied the string around it, peering in. He showcased the food to Sam as well. It was an assortment of herbs, dried meats, and even some fist-sized dead bugs. Nothing appetizing, never in the Downside, but anyone who wished to survive in the hostile plane had to learn not to be picky with their meals.

                “Thanks for dropping the food by, Shanna.” Sam took his place back in the seat he was before, thankful to be off his feet once more. “Tell Barker I’m grateful, please.” He leaned his head back off the chair.

                “Oh, he already told me about the whole deal you two made.” The harp said. “And I couldn’t help but overhear your little talk about his holiness Androbeles IX and his appearance in the Downside.”

                Sam’s eyes met hers from under his hood, his expression confused. “W-“

                Shanna cut him off. “And I was thinking that two weeks of supper duty is a lot, and that you might appreciate some… assistance.”

                The Reader didn’t bother answering, knowing there was some sort of catch, and waited for her to continue.

                The harp swallowed when she saw Sam’s lack of response but continued on. “So I was thinking that maybe if you let me come with you, we could each do a week instead.”

                The answer came out faster than the harp was likely expecting. “No.”

                “Come on, why not?”

                “It’s too dangerous.” Sam answered. “Besides, not that I want to cause offense, but this doesn’t really have anything to do with you.”

                “Oh, like it has anything to do with you.” Shanna crossed her brown wings, her amber eyes narrowing in agitation.

                “We were the ones who were there, not you, harp.” Almer spoke up, his arms crossing in a pose that mirrored the girl’s. “Besides, why do you want to come along anyway? And what’s supper duty?”

                “That’s whoever’s in charge of cooking for the evening.” The harp answered.  “All the little cliques in this camp tend to eat together, and we figured that us riteball players should eat together so we don’t all have to cook meals, but that means someone has cook enough for like, eight of us. So we rotate who does it.”

                “What’s riteball?”

                “I’ll tell you later.” The Reader said, his eyes still focused on Shanna. “But you realize this is just a short journey, right? Why do you want to join us?”

                “Because everything else is so damn boring!” She pointed her wing out the door to the bleak sands dotted with tents. “Besides riteball there’s nothing to do, and the only interesting thing that happened down here ended before I even found out about it!”

                “So you want to come along because you think it’ll be fun?” Sam sighed, running a hand through his hair causing his hood to fall back a bit revealing his pale, tired features.

                “Is there anything wrong with that? It’s not like any of us here have anything better to do.”

                The Reader pondered that. She wasn’t wrong, but he felt like having someone join them for the fun of it when he possibly could’ve been killed the night before would be reckless. He straightened his posture and tried to blink the drowsiness out of his eyes before he answered. “Shanna, we don’t know what we’re dealing with here. This isn’t a game, you could get hurt.”

                “Hurt?” The Reader’s words seemed to amuse the harp, who let out a chuckle. “’Not that I want to cause offense,’” she mocked, “but I’m quite sure neither of you have any sort of military experience.”

                That was probably obvious given Sam’s disability and Almer’s young age, he figured. “And you do?”

                “14^th Sentinel Regiment, served as a-look, that’s not the point. The point is that I can take care of myself, and if something bad does happen, I could help out. I get to finally do something other than sit in this star-forsaken desert waiting for the next riteball game, and you get the bonus of my lovely company and all that it entails. Seems like a win-win situation to me.”

                She does have a point… Sam reckoned.

                Reader, I hope you’re not actually considering bringing this harp along.

                Why not? The Reader responded. He knew it likely wasn’t a very good idea to entertain the self-aware voice in his head, but was curious as to Androbeles’ argument other than pure contrarianism against all of his decisions.

                All who serve in the ranks of the Highwing Remannts do so only to shed blood. Their whole society exists soley to strike out against the Commonwealth and everything it stands for. Besides, this harp in particular seems far too impulsive to be put in a trustworthy position. She’ll probably make off with your things whilst you slumber.

                If she wanted to steal from me, she’s had plenty of chances already. And the Highwings conscript their young just as the Commonwealth did, she likely didn’t have a choice in her service.

                You know what? Androbeles sounded like he had lost an argument. Fine. Trust the harp. Just don’t expect me to quell my laughter when you awaken to talons around your neck.

                Why would she wait for me to wake up if she was going to kill me?

