Jack’s dreams were a violent mess of emotions, sensations, and adrenaline. His fever only worsened affairs. It turned the trauma of the past day into an eclectic mix of bleary images, with only the blood and gore standing out in sharp relief.

  In his dreams, he saw a spider with a kind face, pigs jumping off of roofs, and red marionettes shamble toward him with claws and tree roots. They chased him, cornered him, and named him a dog.

  He tried to wake, to flee these horrible and surreal scenes, but exiting one only thrust him into another. Jack tossed and turned, finding little rest in his sleep.

  Somewhere, deep in the storm, he heard a voice.

  He couldn’t make out its words, but it was soothing, and he felt himself settle.

  After that, his nightmares bled away to dreams of home. He dreamt of his sister, Jane, and the few sunrises they’d hiked to see. He dreamt of inserting a mana crystal into a new engine, carefully affixing it to the steel chassis explicitly made for it.

  Jack wasn’t sure how long he had slept. All he knew was that when he awoke, it had to be at least a full day since he passed out on the ground by the fence. His body was too rested, and didn’t hurt nearly as much as when he’d last checked it.

  Stirring, he blinked his eyes open, feeling a fire’s warmth melt through the quilt he was in and spread across his bare skin. He was on a cot of some kind, but it was significantly more comfortable than the ones he was used to sleeping on at the homeless shelters he’d frequented. His bed was just a few feet from the fire, which burned happily at one end of the lodge’s rectangular structure.

  Blinking some more, he started to piece together the wild mix of details his eyes caught.

  He was in a house.

  That much was easy to grasp. It had varnished oak-log walls, a brick chimney, a wide room that housed a kitchen, a living room, and a wide table with a live edge, making it appear akin to a geographical map. Jack spotted a steep staircase leading to a loft above, with a few rooms lining a hallway just past the ladder-like stairs. Everything was made of neatly hewn wood. It glistened under the fire’s warmth, with iron-framed windows permitting the sun’s entry in half a dozen spots around the expansive walls.

  All those things were all well and good. It was the insane amount of living and dead stuff that littered nearly every crevice of this log cabin that prevented his mind from fully grasping what in the hell he was looking at.

  From the crossbeams, neatly bundled herbs of all shapes and sizes drooped. Some appeared to be freshly dried, while others had collected thin cobwebs. Along the metallic windowsills, he spotted variously sized clay pots housing plants he couldn’t even begin to name. One had a score of thin flowers that came to thorny tips. It was blood red.

  Another pot was filled with a single, pearlescent mushroom. As he watched it, he could swear its base began to bump and gyrate. The weirdness didn’t end there. In the hearth, several unidentifiable appendages were hung on metal hooks set inside the chimney, smoking them out. One looked like a beetle’s leg, but it was easily four feet long. Another bore a resemblance to porcupine quills, but they wisped with blue smoke that had an unmistakable magic look to it.

  The strangest of all was the man.

  He stood in the kitchen, with an island counter between him and Jack. Further obscuring him from the dazed mechanic was a roller coaster of pipes, tubes, and bubbling vials in the most hilariously complex chemistry set Jack had ever seen.

  He moved quietly and efficiently. His hands were right in the middle of chopping something dark and oily on a cutting board made out of a slice of maple. His knife had to be freakishly sharp, as it effortlessly cut through the thick hide of… well… whatever that was. Jack honestly couldn’t tell if it was a carapace, the hide of some ancient horror, or simply an oversized beet.

  Jack took in his rescuer.

  He was extremely tall, bordering on 6’7” if he had to guess, and was built like one of those professional loggers he occasionally saw scroll across his feed. The man had a well-trimmed beard that was more gray than it was brown, though his actual hair was an earthy color between copper and fresh mulch. It was currently pulled back in a knot, though a few errant strands had fallen out to frame his strong, tanned face.

  He wore a simple linen shirt rolled up to his elbows, and a leather apron with several buckles intersecting its midsection. As the man moved, he caught a tattoo marking his right bicep, but couldn’t make out what it was from here.

  The farmer used a thin but long iron knife with a wooden handle to slice some sort of dark vegetable. With a casual flick, he lifted the cutting board and dumped whatever he had just cut into a bubbling cauldron to his right. A thin plume of purple smoke floated above the black pot before dissipating. He efficiently wiped the knife against his leather apron and moved to gather a few bundles of herbs drying in a nearby windowsill.

  With each moment he spent observing and logging his surroundings, the better Jack felt.

  So it was quite the surprise when he finally noticed the restraints.

  One was lashed against his chest, while two others kept his wrists by his sides, and two more pinned his ankles to the far end of the cot.

