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The faint smell of potions still lingered in the air. It had been hours since she had helped her parents fill and cork the last bottle of this day’s batch, but the intense scent of cooked elfroot still clung to the curtains and furniture. And the tiny rooms of their cottage didn’t help to clear the air, either.
Asaara didn’t mind; she breathed in and let the herb fumes fill her lungs. The smell meant home to her as much as the trees around their house, or the murmuring voices in her mind, though the latter had required some time to get used to. One of her earliest memories was of her parents standing at the heart and brewing various elixirs they could trade at the nearby village; over the years, first her sister and later she would help out.
“Are you waiting for something, or can we head out? You’ve stared into the air long enough, qalaba.”
She grinded her teeth. Issala knew how to wind her up, and she hadn’t tried to prank her in a while; that might be because last time backfired, and ended with Issala’s hair burning. Nevertheless, Asaara was wary.
But when she looked up, her sister only leaned against the doorframe, her lips twitching upwards into her all too familiar mischievous smirk. In her hand, she held two crudely woven bags.
“Pack up and we can go!” Issala tossed one of the bags towards her; the once pale fabric had long taken on many colours, stained from potions she had carried before. “Just… try to not break that many vials again, if you could? They are hard to come by these days.”
Heat rising into her cheeks, she bit her tongue and swallowed the quip, as she wrapped each vial in a strip of cloth before stuffing them into the bag; her sister wasn’t wrong, no matter how little she liked to admit to it. But, to be fair, she couldn’t be faulted for every cracked bottle they couldn’t trade. If she hadn’t needed to evade the rocks those villagers had thrown at her…
Their parents had known the instant they returned that day, without either of them saying a word. How couldn’t they, when their disappointment, their horror at being continuously mistreated, must have been written clearly across their faces. But they hadn’t done anything, and silently return to their work.
On many days Asaara cursed her parents for leaving their people, and for choosing to live among humans instead. Because no matter how often those people demeaned them, her parents didn’t complain, only endured. How much worse could the Qun possibly be?
Not that her parents would talk about something like that; or anything related to their past. They had fled south when she hadn’t been born yet, and refused to tell her why. The few things she did know were blurred memories her sister shared with her. The Maker alone knew how much of that was true. Whatever it might have been, she somehow doubted it was for them to cower before humans.
She had stopped asking eventually, though she never ceased to be curious. But she’d rather she wouldn’t know than see the overwhelming hurt in their eyes again. Both her parents still flinched when she ignited the hearth with a flick of her wrist. Yet, whenever she promised to not practise magic around them, they would merely shake their heads and smile sadly.
She shook off the memories. It wouldn’t do her any good to dwell in the past. It absolutely wouldn’t change anything, neither her parents’ refusal to speak about it, nor their need to play their part to be tolerated by humans. Even if that meant suffering constant abuse, because the alternative was so much worse.
Logerswold’s population wasn’t keen on outsiders, especially the non-human kind. And they were never hesitant to remind them, lest they forget. They would thank them for their potions and curse them in one breath. On a good day. She genuinely didn’t want to be there when they needed someone to blame for a bad one. But her parents dismissed every single one of her pleas to leave, and so they stayed.
With a sigh, Asaara carefully tied up her bag, and slung it over her shoulder. She’d rather they got it over with than stalling further. Then she grabbed her staff; it was just similar enough to a walking stick to go unnoticed, and she was certain she wouldn’t need it. She barely ever did. Without it, though, she felt less at ease and, by the Maker, she would need every bit of ease she could summon once they entered the village.
“Ready to go?” Issala eyed her, one eyebrow raised in amusement at her overly cautious demeanour. Once she nodded, turned on her heel and strode out of their cottage, not bothering to check if her sister followed suit.
Her mood dropped immediately as she stepped over the threshold. Another long day of trying to please people who didn’t want to be pleased lay ahead of her, and she was tired of it already. If only their livelihood didn’t depend on the villagers… A moot point, of course. Because it did. As long as they stayed where they lived, nothing would change.
It wasn’t less frustrating to know that, though.