                Bah! I’m not listening to this drivel any longer. The Archjustice somehow modified his voice inside the Reader’s head as if to make it sound far away. Enjoy your foolishness. I’ll be elsewhere.

                You mean still in my head?

                I mean the inner recesses of your mind, where all your good ideas and intelligent thoughts are. Let’s have a look, shall we? The Reader heard the sound of a door opening. Ah yes, here we are. Hm, what’s this? An empty abyss of nothingness?

                “Er, Reader?” A feathery wing was waving in front of his eyes.

                Sam blinked a few times, brought out of his mental conversation. “Yes, what is it?”

                “So… can I come along?”

“She is right about this whole affair being intriguing,” Almer admitted. “I have to admit, I wasn’t looking forward to trudging across every waste of the Downside for Father’s pilgrimage, so I can see the appeal of looking for something to do.”

The Reader remembered discussing the matter with the boy on their way back to Barker’s camp. While Almer did want to complete the task his father had given him, he also said that he would come along if only to satisfy his curiosity. Sam felt like there may have been something more that motivated the son of Dalbert Oldheart, but refrained from prying further.

                “What about you, Ti’zo? What do you think?”

                “Screee-hiI!” The imp thought she was trust-worthy enough, and that they could use all the help they could get, especially if things got dangerous like they almost did in the Sandfolds.

                “We are just heading over to Big Bertrude’s you know.” Sam replied. “Not really a daring endeavor.

                “Kraaa-hoo?”

                Sam had to admit that Ti’zo had a point. Regardless of whether or not they actually found out more information, they likely weren’t going to just dismiss whatever sort of mystery was unfolding before them.

                The Reader let out a long, resigned sigh, before using his cane so stand himself up. “Alright, that pretty much settles it. Welcome aboard.”

                Shanna’s eyes widened, her voice quivering with anticipation. “Really?”

                “I just need to run it by one other person first. She’ll be…. hesitant, but I don’t think she’ll be too against your company.” Sam walked over to the orb which he had left on the table next to the Book of Rites. He placed his hand against the green sphere, prompting a green swirl of light to illuminate the cabin, the ethereal form of Sandra appearing after its departure.

                The blind woman looked like she was about to say something but stopped. Her nose scrunched up and her lips twitched. “Why do I sense even more idiocy?”

                Just then a shriek pierced the ears of everyone in the cabin. Shanna was backed up against the wagon’s wall, her face one of utter terror. She pointed a wing in Sandra’s direction. “Ghost!”

                The blind assassin’s ever-present frown deepened. “Listen here, girl…”          

                                And with only twenty more minutes of deliberation, Shanna was welcomed aboard the Blackwagon. Unlike Almer, she only brought a moderately-sized satchel containing her personal belongings with her. Introductions were made, and by the end of the hour the Reader and those that were with him set off northward to Big Bertrude’s. Almer had decided to take the first shift and the Reader the second. Thankfully Almer was able to read the map and knew the general layout of the Downside from his time during the Rites, making there be no need for any navigation. Sam had opted to use his break from piloting to take a short nap.

                The Reader stirred when he felt something moving him. His eyes cracked open to reveal the form of Ti’zo sitting on his knee. Sam was laid on his back on top of his bedroll, with Sandra’s orb still held between his hands. The imp chirped at him. “Kraaaa-hi!”

                “Yeah, I’m up. Just give me a moment.” Sam reached for his cane and managed to muster enough strength to pull himself up and off of the floor, Ti’zo flying off of him and heading back into the other room. Placing Sandra back under his cloak, he made his way into the wagon’s main cabin, seeing Almer blinking tiredly at the controls. Shanna was sitting at the table looking through the Book of Rites again, and peered up at him when he entered. The harp offered a smile and small wave which the Reader returned. Sam directed his attention back to Almer. “You’re done?”

                “My legs are killing me.” He looked over to Sam. “I’m done.” The teenager released the flight controls, swapping with the Reader. The boy then made his way over to the table before sitting down at one of the chairs, letting out a large sigh. Shanna said something to him and the two began to engage in conversation.

                Sam looked out of the window. The sun had made its way under the horizon, leaving the world cast in a blanket of darkness, with no stars to shine and illuminate the earth. He heard the fluttering of wings and saw Ti’zo descend from his nest and land on the staircase to the Reader’s right.

