In the slums of the Vortigern Beast city, a man was boiling a pot of fluffy white rice. It was a simple clay pot, with cracks along its sides, but it still held water fine. He fanned the open flames as he hummed a tune to himself. A pot of stew from the previous night simmered beside him. He had regained some of his strength recently, allowing him to afford a decent meal.

  As smoke drifted towards him, he inhaled a little too much, and suddenly, his body was wracked with a violent coughing fit. His hands came away stained with blood as he struggled to take shallow breaths. Slowly, he slithered back into the small wooden cottage, his lower body that of a snake, while his upper body resembled that of a man. Long black hair framed his face, and a pair of thin horns protruded from his head. His upper body was loosely covered by rough, old robes. The broken hinges on the cottage door had been fixed, and the rickety old table no longer swayed from side to side—things he had been too weak to do himself but had been graciously repaired by kind people.

  For the first time since his wife’s death, things seemed to be looking up.

  “You shameless man!”

  The door slammed open with a force that cracked the wood, and a large wolf stalked into the small house, snarling menacingly. The man stiffened at the sight of her.

  “I told you, I’m not taking any more customers,” he said firmly. His voice shook slightly, but he tried to stand his ground. He didn’t need to push his body any further; he could finally afford to feed his daughter and keep their home warm. There was no need to return to that kind of life.

  “Do you think just because you don’t want to, you can decline?” The wolf’s voice was filled with venom. “A useless man like you will never remarry. You shouldn’t even dare to think of that nonsense again! You can’t even maintain a proper beast form, and you have the audacity to set rules? Who do you think you are?”

  Her voice grew more vicious as she shifted into her towering humanoid form. She was lean and strikingly pretty, despite her older age. Her body was well-toned, and her dark blue hair was meticulously maintained. The man’s body trembled as he backed away, knocking spices off the wooden shelf in his small two bedroom house. Another fit of coughs wracked through him, and he could do nothing as the woman advanced.

  He hated her, but he hated himself more. The sickness had ravaged his body, stripping him of his strength, so even as she pushed him down and used him like an object, he could do nothing to stop her. When she was done, she left him lying there, tossing a shell at his face—a mockery of a payment, her way of saying she’d be back. Until the month was over, there was no escape.

  The man forced his battered body up. His skin, paper-thin from illness, was bruised—new welts layered over old ones. He reached for his robe with trembling hands, covering himself as best he could. His daughter would be home soon. He needed to clean up, to make sure she never saw him like this.

  No matter the pain, he bore it for her sake. He prepared the table, setting out the meal he had made with care, ensuring everything was perfect for her return. He expected her to come running in, smiling brightly as she always did.

  But this time, it was different.

  She came in covered in dirt, her hair dishevelled, and her face marked with small cuts. Her dress was torn, and her shoes were missing. She wasn’t crying, but her expression held a deep misery.

  “Esther?” his voice was weak, barely a whisper as he rushed towards her. “What happened?”

  But before he could ask more, she forced a smile onto her face. “I played a little too rough. It’s nothing!”

  He knew she was lying. What kind of play made a child lose her shoes and come home looking like this? He wanted to weep, seeing her so small and worn, but she wouldn’t let him dwell on her state. She rushed inside to clean up before he could say anything more.

  As he watched her retreat, he clenched his fists. He despised this place.

  ˋ?-?-?ˊ

  “Here. Buy an armour set, and a body chain set.”

  Hadassah handed Rahn Kaladin’s token and a list. Before he could question her, the door shut in his face. He stood there for a moment, reading through the list again, before sighing. With a flap of his wings, he took off towards the market.

  First stop, armour.

  Rahn had never bought armour before, so when he walked into the store, the wide array of options left him staring in awe. There were silver, gold, black silver, and even gemstone armour sets. He doubted the durability of the gemstone sets; they looked brittle and transparent, but they would certainly look beautiful on Hadassah.

  “Do you need anything, young man?” the store owner was a muscular woman with short, jagged brown hair, dressed like a trainee soldier with a weapon strapped at her side.