She had wondered before why she’d never just packed up and left, often when she was on her way towards Logerswold. Because may the Maker smite her where she stood, she wanted to. Dreams of a world without humans lured her on most nights, promising a life without the constant, ever-present dread. And yet, she was still here. Her parents didn’t force her to stay; it would be easier if they did, then she could blame them. Maybe because she knew she would break their hearts when she left them behind, or because deep down, she was too scared to break out and try to find a place where she was accepted. Maybe even a little of both.
With each passing day, either reason seemed less important.
Her sister’s off-key whistling from a few paces in front of her tore her out of her thoughts. Despite being the target of as many cruel jests and thrown rocks as herself, Issala never let them get to her. And Asaara envied her. If she could simply let the slurs roll off her shoulders the way her sister did, their whole family would be happier for it.
She caught up, and focussed on their path instead. They’ve passed through this part of the Brecilian Forest countless times before. Short as it was, they wouldn’t take longer than an hour until they reached Logerswold, and she knew every step of the way by heart. She knew the spots where the most fragrant elfroot and deathroot grew; she knew which trees inhabited birds, which had died, which had been felled; she knew the parts of the forest where the villagers would be at work, and how to avoid them.
She blamed her absent-mindedness for not noticing earlies that something was off. It took her a while to place what had caught her off guard.
The whole forest was silent. No birds were chirping from the trees, no rodents were scurrying through the thicket; she didn’t even have to swat those pesky flies away, usually buzzing around her ears. She heard nothing.
Beside her, Issala tensed up. Her gaze was sweeping the underbrush, and her hands hovered over her daggers she kept hanging sheathed from her belt. “Did you hear that?”
Asaara’s own grip around her staff tightened. She had. Twigs snapped, hidden from their view, and dead leaves were crumpled. Something made its way through the thicket. And it came closer. Rapidly.
Issara smoothly moved to the side, and around her, until they stood back to back. Just as the noise barrelling towards them split into two directions. She squatted, keeping her balance by pressing her back further against her sister, and with a soft plop, lowered her bag to the ground. Asaara mimicked her, though hastier and less graceful. She winced when she heard glass crack.
Out of instinct, and years of living and hunting together, her body reacted when her sister started to turn ever so slowly. They kept moving in tandem, feeling for the noise and whatever it caused, without ever losing physical contact to each other.
Far off in the distance, something was howling. It was deeper, more guttural than what she was used to hear from the local packs. It put her off ease.
“If this is another one of their hints that we’re not welcome, they had it coming,” Asaara growled, her fingers tightening around her staff. The air around her shifted, like it would just moments before lightning struck. She embraced it. Thunderstorms had always made her feel free, and wild; she had been enjoying the sudden release of energy even before she had been capable of conjuring them herself.
“Calm down,” her sister hissed over her shoulder. “Do you want us to get struck, too?”
She hadn’t finished speaking when a pack of wolves broke through the underbrush, and leapt towards them.
Asaara twirled her staff through the air, gathering electrical energy like others would gather cobwebs, and sent it towards the wolf closest to her. It wailed in pain, with its fur singed where it was struck, and toppled over as its legs gave way underneath. It didn’t get back up.
She quickly scanned her surroundings. Four more- no, three; Issala was finishing of the fourth, one of her daggers lodged in its shoulder, as she slit its throat.
A grin washed over her face. She hadn’t been aware how much she had craved a fight. She plucked at the Fade, pulling stings from its fabric and weaved them together with her hatred for the villagers; static crackled around her, and her hair puffed up around her as lightning struck another beast, leaving it standing, albeit on wobbling legs.
On the tell-tale swish she ducked to the side, watching Issala’s dagger fly into its side, finishing it off. Her approving grunt turned into an oof as she dove forward, the ground knocking all air from her lungs. She only narrowly evaded the fangs one the remaining foes tried sinking into her calf. That should teach her not to get distracted during fights! She jumped back up, and thwacked her staff against its hindleg. Bones cracked on impact, and the noise made her stomach lurch.
Only one was left, standing between its felled brethren. Its ears were pressed flat against its skull, and its muzzle was twisted into a vicious snarl. But it didn’t move.
Neither did Asaara and her sister, though her gaze remained trained on the wolf. She was waiting for the twitch of a muscle, anything telling her the beast would jump at them. When it howled, she was taken aback. Long enough for it to turn and flee back into the depths of the forest, before either of them could act. The howl that answered was deeper, like the one they heard before. It made her skin crawl.