                The two made small talk as the time passed. Almer eventually receded into the common room for some rest himself, leaving only the three (or four, if you count phantasmal assassins) in the cabin. It was when multiple hours had passed and Sam began feeling sleep pull at him once more did he hear the voice of Androbeles echo through his mind.

                Reader.

                Sam pretended he didn’t hear anything, continuing on as he was.

                Reader! Do not try to ignore me!

                The Reader did not listen to the Archjustice’s advice.

                Reader! Sam saw the white robes of the theocrat circle around from behind him and stand before him, his masked form holding his hands on his hips.

                The Reader groaned. What is it?

                I think I’ve spotted our destination. Look! Androbeles pointed with his psychically-constructed finger to the window.

                That’s an acid pit.

                Are you sure? Hmm… The Archjustice brought a hand to his masked chin, rubbing it thoughtfully. Perhaps you should go down and check. A sharp nosedive should do the trick.

                Did you get exiled because you couldn’t shut up, or was that more of a thing you developed later on? Sam was nearing his wit’s end with the Archjustice’s constant taunting and endless snide comments. It had only been one day and the Reader felt like he was going to throw himself out of the wagon if he had to keep dealing with this annoyance.

                It would make sense that an invertebrate cripple like you would be opposed to the act of speaking. Androbeles chuckled. I remember your sentencing. You sat there like a sick pup, eyes to the ground while I condemned you to the river.

                Sam felt himself gripping the handholds tighter.

                No reply? I suppose I should expect as much from someone who allows themselves to be used as a tool by everyone they meet. First you let the Nightwings use you so that they could gain their freedom-

                They didn’t use me.

                Didn’t they? Androbeles’s form crossed his arms and leaned against the wall by the window. You know, while I was imprisoned in my home I used what contacts I still had to inform myself of the events occurring around the “Union,” he made air quotes before returning his arms to being crossed, and specifically, the ones who had destroyed our merciful Commonwealth. Do you know what they’ve been up to? Sam was about to reply but Androbeles cut him off. Hedwyn proposed to some harp girl. I suppose desertion wasn’t enough of a betrayal to his country to satisfy him. The moon-touched one, Fae, is attending lessons on basic literature. Rukey has reopened whatever businesses he had, and seems to be enjoying wide success. Gilman was in town quite recently to give a lecture on his version of events that occurred in the Downside.  Pamitha floats between the Highwing Remnants and the Union like she has nothing better to do in some naïve attempt at peace. Jodariel acts as an advisor to the Capital Guard and gives counsel to the prime minister. And that same prime minister, Volfred, was recently invited to a banquet by some harp aristocrat in further blind sighted attempts at peace.

                Good. Sam responded. I’m glad that they’re enjoying they’re freedom.

                Good?! The Archjustice’s arms fell to his sides as he marched up to the Reader. Does it feel good to know that your friends right now are celebrating your stupidity? That your precious Volfred is, as we speak, is sipping tea and laughing at how easy it was to manipulate you? That, in a few kind words and warm gestures, he tricked you into putting him into a place of power?

                That was never what the Plan was about!

                Wasn’t it? Volfred Sandalwood now sits at the highest office in the nation. The same Volfred who you gave your freedom so that he could have his. You think this no coincidence? Do you know what happens when a regime change occurs, Reader? Androbeles was close now, his robed body no more than a foot away from Sam’s. As peaceful as it may be, there is always conflict. How many people do you think lost their positions? How many were ostracized by the radicals? How many thrown into prison for merely doing what they were told? How many lives did you destroy just so Volfred could have his throne?

                The Plan was bigger than Volfred, bigger than you! Sam’s knuckles had turned white with the force he was applying to the piloting controls now. Stop acting like it was about something it wasn’t!

                Do you know why exiles are chosen to lead, Reader? Why they are returned not in mere redemption but in glory? It is in the Rites than they learn humility, in the Book that they learn reality, and in the Scribes that they learn mercy! Contrary to what you believe, Reader, the Commonwealth was merciful!

                I-Androbeles cut him off.