  A sweat that had nothing to do with the nearby fire started to form on Jack’s brow.

  The man—his jailor, Jack realized—continued to rhythmically cut with that painfully sharp knife. A bit of juice exploded from his quarry and nicked his chin. The guy didn’t even flinch. He just continued to chop.

  Jack let out a litany of curses in his mind while he started to look for any way out of this. He had no blade to cut through the leather straps. He might have been feeling better, but without a good enough angle, there was no way he could just brute force his way out of them.

  Why did I let Myrtle let me invest so much into Resilience?! I could’ve put a point or two into Strength!

  He was still in the middle of searching when he noticed the steady rhythm of slicing had stopped.

  When had he stopped?

  His eyes darted to the kitchen. The man wasn’t there.

  Footsteps. There was a soft creak of a floorboard, and then the man was looming over him, knife in hand.

  “Ah, you’re awake then. Good. That means we can get started,” the man said, his voice low and gravelly.

  Jack swallowed hard. His mouth felt suddenly parched.

  “Get what started?” he asked, hating how small his voice sounded.

  The giant of a man slumped down into a couch across from the hearth, leaning forward so that his bulging arms came to rest against the edge of his knees. The black knife remained in his grasp, but it was loose. Relaxed. Almost as if he’d forgotten it was there at all.

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  “You’re going to answer my questions, that’s what,” the man said authoritatively, like the bark of an order.

  “Right. Mind if you undo my restraints?” Jack asked, not expecting much but needing to try out every option.

  The man blinked and rocked back. “Ah, damn. Right.” He paused, narrowing his eyes at Jack. “Wait. Are you going to bolt on me? I’ve got to warn you, I’m faster. And I’m not letting you out of my sight until I get some answers.”

  Jack considered. The man looked old, but still quite healthy. He might be able to outrun him in a straightforward race, but where would he go? It’s not like he had a home to go back to.

  “Fine. I won’t run,” Jack finally answered.

  The man weighed his response for several long moments. Then, with a dip of his chin, he rose to his feet.

  “Right then,” he said to himself and strode over to undue each of Jack’s restraints.

  The old leather slipped from beneath their buckles, and Jack instantly stretched and swiveled so that he was sitting in the cot.

  Surprisingly, the man chuckled knowingly. “I’ll be that feels good, what with you passed on on my bed for the past four days. Had to keep you down so that you wouldn’t fall when I was out in the field.”

  Four days? Jack thought incredulously. No wonder I feel rested.

  He pointed at the straps with another extension of his chin.

  “That is, I kept them for the fever until I had to strip you out of that disgusting excuse of a tunic and noticed what’s on your chest,” the man said, returning to his spot on the couch.

  Jack looked down to examine his bare chest. His trousers were still on, thank God, but his left foot was neatly bandaged. But he only gave those passing thoughts. His mind, like the man’s attention, was fixed on the tattoo that covered nearly the entirety of his ribcage, stopping just before his collarbones.

  In the clear light of day, the symbol of the shield shoving against a wall of darkness was stark against his pale skin. It was striking. Beautiful, even. But just as when he first noticed it the other night, it was utterly foreign.

  Jack eventually lifted his gaze to the farmer before him, who was peering between him and the tattoo.

  “Mind explainin’ how you came to get that, boy?” he asked. His tone was guarded.

  But Jack didn’t hear any malice behind it, nor anything else to make his hackles rise. Still, he chose the way of caution.

  “I got it recently,” he replied smoothly.

  The man laughed, and it was edged with a deep, sinking bitterness. “Oh, I’ll bet.”

  He narrowed his eyes at Jack and leaned forward until he was nearly at the edge of his seat.

  “Tell me, what’s this called?” the man asked, suddenly pointing to a ceramic flowerpot with a green plant growing inside. The vase, like the plant, dominated the side table beside the couch.

  “What?” Jack was stunned by the sudden change of topic, so he just guessed wildly and said the first thing that came to mind. “Oregano?”

  It had the look of it. At least, he thought it did.

  The farmer tilted his head to the side and mouthed the word. Then, he sighed. It was a long, heavy bellow of a sigh.

  “As I thought. You’re a Banisher, aren’t you?” he asked.

  “Banisher? I don’t know what that even is!” Jack shouted back, feeling suddenly cornered.

  The man raised his hands to ward off further excuses and lies. “No point in denyin’ it, boy. That tattoo can only mean one thing. But that, combined with the fact that you can’t even tell what a frostmint looks like, which even a blind kid could manage—not to mention you were stupid enough to climb a farmer’s fence after nightfall and trigger Ardent-knows how many wards with your fumbling. All of that together tells me you are one green Banisher who doesn’t have a lit candle in hell about what’s goin’ on, do ya?”