After a short pause, waiting for the wolf to come back with more of its pack, her sister stepped around the bodies when it was sure it wouldn’t. She carefully pulled out her dagger from one of them with a wet noise. Grimacing, she wiped its blade against the fur. “Shame we don’t have time to bring them back home. What a waste of perfectly fine leather.” She let her gaze wander across the clearing, and huffed. “Besides the ones that almost went up in flame, that is.”
Asaara barely noticed the dig; she was too busy trying to supress a giggle bubbling up inside her. Her sister’s usually so meticulous braid was frazzled, both from the fight and the continuous discharge of energy around them. She combed her fingers through her own puffed up mane in an attempt to tame it. It was a difficult task already, even without electricity, and after a while of struggling to make her hair look presentable, she gave up. Even she knew that strolling into Logerswold all roughed up wasn’t the smartest idea, but what could she do?
Issala picked up the bags, and handed one over to her with a scowl; a bright red patch bled into the darker, already dried spots of the fabric told her why. One potion less to sell.
She flashed her teeth in an apologetic smile, and slung the sack over her shoulder once again.
Her sister only rolled her eyes in response, and strode onward. They kept walking in silence for the rest of the way, though they tensed up and groped for their weapons whenever the wind rustled through the trees. The feeling of something lurking just beyond their sight remained, and it stayed until the first huts came into sight. As if their stay wasn’t going to be uncomfortable enough.
As usual, the villagers eyed them suspiciously the moment they took their first step within their sight; some spat when they saw them, others just glared, or ushered children into the closest house. Nothing out of the ordinary, but that didn’t quite help to take away the sting. All Asaara could do was bite her tongue and stare ahead, until they reached a tiny hut, build somewhat remote from the rest of the village.
Stale air enveloped them as they entered. She made a face. A shop shouldn’t smell like this. No place should smell like this.
It wasn’t just the lack of fresh air that made her head spin; though they were most likely the first ones to open the doors of this wretched shop. No, the tiny room had a foul stench to it, as if something had died in a corner and no one had bothered to clean it up. Knowing the shopkeeper, it wasn’t too absurd.
She let her gaze wander around. The walls were in dire need of fresh paint; the little that remained from the previous coating came off in flakes on every other plank. The missing windows made the room smaller and more confined than it already was, and the dimly lit, cheap tallow candles didn’t do much to brighten it. She wasn’t sure whether that was a good or a bad thing.
The counter seemed to be as sticky as she remembered it to be, and she had to consciously resist the urge to take a step backwards. On the wall behind was a narrow door that was framed by shelves, overcrowded with trinkets and baubles. It was difficult to guess what colour they originally had as they were covered in a thick layer of dust.
Clearly, the villagers didn’t frequent this shop; that might be the only thing they could agree on. So why were they still here?
Just as she groped for her sister’s sleeve, to ask her to leave and to never go back here again, the door behind the counter swung open. She halted, her arm still in midair, and watched the merchant squeeze through the opening.
He had been a port-bellied man for as long as she knew him, but he seemed to grow bigger every time they came here, and today was no different. He wiped his swollen fingers across his apron, before he threw them a taxing look.
“Oh. It’s you. What do you want, oxmen?”
No matter how often it was thrown into her face, she would never get used to the slur. But Asaara bit back words she knew she would come to regret. It was just like him, to act like he was doing them a favour by talking to them at all. He could think himself to be high and mighty as much as he liked. She could incinerate him where he stood. The only reason she didn’t set him on fire right then was the hunch that she and her sister wouldn’t get out quickly enough when she set his miserable shack ablaze. But she could, and she took solace in that.
Issara didn’t seem to go through the same internal struggle. She stepped forward and carefully placed the vials on the counter. After she shot a stern look over her shoulder, Asaara followed suit, albeit while gritting her teeth. She wiped the leaked potion from the other bottles with a strip of cloth. He hadn’t noticed; he would’ve complained already if he had.
“We want to trade, Ser.”
He was by no means a knight, nor had he ever been. But they had learnt early on he enjoyed being addressed this way. And when he enjoyed himself, he would fork over more coin.