                Do you know just how stupid the average person is? Just how easily they accept what they’re told? You all of people should know this considering the books you had in your possession were mostly concerning history. In the days of the empire, countless wars were waged for the sole sake of expanding borders, of adding to the glory of the Sahrian Throne; the prestige of House Soliam. Once the first exiles returned through the Rites and brought about the Commonwealth, that all changed. People were brought together, not forced apart. The eight races were seen as one! Occupied territories became semi-sovereign states, war was waged only against the Highwing Remannts, who fought against the unity of peoples under a single banner, unable to believe that they kind would be better with others. No longer did soldiers have to die in pointless wars or power struggles between aristocrats vying for power! With the history of the past erased, unity was seen on levels never witnessed before!

                And then you… Androbeles hand lashed out and pointed a finger squarely Sam’s direction, the digit mere centimeters from the Reader’s face. You just couldn’t have it. Prosperity wasn’t enough for you, oh no. Surely a system of succession based on the trials one had to endure and the merit of doing so was inadequate to a glorified popularity contest! A system where any buffoon with a smile and money can gain power! And now, our new emperor, Volfred says that he will carry on the values of mercy that the Scribes promised. THAT HE WILL BE THE CHAMPION OF THE LESSONS THEY TAUGHT, OF THE COUNTRY YOU DESTROYED! ALL BECAUSE YOU JUST HAD TO READ YOUR FUCKING BOOKS!

                Sam inched back, his faze frozen in a mix of shock and anger. He had never heard the Archjustice so angry before it seemed almost surreal. There was so much he had to say, so much he had to rebuke: the exiles for harmless crimes, the endless hostility toward the Highwing Remnants, and the ferocity of the Commonwealth’s religious dogma. He opened his mouth to-

                “Reader!”

                Sam was brought out of his mental conversation by Shanna, who was now near the window and looking out it. The Reader looked back to where Androbeles was and saw he was gone. He turned his attention back to the harp, who seemed to bear and expression of worry on her face. “Yes?”

                “Look!”

                The Reader peered through the window. At first he saw only the dark gulches of Flagging Hands, blanketed in darkness by the night. But closer inspection revealed glimmers of light as what Shanna seemed to be talking about. Beacons of red and orange, sending spirals of black billowing into the featureless sky. The sight of camps and cabins could barely be made out among them.

                They had reached Big Bertrude’s, and it was burning.

                “Ti’zo, wake up Almer! I’m gonna try to set us down nearby.”

                “We’re going down there?” Shanna turned to him from the window.

                “I think it’s a bit too coincidental for this to be a house fire.”

                “So what, they were attacked or something?”

                “That’s the most likely possibility.”

                “And how, my lovely Reader, do you intend to defend yourself if there is a hostile presence?” Sandra had materialized beside him, her ghostly apparition looking in his direction.

                “I’ll… think of something.”

                “You’ll think of something?” Sandra’s frown grew deeper. “If you have no means to defend yourself then do not throw yourself into the fire.”

                “I have my talons, but I’m not sure that’ll be enough.” Shanna chimed in.

                “I have a knife.” Almer added, flourishing a small dagger he must have brought with him onto the Blackwagon.”

                “Kraaaaa-hii!” Ti’zo bared his teeth.

                Sandra turned to the Reader, her face exasperated. “This will be a disaster.”

                “We’ve been lucky so far.”

                “The Rites are not reality, Sam.”

                He offered her a small grin in reassurance. “We’ll be discreet about it then.”

                The assassin groaned. “Just be careful.”

                “Always.”

                The Reader set the Blackwagon down behind one of the multiple giant skull-like formations that dotted Flagging Hands. The four left the wagon and began approaching the flaming encampment, which they had landed roughly five minutes away from.

                The first thing he noticed when he got out was the chill. He had almost forgotten that, despite the omnipresent heat of Jomeur Valley, it was still firstmoon. He was surprised that it wasn’t snowing given the cold, and he saw all of his companions shiver as much as he did as they exited. Thankfully the cold seemed to have made the area, which the Reader remembered as a muddy, dank, sickly place, slightly less muddy, dank, and sickly. Slightly. At least the ground seemed to be dry, for the most part.

                As they neared the settlement, Sam could begin to make out shapes moving. But between the endless smoke and blazing fires, he couldn’t make out any closer features. He looked over to his harp companion. “Shanna, try to fly around and get a better look, but stay hidden. Ti’zo, go with her.”

                They both nodded and took off, leaving Sam and Almer together. Both of them got low as they neared the camp. The Reader motioned for them to hide behind a nearby rock, a rigid protrusion from the earth that was about neck-high, and they snuck over to it.