  Jack met his gaze. He expected to see animosity, fear, or some form of cruel apathy. He expected to see judgment, quickly followed by a kick out of this warm house.

  He saw none of those things.

  Instead, Jack glimpsed something that reminded him of the man’s house. Complex, yet warm. Mysterious, yet welcoming.

  “No… No, I have no idea what in the hell is going on, man,” Jack finally admitted.

  “Olric,” the man clarified with a wave of his hand.

  “What?”

  “My name is Olric, not ‘man.’ And yours? Can’t keep referrin’ to you as ‘the idiot kid who tripped all my traps and nearly died by my fire.’ It’s too damn long,” Olric explained with a wry grin mostly hidden by his beard.

  “Jack. Jack Thatcher,” he replied with a nod, feeling the edges of his lips tug at a smile of his own. “Good to meet you, Olric.”

  “Well, that’s just because you don’t know me,” Olric replied with a chuckle.

  He stood, stretching out his lower back, and then walked over to his array of tubes and tinctures. With an almost dismissive flick of his wrist, the knife reappeared in his grip. Meeting Jack’s gaze, he started to speak even as he resumed his clever chopping.

  “So! You don’t know a kraken’s ass from your left thumb. Do you know what you are and why you’re here, at least?” Olric inquired.

  Feeling like he might get more information, finally, Jack opened up a bit more. “Kind of. A strange guy in a bad suit told me that I needed to banish the darkness in order to get back home. Beyond that, no idea.”

  Chop, chop, chop

  “Yeah, well, that’s gotta be the worst job description I’ve ever heard,” Olric commented with a shake of his head. “Whoever that guy was, be sure to kick his teeth in for such a vague explanation of what you need to do here on Aethros.”

  “Oh, I’m planning on it,” Jack said, but then he furrowed his brows and turned more fully to Olric.. “Wait a minute. How are you so casual about all of this? You clearly know more than I do about what I am, so would you please mind explaining to me what this is?!”

  He gestured at everything in a single, mad sweep of his hand.

  Chop, chop, chop

  Olric set down his knife on the cutting board and looked up at the expectant Jack. When he spoke, it was the lilt of old memory.

  “When the shroud encroaches, our champion approaches.

  Ardent chooses an outworlder and gives them light,

  To banish the darkness and make all things right.

  Each century a new champion comes.

  So prepare ye warriors, ready thy nuns,

  For they shall all be needed to equip Ardent’s shining suns.”

  Jack took a moment to digest the words. They were consistent with what Steward had told him, but something felt off.

  “Okay, if that’s how things are supposed to go, why wasn’t I summoned into the king’s courts, or by some royal priesthood or mage circle, like the stories always go?” Some heat entered Jack’s voice. “Why was I thrown into the freaking lion’s den, forced to kill my way through orcs, only to be nearly assaulted by some horny knights?! Where’s the royal carriage? Where are the warriors?! The nuns?!”

  “You should be grateful all you’ve had to contend with are some orcs and a few lowly knights,” Olric said.

  “Grateful? Are you serious?! I’ve nearly died a dozen times since arriving here! I have no idea what’s going on, and you’re telling I was supposed to be equipped by what, entire kingdoms?” He stood up, though he wasn’t sure when he’d started to raise his voice. “If that’s some scripture or nursery rhyme you all know and accept, why don’t I just go back to Derrick and those other jerks and tell them who I am?! They’ll be forced to help me now that I’m the Banisher, right?”

  “Wrong.”

  Jack saw the moment Olric’s gaze shifted from pity to anger. It was subtle—barely more than a narrowing of his eyelids, but he’d caught it. He didn’t back down.

  “Why?!” It was more of a demand than a question.

  “That’s because the Truthbinders have been very busy since the last Banisher ruined everything. There’s a mighty good reason you weren’t summoned to a king’s side, Jack Thatcher. If you had, you would’ve been killed on the spot.”

  “What?” Jack inquired, suddenly feeling quite hollow.

  “Oh, aye,” Olric confirmed, a fire of his own filling his every syllable. “The verses I just quoted? I’d be stripped and hanged for sayin’ them. The Truthbinders have a new, official version, and have been very thorough in making sure it replaces the old one.”

  Olric cleared his throat and recited bitterly:

  “When the shroud encroaches, the traitor approaches.

  Ardent forsook us to an outworlder and gave them lies,

  To give us darkness and make all things night.

  Each century, a new coward comes.

  So prepare ye warriors, hide thy nuns,

  For they shall be the death to all of Ardent’s daughters and sons.”