  Rahn nodded and pointed at the dark silver armour.

  The woman raised an eyebrow. “This one? What size?” she asked, tapping the armour set.

  Rahn hesitated. He had hugged Hadassah enough times to guess her size, but explaining that felt difficult.

  “Should I bring out some to show you? You can pick the one that looks like it would fit best,” the woman suggested.

  Rahn nodded, grateful for the offer, and waited as she brought out the armour pieces for him to examine.

  Once Rahn had made the order for armour and collected the body chains from the jeweller’s, he set off towards home, his large black wings taking him through the city quickly. Something caught his attention on the ground below—a group of cubs gathered around a man that looked oddly like Zarek, who appeared to be talking to them with his usual stern voice. Curiosity piqued, Rahn descended, landing softly beside them.

  Zarek looked startled at first but quickly recovered, nodding in acknowledgement. “Oh, Rahn. Didn’t expect to see you here,” Zarek muttered, glancing at the cubs, who looked like they had been bullied by the older man. He explained, “these little rascals here are thieves.”

  The group of cubs, all little bears, stood around Zarek with sheepish expressions. They were clutching various items, but one pair of bright blue shoes stood out. Rahn tilted his head, silently asking for more information.

  “They insist they didn’t steal,” Zarek continued, his arms crossed. He pointed to the shoes in one of the cub’s paws. “But I asked them why they have these blue shoes, especially since they don’t even need them. I might have to call the bloodhounds.”

  At this, one of the cubs finally confessed, though with a pout. “We took them from the half-caste girl,” he muttered, looking down at his feet. “She didn’t deserve shoes like these.”

  Zarek sighed but didn’t correct them further. Instead, he collected the shoes and shooed them away. The cubs scampered off, leaving Zarek holding the shoes with a frown.

  “I know the owner of these shoes; I’ll just be returning them before heading back if you want to follow me.”

  Zarek began walking towards the slums, and Rahn trailed closely behind in silence. They had not talked much at all, and today would be no different. They soon arrived at a small, worn-down house, whose front door hinges were broken. Zarek noticed this immediately and called out into the house, walking up to it casually like he had been here multiple times. “Why is the door broken again?”

  At the sound of his voice, a little girl came dashing out, her face lighting up in pure excitement. “Tall older brother!” she squealed, throwing herself at Zarek and hugging him tightly.

  Zarek laughed, lifting her and throwing before catching her. After dropping her down, he showed her the pair of shoes, which she was simply delighted with.

  Rahn recognised the child, the one that had tried to talk to Hadassah when she was drunk.

  Her father, a snake-beastman, emerged from the house soon after, his long black hair falling around his shoulders and his thin, sickly form evident even from a distance. He offered Zarek a weak smile. “It broke accidentally. I’m sorry about that. Do you mind helping fix it again?”

  Zarek waved off the apology, already moving to fix the door without hesitation. Esther noticed Rahn for the first time, and her eyes widened in delight. “Scary brother!” she exclaimed, pointing at him with excitement. “You’re the one who was with big sister!”

  Rahn felt dismayed at the word ‘scary’. He looked at his blackened hands and claws, and supposed to a child, he would look scary. Yet Esther’s wide grin told him she wasn’t actually afraid of him. If anything, she seemed elated to see him.

  She tugged at his hand. “Come play with me outside!” she insisted, practically dragging Rahn out into the small yard where patches of grass grew sparsely. There were no flowers, but she didn’t mind, bending down to pick up long blades of grass. “See this!” she said as she began weaving them into a wreath, her small fingers working quickly. “Make one; you can wear it later.”

  Rahn, who had been dragged into what he considered another chore tried to follow the girl’s instruction but found himself struggling greatly.

  His large, clawed hands weren’t built for such delicate work, and each attempt to weave the grass together ended in failure. Esther giggled at his efforts and, with a bright smile, handed him one of her completed wreaths.