                Almer squinted his eyes. “I can hardly see anything, we need to get closer.”

                “No, that’s far too dangerous.”

                “Then what are we going to do?”

                Sam rapped his fingers against his cane as he thought. They could try to sneak closer by crawling-no, nowhere to hide and if they get caught they’d be done for. What about Shanna and Ti’zo? No, the Reader didn’t want to put them in any more danger then he’d put himself in. What to do, what to do…

                Wait. The Reader thought. If Androbeles could launch himself into my mind, then perhaps…

                ”I’m going to try something.” Sam said.

                “Okay… what are you going to try?”

                “Just make sure you stay here.” Sam closed his eyes, and began searching for any sort of mental presence. It was easier when they were right in front of him, but he should still be able to-

                He felt another presence: another mind, and began to reach out to it, to make his way in and see through-

                Sam blinked, and he was no longer behind the rock. Instead he was in the middle of the encampment, buildings on either side of him like some of those frontier towns he’d seen out west. In the middle of the wide “road” were a dozen bog-crones, all side-by-side with him, similarly kneeling down. A quick look at himself revealed him not to be in his own body, or to be a “him” at all. His body was one of a bog-crone, covered in some robe-like garb. Pale bluish skin covered the hands, which were topped with sharp, jagged fingernails. He felt rope tied taut around his wrists.

                Suddenly, eyes that weren’t his looked up, revealing what had grabbed the attention of all the crones, and what had bound them. Directly in front of them were a multitude of people, decked out in rough jackets and loose, patchwork clothing. There were six of them, all standing watch and scanning the bog-crones for any sign of resistance. They all seemed to be either nomads or savages, it was hard to tell from the distraction of the destructive blazes that surrounded them (not that all savages are distinguishable from nomads anyway). But what united them was the fact that they all bore weapons, two crossbows and the rest swords. Not the shining longswords of the Commonwealth army but slightly shorter, crude, and rougher blades clearly forged out of local materials.

                In the center of the armed group was a man decked out in yellow, his attire shining like gold from the firelight and his body turned away from the crones. His raiment was like a hooded robe, loose and falling down around his legs, only just revealing black leather boots that complimented the brown accents of his clothing. In his left hand lied one of the swords like the rest of the armed group possessed, but his right was wrapped around something. As the eyes Sam were peering through focused, he saw that his fingers were wrapped around the neck of a bog-crone, his digits constraining the woman mercilessly like a python. The bog-crone’s face was battered and bloodied, streams of red falling from her nose and cuts on several parts of her face. Her eyelid seemed to be bleeding as well, and would likely swell up later.

                The man delivered a sharp blow to the woman by slamming the butt of his sword into her face, causing her head to loll back, only kept upright by the strangulation of her attacker. He then kneed her gut, provoking a sharp gasp followed by a series of raspy coughs, breaths desperately and barely being made between them. With that he let her go, causing the woman to fall, keeling over. The sword-bearing figure turned around to face the lined up bog-crones, his face concealed by a white mask that seemed to perfectly fit his face as if it morphed around every feature and protrusion. The mask extended above the man’s head and the hood that covered it. Sam felt himself repulsed by what he was seeing, but contained himself, not risking breaking concentration and losing whatever sort of mental projection he was currently casting over this crone.

                That’s a triumvirate raiment. The Reader instantly verified. It’s gold and yellow. Does that mean-

                “Alright, then.” The masked man nonchalantly adjusted the gloves he was wearing as if there wasn’t someone on the verge of death behind him. His hidden features looked over the captive group. “Am I going to have to keep going, or is one you going to tell me where Bertrude is?”

                They’re looking for Bertrude? Sam wanted to check the line to see if she was one of the crones being held captive but whoever’s body he was currently seeing through was focused only on the perpetrator of their captivity before them.

                The Reader could hear small movements among them. Some groaned and swore in anger, others breathed nervously. But not one of them surrendered their leader.

                “No?” His voice sounded almost theatrical, as if he was playing a character on a stage, anticipating the audience’s reaction. “Then I suppose we’ll just have to keep going.” He turned back around to the injured woman, and positioning himself to her side so that he could easily look to the captive bog-crones and his target, he lifted the edge of his blade under her chin, lifting it so that he could look her in the eye. The woman had recovered to the point where she was rasping in and out more steadily, and her violet eyes met the man, looking to her side.

