Hi!

  My name is Blaise Corvin. I got by BC.

  The first book of this story is done. I have the entire thing up on Patreon, at my $3 tier.

  I'll probably post more info later, but the way Royal Road works for chapter submittals, this is the best I can do now.

  Cheers!

  PS - the final version has been edited already. You really don't need to give me your edits. This is really more to let everyone who follows me know what I've been cooking. lol

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  It felt like the entire world flickered. His heart dropped like he was on a rollercoaster…but…actually he couldn’t exactly remember what he’d been doing at first. Walking? Shopping?

  When the world came back and consciousness returned, he was standing under a big sky with fading sunlight.

  Wes blinked in astonishment and very carefully did not move. For a moment, he thought he might be having a stroke, but when he rubbed his fingers against each other, it just felt too real, and he felt too level headed to deny the truth any longer.

  Something really, really weird had just happened. Memory slowly returned.

  Just moments ago, he'd been getting out of his truck, in the parking lot of the grocery store, about to grab some fruit. But now...he wasn't in the grocery store parking lot. He was pretty sure he was not in Texas at all anymore.

  This was...someplace different. All rolling plains, with hills and giant boulders to one side in the distance, and forested mountains in the far distance. Directly ahead, maybe half a mile away, he could see what looked like...a village. Maybe one of those remote European villages complete with old-timey houses. He always thought of them as the kinds of places where all the cars were the size of a shoe box.

  Wes checked his pockets. Thankfully, he still had his normal EDC. He was still wearing low boots, cargo pants, an undershirt, and a T-shirt with video game characters on it.

  Finally, after a few minutes of freaked out stillness, Wes began walking towards the village, the only sign of civilization he could spot. He was cagey, though, and circled behind a hill so he could stay out of line of sight.

  Old habits die hard anyway, and he wasn’t about to just bumble around like a Twoflower when he’d just experienced…teleportation or whatever.

  The dry grass whispered against his boots as Wes moved cautiously toward the village. His eyes scanned the terrain—no roads, no power lines, nothing that screamed modern. Just dirt paths worn into the earth by feet and hooves.

  As he crested the hill, the village sprawled below him. It was a cluster of slate-roofed cottages, pens holding goats and chickens, and a central well where a few figures gathered. With a burst of random curiosity, he wondered if the buildings were rammed earth construction before he reminded himself it didn't matter and hunkered behind a boulder to watch. Judging from the sky, the time was late afternoon or so, with light starting to wane. He decided to play it safe and watch the village.

  After all, he didn't want to admit the possibility, but this was weird enough…he might be dead. Or this might be another part of earth…or even another world. He’d watched enough movies and anime that it wasn’t an entirely foreign concept. Being dead was probably most likely, though.

  Wes remained motionless behind the boulder, watching the villagers move about their daily routines. A broad-shouldered man in a leather apron hammered at an anvil near the largest building—likely the blacksmith. Two older women carried baskets of vegetables toward what appeared to be a communal kitchen, their skirts dusted with dirt from the fields. And then there were the girls.

  Three of them clustered near the well, each carrying wooden buckets. The tallest girl had wheat-colored hair tied in a loose braid, her plain linen dress cinched at the waist with a simple rope belt. She moved with practiced efficiency, her bare arms toned from labor. The second was shorter, softer, her dark curls bouncing as she laughed at something one of the others said. The third girl stood a head shorter than the others, barely more than a child, with wide blue eyes despite her dusky skin, and a smudge of dirt on one cheek. She fumbled with her bucket, nearly dropping it before the tallest girl steadied it with an exasperated sigh.

  Wes remained still, watching. The way the people moved, the way they went about their business—no electricity, no modern clothing or tools that he could see…was concerning.

  It took him a while, looking for any modern anything, or signs of Amish-ness. None. This wasn't some historical reenactment, and these were not modern people in a commune or something. He gulped.

  He stayed in place as he kept looking for any signs of technology, any at all. Even communities that rejected technology, or remote villagers usually had modern clothing. But what he was seeing looked like something out of an episode of Xena or something. Wes remained hidden behind the boulder, tracking the movements of the villagers with quiet precision. The blacksmith wiped sweat from his brow before plunging a glowing iron rod into a barrel of water, steam hissing violently. The older women had disappeared into the kitchen, but the girls lingered by the well, their conversation carrying faintly on the wind.