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  “This one’s for you!” she announced proudly. Rahn took it gingerly, his usual stoic expression softening as he admired her artwork.

  She wasn’t done, though. She quickly started on another wreath and, once finished, handed it to Rahn as well. “And this one is for big sister,” she said with a beaming smile. “You have to give it to her, don’t eat it,” she said as if she expected him to eat grass. Rahn felt offended; he was a monster who did not need food; he only needed sleep, and yet she insisted he should not eat it as if he were a cow.

  Rahn nodded, holding both wreaths carefully in his hands. By the time Zarek had finished fixing the door, the girl’s father had prepared a cup of tea for him. The two men sat down at the small table, and Zarek’s eyes landed on papers stacked neatly to the side with scribbles all over.

  “What’s this?” Zarek asked, pointing to the letters scratched onto a scrap of parchment.

  “She’s been trying to learn to write her name. It’s slow going, but she’s making progress,” the girl’s father explained. Rahn felt the girl’s handwriting looked like chicken scratches.

  Zarek took a piece to examine the writing more closely. “You’re doing great, Esther; your handwriting is beautiful,” he said with a rare smile, surprising even Rahn, who looked at Zarek like he had lost his mind. The little girl blushed bashfully under the compliment. Truly, she did not like her name until Hadassah had called it beautiful. An Emerian name would never bring her favour; the girl had not understood why her father insisted she kept her name, but she did not mind as much now.

  After talking over tea and bidding their farewell, Zarek and Rahn made their way back through the slums. Rahn held the grass wreaths with great care, unwilling to ruin something made for Hadassah.

  “I’ve never really thought about having a daughter before,” Zarek admitted quietly. “But after meeting Esther… even if she’s a half-caste, she’s lovable.”

  Rahn didn’t respond; he had never considered a child; he did not know if he had fathered any children before his slumber. Yet somehow he felt he would be an awful father.

  “One day, it would be nice to be a father,” Zarek finally added, something about talking to a beast that could not speak made his lips loose enough to admit something like that. Rahn did not mind listening; even if he had words he wanted to say, he couldn’t, at least not while he was under his master’s orders.

  ˋ?-?-?ˊ

  The next week passed quickly. Apart from morning training, Hadassah spent most of her time tempering her newly bought armour. Time was slipping by at an alarming rate, and she became increasingly aware that if she wasn’t fully prepared, the upcoming trial could very well be the end of her.

  For that reason, she dedicated herself to making sure her armour was in top condition. But beyond defence, she needed an offensive weapon—something reliable if not the unstable Wyre. It had to be a sword, a staff, or anything that would give her an edge, especially if she ever found herself facing Verena in battle. She didn’t care what form it took, as long as it would give her a fighting chance.

  Valentino had come to their door multiple times throughout the week, but each time, she turned him away without even a hint of courtesy. She was well aware that Verena’s fury would only grow the more she pushed Valentino aside. The storm was coming, and Hadassah knew she needed to be ready for it.

  Hadassah sat alone, picking at her meal in the open courtyard. The late afternoon sun was beginning to move downwards, and the stifling heat was beginning to subside. Training should have been almost over by now, and soon they would be back. For now, it was unusually quiet—at least until she heard muffled noises coming from Neveah’s room, a soft clattering, and a gentle rustle of papers.

  Hadassah stilled unsure if she was hearing correctly, and she heard some more movement. She thought Neveah would be in practice; she stood and headed to her room, hesitating just outside the door. She raised her hand to knock but paused, uncertain. She had never been the type to intrude, especially on someone like Neveah, who guarded her privacy closely. But after a moment’s hesitation, she lightly tapped on the door.

  From inside, Neveah’s voice came, quiet but clear. “Come in.”

  Hadassah pushed the door open and stepped into Neveah’s room. Immediately, she was struck by the amount of stuff Neveah had acquired over the short period of time they had been in the city. The shelves were filled with scrolls, books, and jewellery. It felt less like a warrior’s quarters and more like the bedroom of a princess. The scent of parchment and ink lingered in the air, along with a faint smell of lavender, likely from the candles that flickered on the desk.