                He moved the sword around a bit, causing different parts of her head to face him as if he was inspecting her. “But this one’s looking a bit… done.” He pulled his sword out from under her head and raised it high. “I’ll just kill her and then we can start again with another one of yo-“

                “We are the one you seek!”

                The words radiated out, loud and powerful. Every armed person’s head jolted in Sam’s direction. It was then he realized that the words came from him, or rather whoever his mind was currently occupying.

                “You know ussss as Bertrude. Spare the innocent.”

                Said innocent looked up, her battered features suddenly gaining a surprised expression. “Gil-“

                The masked man’s boot slammed her head into the dirt, quieting the bog-dweller. He marched over to her, his companions all readying their weapons in case any of the crones tried anything. The man’s boots didn’t bother avoiding the piles of mud, causing wet squelches to originate from them as he sauntered. Arriving just in front of the Reader’s vision, he knelt down, looking her in the eye. “You’re Bertrude.”

                “Thissss is true.”

                The voice that Sam felt a tongue foreign to him emit was coarse, hissing and rough, but not that of Bertrude. Similar, but perhaps a bit older. The Reader had met few crones before his exile and thus was unknowing of their exact biology and differences between each other.

                The man’s gloved hands went to his mask and pulled it off, letting it hang from his free hand as he looked at the crone. The Reader’s initial suspicions were confirmed. Steel-gray hair fell around both sides of his head, and focused brown eyes scanned every inch of his target. It was Lendel, definitely.

                But why? Sam knew Lendel was exiled for corruption but he had always come off to the Reader as staunch and stubborn in the belief that he was a constable of integrity, despite his actions and his rash words. But even so, that Lendel he had met during the Rites never seemed a capable of torture and such bloodshed.

                It was then Sam began to notice a few things. They were small and likely wouldn’t have been caught by anyone who hadn’t seen him before. The way his hair fell in wispy strands rather than the full locks, the way his eyes seem to carry deeper, darker circles under them then they did before, and the way the ocular organs seemed to possess small, black dots against the white, and hints of dark veins, almost as if they were bloodshot.

                And the uncharacteristic smile coming from his stretched lips.

                “So, you finally reveal yourself?”

                The crone didn’t say anything, opting instead to simply stare at him, their eyes meeting. Lendel looked at her for a few more seconds and then shrugged. He turned back around and went over to the injured woman, who he knelt down next to.

                “Is that really Bertrude?”

                The bog-dweller didn’t respond, her pain causing her only to reply to Lendel by giving out hoarse coughs.

                The robed man’s hand lurched out into her hair, yanking her head upwards to meet his face, which has morphed into a frown. “I asked you a question!”

                “Yessss! Bertrude lies before thee!”

                And then Lendel was all smiles again. “Well, that’s our verification.” Releasing her, he gestured with his sword as he began his march toward the body the Reader was inhabiting. “We’re just about done here. I’m heading back after I kill this one, the rest of you finish up and meet up with me when you’re done.”

                Once he was standing in front of his soon-to-be victim, he grasped her throat in an all too similar fashion, and raised her up so that they were about eye-level. It was a strange sensation, Sam could both feel himself being strangled and at the same time, realize consciously he was actually fine. Nonetheless, he couldn’t help but feel panic flood through his veins as Lendel angled the sword to pierce her chest. He looked at her one more time, him unknowingly looking directly into the Reader’s eyes, and quirked an eyebrow. Before Sam could question it the blade shot forward, it’s sharp, jagged edge piercing her-no, his chest, his lungs, his heart, his breath seized up as his arms began to shake and he tried to breath only causing blood to spurt out of his mouth, pain radiated through him, pain surrounded him, pain was all he could feel, pain pain pain-

                Sam gasped, lurching forward. His eyes darted around him, scanning his nearby surroundings. He was behind a familiar, large jagged rock, leaning against it. Almer was to his side and looking at him worriedly, and from the distance he could see the burning encampment.

                “You’re back?” Almer raised his arm as if to touch his shoulder but stopped, hesitant.

                “Y-yes. I’m back…” Sam took in deep breaths, the phantom sensation of being stabbed slowly dissipating.

                “You looked like you were in a trance, there.”

                He felt the orb in his clothes vibrate with a slight intensity, and he reached in to put his hands on it, calming the dweller within.