The merchant watched them, and her hands prickled under his stare. He kept staring at the bottles after they were finished, blinking owlishly as he picked one up, shook it so the red liquid inside licked against the cork and the sides of the glass, and held it against the weak flame of one of the candles.
Asaara did her best to suppress a snort. As if he knew what he was doing. He couldn’t tell a potion from a poison!
She entertained that thought for a while. Not that she would actually switch the labels; though he certainly wouldn’t notice, Issala would. And they were blamed for more than enough as it were. And yet, imagining the villagers writhing in pain did lighten her mood a little.
“Now, we don’t really need potions for the time being. But, I am feeling generous today, oxmen. I will take them off your hands, for two copper pieces.”
She was taken aback, and so was her sister; surprise was written across her face. The last time they’d been here, they’d gotten a silver for every vial, and only because he complained for an hour about his perceived hardships.
“I think we could agree on a higher price per vial-“
“Ah, don’t make me laugh!” He cut her off, waving his hand through the air. “Two copper for the while batch, of course!”
“But-“
“No ‘but’.” His malicious grin grew even wider. “Either you accept my offer, or you stop wasting my time and get out of here with your-“ he paused, before he added condescendingly “-merchandise.”
Asaara could only stand by and watch, helplessly stunned by his audacity. Her sister didn’t fare much better, her arm halfway outstretched towards the counter. This deal was awful at best, so much was obvious. But they needed the coin, and he was the only person in the whole village who was willing to trade with them.
Before either of them could answer, the door behind them opened. The sudden influx of fresh air once again reminded her how much more she wanted to be outside. Or anywhere, as long as it was far away from this village.
The merchant before her pivoted, changing into a different man before her eyes. He was still slimy, but his condescending grin had turned almost amicable. His eyes had lit up, and he rubbed his hands like he was expecting the sale of his lifetime. When she turned around, she understood why.
The man who was just closing the door behind him was no villager; his battle-worn armour and his grounded stance told her as much as did his dark skin and well-groomed hair. And he greeted them with the same, friendly smile he greeted the other human.
That was certainly a first. Asaara found she liked him immediately.
“How may I help you, Ser?” They might as well have disappeared into thin air the moment the stranger had come in, and in the merchant’s eyes, they had. “I have stocked the finest wares this side of the Brecilian Forest.”
“I’m in no hurry. Please-” The man gestured towards her. “-finish your business first.”
The merchant cut in before they had a chance to answer. “Oh, they were about to leave, no need to concern yourself with them.” He waved dismissively, his eyes never losing his almost feverish excitement. “Now, what is it you seek?”
The man let his gaze linger on them for a while; his look was mildly inquisitive, without even a trace of hostility.
Asaara couldn’t hold his gaze for long; she was at a loss of words. Because what was she to say? As sympathetic as he seemed to be, he would leave eventually. She wouldn’t. Not without her family.
“I was hoping to acquire a few potions.” His gaze swept across the counter, before he stepped closer and picked up one of the vials. “And it seems I’m in luck. What are these for?”
Now it was the merchant’s turn to squirm and stammer. Trying to tell the different shades of red and green apart was difficult enough in the half-dark; even more so when he hadn’t been listening to her sister before.
A fact he was acutely aware of now.
It felt like a victory, as small as it was compared to enduring years of slurs and thrown rocks. But she revelled in it nonetheless. She would have savoured the moment a little longer, if her sister hadn’t decided to step forward.
“I would love to tell you about the potions we made.”
Asaara stayed back and watched her sister talk to the stranger; he introduced himself as Duncan, and a member of the Grey Wardens, making it sound so normal. Like they weren’t people to be shunned. She couldn’t help but smile. If only more villagers were like him, and their lives wouldn’t have been remotely as miserable.
She idly wondered where he came from. Maybe if she told her parents of people like him, people who wouldn’t condemn them for being what they were, they would listen, and agree to move.
A prickling sensation on her forehead tore her attention away from her sister’s explanations. She looked up, unconsciously meeting the merchant’s gaze.
If she had thought his previous change in behaviour odd, this was frightening. He glared at her, his eyes sparkling with a hatred so strong it made her skin crawl. Then, without uttering a single word, he turned on the spot and stormed out of the door in the back.
Neither her sister nor Duncan had noticed him; they were too engrossed in their conversation about tonics. Asaara wished she hadn’t noticed him, either, and she knew better than to think she’d only imagined it. His hateful glare had burnt itself into her mind.