  The tallest one, clearly the eldest, adjusted her grip on the bucket and shot the youngest a stern look. With a start, as Wes heard snippets of conversation, he realized he could understand it, but the girl spoke with an accent he'd never heard before. The tallest girl scoffed, hoisting her bucket onto one hip. "Joruk won't last a week in Mercosa. That idiot couldn't tell a noble from a dung collector."

  The dark-haired one giggled, tucking a curl behind her ear. "He said he'd come back rich. Buy the whole village."

  "With what?" The eldest rolled her eyes. "Selling his boots? That boy couldn't—"

  The last girl said, "I'm worried about him too. We all know you're sweet on him, Rayna. Feels like I say it every day. We all worry. But he wanted to find his fortune. Maybe he will and you can be a fancy wife in a brick house one day."

  The girl called Rayna's cheeks flushed, but she didn't deny it. She hefted her bucket with more force than necessary. "I don't care about brick houses. Just that idiot not getting himself killed."

  The youngest girl, maybe around eleven, by Wes's estimate, shifted her weight from foot to foot. "Do you think he'll bring back sweets? I heard about candy in the city that are made with pieces of fruit–"

  Wes tuned out the conversation, then hunkered down behind his boulder, trying to figure out why he could…understand. His mind was moving...strangely. Questioning if what he'd just heard had been English, seemed to give him a headache. He didn't want to think about it, his entire body rebelled against it...so he pushed harder, thinking about nothing else. A sharp, stabbing pain lanced through Wes's temples the moment he tried to analyze the language. His vision blurred at the edges, a cold sweat breaking across his back. He clenched his jaw, gripping the rough surface of the boulder to hold himself up. The harder he pushed mentall, the worse it got—like trying to remember a dream upon waking, only for it to dissolve into nothingness.

  But he held on grimly to the vapors, not letting go, and it felt like he was dying.

  Wes didn't let up on the pressure, like digging deep as if into a painful pimple. His mind ran as he kept up the pain, reasoning it was possible this was not his world, not Earth, and something happened to him during the transition. “Fuck this,” his growled. He refused to forget English, and he refused to think of the language he was hearing as anything other than alien.

  As he kept holding on, hurting himself with the effort, something interesting happened. It was like something sticky in his mind pulled apart, like pages of a book stuck together being separated. And finally, with a rush of relief, he could actually remember English again. He could understand the differences between the languages, and so fast he couldn't really catch it all, he felt a number of other languages rush around him, too.

  It was like…daydreams of words and letters, like butterflies. Thankfully, it didn’t hurt, but his mind was already numb from the internal battle he’d just fought.

  When he settled down, falling onto his butt, he was panting heavily, trying to get his breathing under control. What he'd just done, despite only lasting a few minutes, has been one of the most difficult things he'd ever accomplished in his life, even though he didn't entirely understand what actually just happened, or even where he was, still.

  Shakily, he stood to his feet, and decided to go down and greet the villagers. Just hiding behind rocks and watching was not going to answer any of his questions. The path down the hillside was uneven, scattered with loose stones that shifted under Wes's boots. He kept his steps measured, his hands loose at his sides—nonthreatening but ready. The village looked even smaller up close, the cottages squat and weathered, their wooden beams dark with age. Smoke curled from a few chimneys, carrying the faint scent of smoke on the wind.

  The girls at the well noticed him first. "Stranger!" one of them shrieked. The result was immediate and the village erupted into motion. The blacksmith dropped his hammer with a clang, grabbing a heavy iron rod from the anvil. Women from behind a wall appeared, apparently from the vegetable garden, straightening up, their hands flying to their mouths. The three girls at the well scattered—the tallest one shoving the youngest behind her while the dark-haired girl darted toward the nearest cottage. A man burst from the nearest house, a pitchfork in his hand. Several other men joined him, all with various tools or makeshift weapons. One had a bow.

  Wes' hand went to his pocket, where he had his pistol, and feeling slightly foolish he shouted, "I come in peace! I mean no harm!" He paused. "Also, what is this language we are speaking? I, uh, lost my memories."

  The villagers exchanged wary glances. The blacksmith—a barrel-chested man with arms corded from years of labor, lowered his iron rod slightly but didn't relax his stance. "Peace?" he grunted. His voice was rough, his accent thick but intelligible. "Strangers don't just wander out of the plains by themselves near dusk. Not unless they're bandits or worse."