  Neveah was seated at her desk practising calligraphy, her green eyes flicking up to meet Hadassah’s briefly before returning to the parchment she was writing on. “Why are you here?” Neveah asked, her tone unreadable.

  Hadassah fidgeted slightly but kept her voice steady. “I just wanted to know if you were alright.”

  Neveah halted, as though considering the question carefully. “I’m fine.”

  Hadassah nodded, accepting the answer. She turned to leave, but just as her hand touched the door, Neveah’s voice stopped her.

  “Hadassah… do you ever regret any of your decisions?”

  Hadassah froze, her hand on the door handle, taken aback by the question.

  Turning slowly, she met Neveah’s gaze; she still looked calm, as if she were just making casual conversation.

  “I suppose I do,” Hadassah said after a brief pause. “Everyone does.”

  For a moment, Neveah seemed consoled by her words, her expression softening. But then Hadassah added, “But there’s no medicine for regret.” Something like regret was pointless. “Even when I feel it, I won’t dwell on it. I will never look back. People who hold onto their mistakes are selfish. They refuse to see beyond their limitations, and they make their own misery everyone’s problem.”

  Neveah blinked, clearly surprised by the barking nature of Hadassah’s response. There was a long silence between them before Neveah finally spoke again, her voice quieter this time. “Will you ever regret your decisions?”

  “No. No one in this world can live without mistakes, and I am not afraid to face the consequences of mine.”

  Neveah regarded her silently, her eyes lingering on Hadassah as if she were trying to decipher something deeper. “I see,” Neveah finally said, her voice distant. “I hope that is true.”

  Hadassah nodded and left the room. Neveah looked down at her calligraphy, and she put her brush down before scrunching up the paper, tossing it to the side and starting to write again; her strokes were fierce, bold and clear. Like that of a military leader’s, anyone looking at her writing would not know she was a princess of Orlaith.

  ‘I will accept Judgement before the heavens.’

  She stared at her writing for a long time, and eventually she picked up the piece of paper and pinned it to the wall behind her.

  She would accept judgement before the heavens.

  ˋ?-?-?ˊ

  Hadassah returned to her room, her gaze immediately landing on the grass wreath resting on her desk. It had dried significantly, the heat preserving it rather than allowing it to rot. She picked it up and turned it over in her hands, admiring the simple beauty of it. Though it was just grass, she imagined it would look even more lovely with myrtle flowers woven in.

  Placing the wreath back down, Hadassah decided it was time to visit the little girl who had made it for her. She had never been to Esther’s home before, but she knew the general direction. If she wandered long enough, she figured she would eventually find it.

  The evening air was pleasant, with a gentle breeze that rustled the leaves as children ran past her in playful squeals. Couples met on the street, exchanging quiet words and laughter. It would soon be harvest season, and the smell of dried vegetables hung in the air, a reminder of the stores people were starting to use up.

  As Hadassah walked, she found herself enjoying the peaceful atmosphere of the town. Passing by a small toy shop, something caught her eye—a wooden tiara, small and delicately carved, shaped like a flower crown. The petals were painted in bright, cheerful colours—the kind of thing that would make any little girl envious.

  She smiled to herself and stepped inside, making sure to buy the prettiest one she could find. The shopkeeper wrapped it for her in soft paper, and as she left the shop, she felt a sense of contentment at the thought of giving it to Esther in exchange for the beautiful wreath.

  The streets grew busier as she ventured farther from the Vortigern tree. At first, she didn’t think much of it—people were gathering, preparing for the evening, perhaps—but soon the crowd had come to a complete standstill.

  Something was wrong.

  She tried to make her way through the crowd, and at first, there was pushback, but as they saw her and recognised the fine leathers she wore and the quality of her boots, they parted to make a path for her. Joyful conversation and laughter filled the air, children chattering and darting past her legs. Hadassah wondered if there was a street performance ahead—that was until she heard a familiar voice.