Her eyes trained on the door behind the counter, she almost expected Logerswold’s militia to burst through any moment. They didn’t, and she send a quick prayer to the Maker for that.
“Do you know something we don’t?” Issala weighed a bursting purse in her hand as she watched Duncan clear the counter. Asaara hadn’t seen her sister this genuinely intrigued by someone else since her horns had begun to grow out. “I don’t mean to pry, or sound ungrateful, but that are a lot of potions to buy at once.”
He responded with a tight-lipped, but not unkind smile. “We are living in troubling times. Take care.” With a nod towards them, he walked past them. Another burst of fresh air flooded the hut as he left.
The moment the door closed behind him, Issala pressed the purse into Asaara’s hands, and folded her own around them. “Gold coins,” she cooed with a gleeful grin. The carefully maintained mask of indifference had slipped completely from her face. “He paid one sovereign per vial!”
Her giddiness was infectious. Asaara answered her sister’s smile in kind. With this much gold, they didn’t have to worry for weeks, even months. Or… A warm, fuzzy feeling spread through her core. Or they could finally afford to start over, somewhere they weren’t despised.
“Quick. Let’s tell our parents!” Issala was at the door in two elated steps and yanked it open. Then, she froze.
“What is it?” Laughter was still in her voice, as Asaara tried to look over her sister’s shoulder. “You forgot something?” Her chuckle died in her throat.
On the main square, a group of villagers – armed with anything they had at their disposal, from pitchforks to rusty knives - had rallied around an overturned log. She immediately recognised the merchant standing on top of it. He barked at the others around him, earning himself the occasional cheer. Her nails dug into her staff. She’d hoped she’d never see Logerwold’s militia in action.
They were arguing and waving wildly; their voices didn’t carry all the way over to her, but they didn’t need to for her to know they were furious. Thrusting pitchforks and torches into the air, they began to march from the square. Towards the forest.
Her heart hammered inside her chest. She willed her legs to move, to get away from here, but they refused. Rooted to the spot, her gaze remained fixated on the now empty spot.
She stumbled backwards, as her sister pushed her back inside. She lost her balance and landed ungracefully on her behind. Issala slammed the door behind her, and pressed her back flush against it. Her breathing was just as laboured as her own.
“But, shouldn’t we leave?“ Asaara’s voice trailed off. Should they? Her heartbeat was so loud, it was difficult to grasp a clear thought and hold it. But staying here couldn’t be better. She was almost relieved when Issala shook her head, if only because she didn’t have to decide herself.
“No. We would only run into them, and they didn’t look like they wanted to talk. We’ll wait, just for a couple of minutes.” She paused, frowning. Her voice was barely above a whisper when she added, “We couldn’t possibly take them on.”
***
They had stayed in the hut for no longer than a couple of minutes; to wait for the hushed conversations to turn into usual bustling noise of the village. It had felt like hours. When they finally left, they were anxiously avoiding the humans; it was akin to a miracle that no one spotted them on their way out.
A weight fell from Asaara’s shoulders once they were well into the forest again. She inhaled deeply, tasting air that felt sweeter than ever before. For a fleeting moment, the tension has eased off. Until she looked at her sister.
Lips pressed into a thin, grim line, Issala stared forward. If she saw more between the trees, she didn’t tell. She only paused three times to listen, and change their course, if necessary.
Asaara gave it her all to follow suit without stumbling over gnarled roots or getting her horns stuck in the branches above. And she managed, more or less; she even stayed silent, though whether she feared her sister to lash out at her or to break the taut silence, she wasn’t entirely sure. Either way, her throat had been feeling raw ever since they had reached the forest; she struggled to keep her coughs quiet. Her eyes were burning, too, now that she thought about it.
While she did feel safer in the forest, she couldn’t completely shake off the sense of being watched. They had checked several times; they hadn’t crossed paths with the militia yet, and the other villagers weren’t too keen on wandering into the forest this late at day. Yet, despite knowing better, she threw a glance over her shoulder from time to time. Just to be sure.
She looked around, suppressing another cough. It was weirdly quiet once again. And still, like time had ceased to flow around them.