                “I was, in a way. I was projecting myself into the consciousness of one of the bog-crones…”

                Almer’s nose crinkled. “What?”

                “I was seeing through her eyes, so to speak.”

                “So you used your ‘Reader powers’ to jump bodies?”

                That’s a very crude explanation, Sam thought. His body wasn’t unconscious, Almer said that he had looked like he was in a trance. So he didn’t completely leave, it would seem.

                “More like I… was taking a temporary peek.”

                The young Oldheart still looked confused but ceased with the questions. His eyes did look to something past the Reader, though. “Look!”

                Sam turned. Moving over to the duo in a sort of half-crouch were three figures, the middle one being carried by the two on the side. Ti’zo was flying just above them, his silhouette easily to recognize. As the trio approached the Reader made out that it was a crone being carried by Shanna and another of its kind. He recognized her as she approached.

                “Bertrude?”

                The crone looked up, her head looking more like a brown mop of snakes than hair, returned the Reader’s gaze. She looked more or less the same as when Sam had last seen her, but her breathing sounded labored. A large satchel was swung around her torso, the bag hanging from her side.

                “Ye have a blackwagon, yessss?” The crone from beside her asked.

                Sam turned to her. This crone he didn’t recognize. “Y-yes, we do. What of it?”

                “She’s a friend of Bertrude’s.” Shanna chimed in.

                “Take her and flee this place, boy. The brigandssss come for her, they musn’t achieve their goal.” The crone looked over Almer. “Boy, assist usss.”

                The crone switched place with Almer, who was now holding Bertrude’s arm over his shoulder. Bertrude looked over to her comrade. “Do not leave usss....”

                “Ye know as much as we do that thee do not intend to leave any alive.” The bog-dweller reached into her thick garments, pulling out two glass vials with each hand, both enclosed and containing bubbling green liquids. “We shall not let our kin be ssssslayed in vain.”

                “Do not throw ye life away, Merwig.” Bertrude let out a few hoarse coughs. “Thy carry many weapons, thy enchantments carry little hope of victory.”

                “Any of ussss would give our livess for thee, Bertrude. And we shall not let their intrusion go unpunished.”

                Bertrude was never an easy person to read, but Sam saw what might have been the most emotion he’d ever seen her display. Within a moment it was gone, however, and she simply nodded solemnly.

                The other crone nodded as well, and without further ado began slithering over to the flaming encampment. Sam was always impressed at the sheer speed the dwellers of the Southern Bogs could move, and Merwig was no exception, her shape quickly slipping behind one of the flaming buildings.

                “Enough, then.” All heads turned to Bertrude. “Take usss back to the Blackwagon and flee this place while ye still can. There is much to discuss.”             

                Shanna had informed Sam of what happened once they were safe from view and in the skies again. She and Ti’zo had spotted a crone trying to free another from a piece of wreckage that must have split off as a result of the buildings being burned. Upon closer inspection she almost had a vial of acid thrown onto her face, but managed to convince the crone that she was not an enemy. Apparently Bertrude had hidden when they were searching the encampment, and once they lit the camp aflame, she was trapped by a piece of the ceiling that had fallen in her cabin. Merwig too had avoided the search and was trying to free her friend and leader. It was Ti’zo who Bertrude recognized, and he informed her of the Blackwagon and validated Shanna’s claims.

                Now they were sitting in the wagon as it soared in the skies, heading south with no current destination. Bertrude was bruised but not badly injured. The Reader was no doctor but it wasn’t hard to determine that the wounds would simply have to heal in time. If she were a nomad, savage, or even demon he’d suggest she may have bruised her ribs, but Sam knew little of crone anatomy, and Bertrude insisted that she’d be fine anyway. Almer piloted with the rest situated at the table. Ti’zo and the bog-dweller exchanged slight pleasantries but it was clear that the sacrifice of her friend had put the crone into a solemn mood, creating a heavy atmosphere. The reunion of the remaining Nightwings was not a very happy one.

                “I saw Lendel.” Sam said, breaking the silence. “I have no idea who the people he was with were or why he was doing what he did, but that was definitely him.”

                “Lendel?” Shanna rested her head on the edge of her wing.

                “The leader of the Accusers: another triumvirate.” Sam clarified.

                “Scraaa-hoo!” Ti’zo added.