  The bowman, a lanky youth with a patchy beard, kept his arrow nocked. He loudly asked, "Where is Sarena! She needs to get out here and tell us if the stranger is human! I'm ready to shoot!"

  “Stop. Not yet.” The blacksmith spat into the dirt and hefted his iron rod. "Hold that arrow, Mikal. Sarena's coming."

  Only a moment later, a woman emerged from one of the cottages, her steps unhurried but deliberate. She was older, maybe in her forties, with sharp features and dark hair streaked with silver. Unlike the other villagers in their rough clothing, she wore a fitted dress of deep blue wool, its high collar embroidered. A polished wooden staff tapped against the hard-packed earth as she approached, her gaze locked onto Wes, focusing on him like she could see things nobody else could.

  He could immediately tell that this woman was not from this village, or tribe. Everything about her was different. Wes watched her curiously. The woman—Sarena—stopped a few paces away, her dark eyes assessing Wes with the detached scrutiny of a scholar examining a specimen. The wooden staff in her grip bore faint carvings that shimmered unnaturally when the light caught them just so.

  "Human," she announced without preamble, her voice crisp. "No taint. No glamour either." She tilted her head slightly. "But not from around here, are you?"

  Wes laughed. "You could say that again." He sobered, thinking of the life he left behind on earth. "Honestly...I'd really like to know what the hell is happening."

  Sarena's grip tightened slightly on her staff, the carved runes flickering, Was ws sure of it this time. Behind her, the villagers murmured among themselves, some still gripping weapons, others slackening their stances just slightly.

  "Come," Sarena said. "The elders will want to hear this." She turned without waiting for a response, her boots crunching lightly over the packed earth.

  With a mental shrug, Wes followed her. This place was weird, backwards, but the villagers seemed scared, not crazy. Sarena led Wes through the village, her staff still tapping rhythmically against the hard earth. The villagers parted before them, whispering behind raised hands. Children peeked from doorways before being yanked back inside by unseen guardians.

  The elder's hall stood at the village center—a longhouse with thick timber walls and a stone or tile roof blackened by years of hearth smoke. Sarena pushed open the heavy oak door with a creak, revealing a dim interior lit by fat tallow candles. The scent of beeswax and aged wood washed over them as they stepped inside.

  Three figures sat at a rough-hewn table at the far end—two men and one woman, all silver-haired with faces lined by decades of harsh living. The eldest man had a nose like a hawk's beak, his gnarled hands resting atop a carved walking stick. The elder woman's sharp gaze locked onto Wes the moment he crossed the threshold. Her fingers tightened around a bone-charm necklace as she leaned forward, the firelight carving deep shadows into the hollows of her cheeks. "Outlander," she said, the word brittle with suspicion.

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  It looked like they'd been playing some sort of board game, with cups of tea for all the elders.

  The second elder—a barrel-chested man missing two fingers on his left hand—grunted. "Looks wrong. Too clean."

  Wes felt a flash of irritation. "I'm not too clean, you're just dirty."

  The elder woman's eyes narrowed. The missing-fingered man barked a laugh that turned into a wet cough. The last elder frowned. Sarena rapped her staff against the floorboards, the sound sharp in the confined space.

  "Enough," she said. "This one speaks truth when he says he's lost. Look at his garments—woven tighter than any loom in the Vale could manage. That marking on his chest?" She gestured at Wes's t-shirt print. "That is rare work.”

  “He looks like a princeling from the far West," opined the female elder. "At least with that fine of clothing."

  The firelight flickered across Sarena's sharp features as she considered the elders. "Princelings don't wander into sheepherder villages alone," she said, her voice dry. "And they certainly don't speak like him."

  The hawk-nosed elder leaned forward, his knuckles whitening around his walking stick. "Then what is he?"

  Wes felt their stares like physical pressure—the weight of suspicion, curiosity, and low level fear.

  Slowly, almost afraid to ask, he said, "What...what is this world called?"

  The elders exchanged glances. The woman with the bone necklace spoke first, her voice like crackling paper. "You stand in the village of Duskvale, within the borders of Valtros." She studied him with narrowed eyes. "And beyond our lands? The world is called Worshiss. How can you not know this? Sarena, are you sure he’s human?"

  Sarena's staff tapped against the floorboards again. "You truly don't know where you are?"

  Wesley's heart sank. He couldn't ignore it anymore. “I’m not in Kanas anymore,” he muttered. "Can I take a seat somewhere?" The elders exchanged glances before the hawk-nosed man gestured to a rough-hewn stool near the hearth. Wes sat heavily, elbows resting on his knees as he processed the impossible truth.