  Verena Vortigern.

  Standing on a platform in the centre of the crowd, Verena looked every bit the part of a regal figure. Her white hair was braided in two, tied neatly behind her, her silver armour gleamed under the evening light, and her sword rested at her side. A brilliant smile graced her face as she spoke. Hadassah strained to hear at first, but the closer she came, the clearer Verena’s voice became.

  “I bid 1 shell!” Verena announced.

  The crowd murmured in response. Hadassah furrowed her brows, confused. One shell? It was far too low for any meaningful bid. What could they possibly be bidding on? Yet, no one dared to outbid Verena—not unless they were of similar status.

  Then she heard Valentino’s voice, clear and smooth as it carried over the crowd.

  “Anyone? Will there be anyone else bidding?”

  There was a playful shout from the crowd—a rich merchant raising his voice. “That seems too low, Verena! How about I raise you to 5 shells! At least that’s what a body like that is worth!” laughter rippled through the crowd, the tone light, as if it were all a game. Verena’s smirk widened, accepting the challenge.

  “My apologies, Sir,” Verena countered with a grin, “but I will have to bid 6 shells!”

  It was all in jest, and the crowd was loving it. But as Hadassah reached the centre of the gathering, her heart stopped.

  Her world came to a screeching halt.

  When she was little, Hadassah had asked her father why he insisted they hide in Valdemar. She had been a child then, too innocent to grasp the weight of his words. His response had been cryptic, even then.

  “Because if we leave, we will need to face judgement.”

  At the time, she hadn’t understood. The weight of those words felt distant, vague, like a riddle a child couldn’t solve.

  Even now, standing amidst the crowd, watching the scene unfold before her, that answer felt like an abomination to her mind.

  Was this judgement?

  What sin… what sin had been committed?

  ‘I hope you don’t regret it.’

  ‘Do you regret it?’

  ˋ?-?-?ˊ

  Rahn stood alongside Zarek, wiping the sweat from his brow as they finished up the last of their drills. Zarek was speaking, his words coming in a low rumble. Something about archery practice tomorrow. Rahn nodded absent-mindedly, his wings resting at his back, his mind half there—until it wasn’t.

  Without warning, a violent surge of dread tore through him, as though a fist had clenched his chest and was actively squeezing all the air out of his lungs. His heart was raging painfully, and the world around him began to warp as his vision blurred.

  Zarek’s voice faded into the background, becoming unintelligible as the ground beneath Rahn’s feet felt like it was crumbling. His breathing became shallow and erratic, he couldn’t breathe.

  No, he was breathing.

  His throat was closing up, but he was breathing. His heart beat was struggling to keep up with his body, but he was alive.

  This was wrong; it felt wrong; something was wrong; something is wrong; it was all wrong!

  Where was she!?

  Hadassah.

  She was screaming.

  Her voice ripped through his mind, splitting it in half much to his horror. He clutched the sides of his head as he tried to stop the pain.

  It was all consuming.

  This wretched feeling.

  It was too much; he couldn’t bear it.

  He stumbled; his feet couldn’t remember how to stand. His ears were ringing, his body was shaking violently, and he heaved.

  “Rahn?” Zarek’s voice cut through the haze, sounding far too distant. Rahn couldn’t respond—he couldn’t think. His body was in rebellion against him, every nerve screaming in terror that wasn’t his own but Hadassah’s.

  He fell to his knees, his hands on the ground, trying to force his body up, gasping for air. His wings flared out, wanting to take off, wanting to leave. It was surreal, like his mind was unravelling from reality, and all that was left was a consuming sense of dread—of fear, of sorrow.

  She was screaming.

  And he wasn’t there.

  Without thinking, Rahn pushed off the ground with desperate force, launching himself into the air with a speed that left a dust cloud below him. He could barely control his flight—his vision blurred with panic, his body moving on pure instinct as he shot into the sky, propelled by a single thought, Find her.