                “Something was off about him, though.” As Sam spoke he saw Bertrude merely staring forward blankly, her fingers swirling her spoon through the stew Sam had prepared for her. “I’m not entirely sure what, but he was… different, like he was being-“

                “Influenced.” Bertrude’s voice cut him off.

                “Influenced?” Shanna quirked an eyebrow. He noticed her feet rubbing together nervously under the table. The Reader couldn’t blame her, he was just as apprehensive around Bertrude as she was now when they had first met.

                “Aye. He was being influenced. We speak not of what ye likely think of, but influence of a mental fashion.”

                Sam’s fingers tapped against the table as he narrowed his eyes curiously. “As if he was being controlled? By what, another Reader?”

                “Nay, not controlled, influenced.” The bog-crone turned to the Reader, her icy blue eyes meeting his own. Sam’s reflexes still softly told him to immediately shrink back, as all did around the terrifying Big Bertrude, but having spent time around her he learned not to cower from her. It was definitely a hard-taught muscle memory, though. “Lendel still held control, but was being… directed. It was his Enlightenment that allowed such.”

                “Enlightenment?” Almer spoke up from his place piloting the Blackwagon, his head turned in their direction. “You mean of the Scribes? Of the Rites?”

                Bertrude nodded, lifting her spoon to send some broth down her throat. “The abilitiessss of a Reader are not the only ability one retrieves from the Rites. The Enlightenment one gains from the Rites are a power within themselves, and allows thy holder to… succeed more.”

                “Kraaa-hi?” Ti’zo asked, curious of what she meant by ‘succeed.’

                “In a manner of speaking.” She clarified. “’Tis no coincidence that thee with the most Enlightenment succeed more in the Ritesssss. The same applies to other endeavors. Perhaps it is a blessing of the Scribes, or an adornment of the starsss.”

                “What does that have to do with the attack?” Almer pulled a rope causing the Blackwagon to slightly lift toward its left side for a moment before balancing.

                “We have resided in the Downside for many yearssss. We have realized that similarly, those with Enlightenment are more receptive to the guidance of a Reader in the Ritessss.”

                “So… what, being in the Rites makes you an easier target for this ‘Reader mind control’?” Shanna’s curiosity seemed to overpower her fear of the crone.

                “It is to assist in the Rites, we imagine.” Bertrude’s eyes became focused as she took another spoonful of stew into her mouth and placed it back into the bowl, her eyes meeting those of everyone around her. “But there were multiple thingssss that must also be discussed. We sensed the presence of others when the attackers came. The darkness of the Astral-born is what we sensed.”

                Yslach? Sam was about to say the name aloud but stopped himself. Bertrude has never had any reservations of vocalizing the supposedly power-invoking name. Why would she refer to him as that now? “What do you mean?” He asked.

                “The darkness of the star-titan followed the attackerssss, along with the presence of a Reader in thy minds.”

                Sam perked up, his posture straightening. “Another Reader? Were they there?” He had asked around a bit with Almer in Hollowroot but didn’t get any positive answers.

                The crone shook her head. “Presence was, but we saw naught of any presence, physically.”

                The Reader considered that. He knew that Bertrude has a history with strange enchantments and magic, so he wasn’t surprised that she could sense such things. But to be able to influence multiple people without even being near them? Sam considered himself a rather adept Reader when it came to the Rites, and he never tried using his abilities on more than one person, let alone doing it from a separate location! “Is such a thing even possible?”

                “So it would seem.”

                “Well then what are we supposed to do?” Shanna said, her face having been looking between each of them. “Just let this mysterious Reader grab people with Enlightenment? We don’t even know who they are or what they want!”

                “Nay, but we know thee carries the darknessss of thy worst Greater Titan with them, and that they burned our home. We cannot let them succeed.”

                “What do you suggest?” Sam folded his hands on the table.

                “Find the Enlightened, and ensure they do not fall into the clutches of this other Reader.”

                “Wait a second,” Almer interrupted. “You mean any Rite-participants? Because a lot of them aren’t very friendly.”

                “Look for the leaders.” Bertrude said. “They likely carry the most.”

                Sam groaned, realizing the implications of the duty before them. “You realize a lot of them don’t like us, right?”

                Bertrude simply nodded once again.

                Sam sighed again. He didn’t exactly know where everyone went but he had a pretty good idea where the closest one would be. “Almer, set a course for Black Basin.”