  Sarena leaned against the wall near the door. The runes along the length of her staff shone faintly with an eerie blue glow whenever she shifted her grip. "You look like a man who's seen his own ghost," she observed.

  Wes sighed and stared at the runes. "Do you...know magic, or do magic, uh, Sarena?"

  Sarena's lips curved into a thin smile, her fingers tracing the carvings on her staff. "I know enough to recognize when something doesn't belong." The runes flickered again, casting jagged shadows across the rough-hewn beams above.

  The elder woman leaned forward, her knuckles tight around her charms. "Outsiders bring trouble. Always have, always will."

  Wes ignored the elders. “Can you show me an example of your magic, Serena?"

  She suddenly looked self conscious. "I am not very powerful. Just a Rank 1 Boundary Watcher."

  Wes wave a hand dismissively. The words didn’t mean anything to him. "I don't care. Just anything, please."

  Sarena exhaled heavily, her grip shifting on the staff. The runes flared brighter as she raised her free hand, fingers curling in a precise gesture. A sphere of pale blue light bloomed above her palm, no larger than a coin, casting jagged shadows across the weathered floorboards.

  The elders hummed in appreciation. With a snort, the elder woman said, "Rank 1 or not, a Boundary Watcher is still a B-Watcher."

  Wes smiled cookedly and leaned back as his spine went to jelly for a moment. Then he told the truth that was obvious to himself now. "I think I am from another world, a world with no magic. Hearing about magic is...it twists my mind."

  Sarena's sphere of light winked out as her fingers closed into a fist. The sudden darkness made the firelight seem brighter, painting hard lines across her sharp features. "Another world," she repeated, her tone flat.

  The hawk-nosed elder sucked air through his teeth. The woman with the bone charms clutched them tighter, whispering something under her breath. The two-fingered man just laughed—a harsh, barking sound that dissolved into another wet cough. “Yeah right.”

  “Feel like shufflin’?” Wes pulled out his smart phone, queued up the Party Rock Anthem, and hit play.

  The elders recoiled as tinny electronic music burst from the device in Wes's hand. The female elder clutched her bone charms so tightly the leather cord bit into her fingers. The two-fingered man stumbled backward, knocking over his stool with a clatter. Even Sarena stumbled a bit before leaning on her staff.

  "What devilry—" the hawk-nosed elder rasped, gripping his walking stick like a weapon.

  "It's music from another world in another language," Wes explained with a hollow chuckle. He shut the music off. The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.

  The two-fingered man wiped sweat from his brow with his maimed hand, eyes never leaving the strange device. He started to form a sneer, his eyes wavering.

  Sarena stepped forward. "Show me that again." There was no fear in her voice now—just the cold precision of a surgeon about to do a biopsy.

  Wes didn't bring the phone out of his pocket again. "Why?" he asked.

  Sarena's grip on her staff tightened and the runes flickered. "Because if you're telling the truth, that device is proof of something beyond our world's laws. If you're lying, it's a trick—and I'll know which it is when I see it again."

  The two-fingered elder spat into the fire. "Or it's demoncraft! Should burn him just to be safe." Wes could tell the man was serious. They were not idle words. The elder’s hand moved to a belt knife, too.

  Wes’s heart sped up, and he was suddenly hyper aware of the fact he was in a village surrounded by people who seemed not to like him. He abruptly stood and drew his pistol. "I think I'll leave now. Thank you for the talk."

  It seemed the “Boundary Watcher” recognized the fact that Wes had gotten serious. The moment the pistol cleared Wes's pocket, Sarena's staff flared to life with a crackling hum. Now the runes blazed crimson, casting jagged shadows across the packed earth floor. Every elder recoiled—the two-fingered man knocked over his cup of tea, sending dark liquid spreading across the game board like spilled blood.

  "Lower your device, or weapon, stranger," Sarena commanded, her voice cold.

  Wes grinned without humor, backing up diagonally to the door. "So you recognized it as a weapon, huh?" He turned to the elder missing fingers and said, "How about you burn yourself, you old fuck? Just to be safe." His eyes went flat. "I'm leaving."

  Sarena stepped between Wes and the two-fingered elder, her staff still pulsing with crimson light. The runes cast jagged shadows across the floor as she planted herself squarely in the doorway. "You won't make it ten paces before Mikal puts an arrow through your throat," she said, her voice low and measured. "And if by some miracle you do, the plains themselves are death past dark."

  Wes said, "This elder, a leader, just casually suggested killing me. If you push me, I will try to take as many of you down with me as I can, or maybe even kill all of you. I came peacefully, lost, and now I definitely feel it's safer out there than here. Get out of the doorway, lady, Sarena. Unless I'm a prisoner? Then I really know it's time to resist."

  The air in the longhouse grew thick with tension. Sarena didn't move from the doorway, but her grip on the staff shifted subtly—the runes dimming from crimson back to their usual faint blue glow. The two-fingered elder wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his beady eyes darting between Wes and the pistol in his hand.

  "You're no prisoner," Sarena said at last. "But walking out that door won't solve anything."

  "That is for me to decide. Get the fuck out of my way. I'm not staying here where people want to burn me alive."

  Sarena's jaw tightened. The runes on her staff flared once more, then dimmed as she exhaled heavily. She stepped aside, but kept the staff raised between them like a barrier. "You walk out that door, you won't last the night. I was telling the truth. The plains aren't kind to strangers after dark."

  Behind her, the two-fingered elder muttered something under his breath, fingers twitching toward the knife at his belt again.

  Wes laughed. "The plains aren't kind? Well, neither are you people. I came here to talk, seeking answers. I knew this place was remote, but I wasn’t expecting anyone to want to burn me alive! You’ll have to forgive me, I'm just a little fucking freaked out right now!" He kept a semblance of calm through an effort of will. Sarena's expression remained unreadable, but her grip on the staff loosened slightly.

  The elder woman with the bone necklace hissed through her teeth. "Fool boy. You think we haven't seen men crack under the weight of the unknown before? The plains will eat you alive."

  However, the two-fingered elder bared his yellowed teeth in a sneer. "Let him go. Or kill him. Whatever."

  Wes leveled a glare at the sneering elder. "Speak again, old man. I dare you." His arm tensed, ready to aim and shoot in a heartbeat. The muzzle of the weapon came up halfway, at a 45 degree angle.

  The two-fingered elder froze, his expression twisting. He sucked on a tooth. The firelight carved deep hollows beneath his eyes as he stared right back at Wes. No one moved. Even Sarena's breath hitched, her staff's glow flickering like a guttering candle.

  The elder woman's bone charms rattled as she raised both hands in a placating gesture. "Peace, outlander. No more threats from either side."

  Wes grinned. "It's funny how it's only when one of you is about to be harmed, that you are suddenly, magically more reasonable." He lowered his weapon, opened the door, and stepped outside, moving at a good pace, gun in hand, head on a swivel. He wanted to get the hell out of this village full of backwards screwheads.

  The village square had emptied during the course of the confrontation. Only the bowman—Mikal—remained visible, his arrow still nocked but not drawn as he watched Wes from the shadow of the blacksmith's shed. The fading afternoon light slanted golden across the packed earth, painting long shadows between the cottages.

  Sarena followed Wes out, her staff held low but ready. "You won't survive alone," she said, voice clipped. "Not with night coming. Not without knowledge or supplies."

  "Better that than being burned alive by a bunch of uneducated, dirty savages!" Wes called back.

  Mikal's bow creaked as he tensed the string, his patchy beard twitching with nervous energy. Sarena raised a hand toward the archer without taking her eyes off Wes. "Hold."

  The two-fingered elder emerged from the longhouse, his face flushed with rage. "That demon-touched bastard threatened me in my own hall!" Spittle flew from his cracked lips.

  Wes kept walking backward, gun still held low but ready, eyes darting between threats. He was a good shot with the P365, but every ten yards the distance opened up, his aim would be less sure, especially under stress. A little pocket mousegun was great for self defense, not to fight wars.

  The tension stretched thin as Wes continued backing toward the village's edge. Every muscle in his body screamed at him to run, but he kept his retreat measured—controlled. The last thing he needed was to trip over some unseen obstacle while these people debated putting an arrow through his spine. He was under no illusions that the primitive weapon could be deadly. One of his friends in the Army had been an avid bowhunter.

  Mikal's bowstring creaked again. The young archer's hands trembled slightly, sweat beading on his upper lip. "Say the word, Sarena." Mikal called out. “The farther he goes, the harder it’ll be to put him down!”

  Wes snarled, "If you tension that bow, I will kill you. Don't do it, please."

  Mikal's fingers twitched on the bowstring. The young archer swallowed hard, his eyes darting to Sarena for guidance.

  "Lower it," the Boundary Watcher Sarena commanded, her voice like iron. “Lower your bow.”

  The two-fingered growled. "Cowards. All of you." His yellowed teeth glinted in the fading light as he took a step forward.

  Wes laughed and called out, "Why don't you grab a spear and come at me then, you fingerless, decrepit blowhard? You’re the one calling for murder, do it yourself. The fact a piece of shit like you is an elder is part of why I'm leaving."

  The two-fingered elder's face purpled with rage. He grabbed a rusted sickle from a nearby woodpile, spittle flying as he lurched forward. "I'll gut you like—"

  Sarena's staff swept out, blocking his path. The runes flared white for a second, forcing the old man back with a pained grunt. "Enough!" The Boundary Watcher's voice cracked like a whip. "No violence!."

  Wes grinned. "Sarena, you were called a Boundary Watcher, right? Who runs this place? You or the elders?"

  Sarena straightened her staff. "I advise. They rule." Her gaze flicked to the two-fingered elder, who was still clutching a sickle with murderous intent. "Usually with more wisdom than this."

  The elder woman with the bone necklace stepped forward, her joints creaking audibly. "Enough bloodlust from both sides. Please. This is so frustrating! It doesn’t have to be like this!"

  Wes kept backing up, making sure not to trip. "I have no bloodlust. I just don't fancy getting burned for being different, or being forced to hand over the handful of things that actually might have value in this shitty world."

  The elder woman shook her head. "No one's burning anyone today." She shot a venomous look at the two-fingered elder.

  Sarena took three more measured steps toward Wes, her staff held vertically now—a clear sign of non-aggression. "Listen to me, outlander. Nightfall comes swift on the plains."

  Sure enough, the sky was darkening fast. Wes admitted privately to himself that he was concerned, but he didn't stop shuffling backwards. "Do you want to save me or kill me? You people can't seem to make up your minds."

  Sarena responded, "Neither. But I won't watch a man walk to his death when there's another choice."

  The elder woman shuffled forward too. She held out her open hands. "Stay the night in the Watcher's cottage. Come morning, you'll leave with no quarrel from us." Her wrinkled face twisted into something approaching sincerity. "We're simple folk, not murderers."

  Wes sighed. "I wish I could believe you. But the Boundary Watcher there seems to be salivating over my tools, and the ugly old man with missing fingers obviously wants me dead. I can't just ignore what he's saying either because he's an elder, not some random villager. If you all think he's an idiot, why is he an elder? So due to his position, I need to assume you at least listen to him. There are more of you than of me, and I don't want to hurt anyone. So I guess that means I have to leave."

  The elder woman’s entire body radiated irritation and frustration. "Targ is hot-tempered, but he speaks for himself alone tonight." Her gnarled fingers tightened around her necklace. "You have my word, no harm comes to you if you stay in the watcher’s cottage."

  Sarena made a beckoning gesture. "The cottage has one room, one door. You'll sleep there alone with your...devices." Her gaze flicked to Wes's pistol.

  He never stopped backing up, but his mind moved as fast as it could, given the circumstances. Finally, Wes made up his mind. "No way. I don't trust you people at all, and Boundary Watcher or whatever you are, I don't trust you not to stab me in the back to take my tools." His legs hit a fence, and he hopped over it, then jogged away into the plains, towards the hills.

  ***

  The villagers watched in silence as Wes retreated into the gathering dusk. Sarena let her mind join with her staff, calming her, the runes pulsing once before fading entirely. Behind her, the two-fingered elder—Targ—spat into the dirt and muttered something foul.

  Mikal lowered his bow entirely with a shaky exhale. "Should've let me put an arrow in him when we had the chance."

  The elder woman whirled on him, her eyes wide with anger. "You'd want to chance that, Mikal, you fool!?" she snapped. "First, beyond just spilling unnecessary blood, did you not see that outlander's eyes? True or not, he believed he could end you." She turned her glare toward Targ. "And you—you old fool. Nearly started violence over nothing. That young man’s death is on your head!"

  Sarena watched Wes's silhouette disappear into the twilight. The first stars pricked through the violet, rapidly dimming sky as she spoke without turning. "He'll be dead by morning. In less than an hour, this time of year, the night gets so dark, there's no seeing without fire. And the nearest shelter is two hours away."