Issala held her hand up again to make her halt. She peered into the wood, seeking for something, anything that would betray the militia’s position.
Asaara strained her ears to pick up on the subtle change. It sounded like… crackling? A campfire? She scrounged up her nose. Strange. There was no clearing close enough to make rest, not this close to her home-
No.
She lunged forward, breaking into a sprint. Her sister called her name behind her, then steps on the moss-covered ground, but she didn’t stop. Staff clutched tightly in one hand, she vaulted across a half-rotten, massive tree stump. It couldn’t be!
She smelled the smoke before she saw it; she smelled elfroot and deathroot and embrium, and it reminded her of all the times her mother burnt down herbs to soothe her nightmares. But she wasn’t soothed. From now on, this scent would be part of her nightmares. That might be the only thing she was certain of right now.
Burnt wood blended into the mix, and she ran even faster. Her lungs protested every acrid breath she took, and her heart throbbed so violently against her ribs she feared it might escape from her chest, she kept running.
Sparks flew towards her; they died on her cheeks and her arms, leaving blisters and singed skin where they landed, but she waved them away, numb to the pain. Thick smoke was lazily wafting towards her, shrouding the path through the trees, and without hesitating for the blink of an eye, she stormed into it.
Every step ahead was a struggle to not succumb to the lack of air, or the growing heat before her. Squinting, and clasping a hand over nose and mouth, she followed the noise of burning wood; the previously faint crackling had become deafening. She thought she was also hearing laughter, but that might have been just the smoke playing tricks on her.
Until she broke through the trees – almost being squashed by a thick, flaming branch – and stood before what had been her home merely hours before. A ruin of blackened wood, the broken-down walls still splitting and snapping viciously; flames licked out of places that had been windows; the roof had collapsed, and a purplish-grey plume of smoke rose from its place like steam did from an overcooking cauldron.
The stench made her gag. Though not as much as the militia standing before the burning cottage.
It were fifteen men, or twenty, who were watching the fire; the smoke that engulfed them made it difficult to pin down. But she had heard right: they were laughing, cheering on the flames to devour the sorry remains of her home.
The outcry that burst out of her rivalled a rage demon’s screech. It certainly felt like one, to her.
The group of humans whirled around. For a fleeting moment, she saw raw terror flash across their eyes, even though smoke still hung low between them.
She enjoyed it.
Their expressions changed back quickly enough. She could only see their eyes; they wore cloths over their faces to protect themselves from breathing in the smoke. But their eyes had taken on an almost feverish gleam, and she could easily imagine matching victorious grins they hid behind their shawls.
“Ah.” One of the men stepped forward, and drawled, “I’ve begun to wonder when you would show. A shame you missed the beginning of our little show.” He threw a look over his shoulder, as if looking for applause, and he did get a few cheers from the rest of the group. He turned back, and opened his arms wide. “I would’ve thought you’d wanted to see your parents one last time, but, alas-“
Asaara choked, and not on smoke. A strangled cry escaped her throat. She shook off her sister’s hand from her arm, and immediately regretted it; she was swaying back and forth, like a newborn fawn. “Why?”
The self-appointed leader of the militia laughed. “Why, you ask? Well, why do you abduct our hunters, our workers, our children? Why do you repay our kindness with monstrosity?”
His words took her aback. She glanced over to Issala, to see if she could make more sense of his rambling than she could.
But her sister only stood next to her, her whole body trembling and clutching her daggers so tightly her knuckles had turned pale. Yet her voice was calm, dangerously so, and controlled. It sounded like she had to force every single word to pass her lips. “He’s mad, Asaara. There’s no sense in talking to him. He isn’t listening to reason.”
“You don’t speak reason, only lies.” He caressed the pommel of his sword. “And your lies won’t keep me from sending you into the Void, where you belong.” He raised his sword, and thrusted it towards them. “For Logerswold!”
She stood, rooted to the ground, and stared at the humans charging at her; they were yelling, with their eyes wide open, like a horde of rabid animals.
“Run!”
Asaara let her sister pull her away; away from the smoke and the militia and their home. Her mind had trouble keeping up, her thoughts sluggishly wading through the deep mire her brain had become. Arrows flew whirred past her, and stones thumped against her arms and back. She hadn’t even seen her parents today. They’d been out to gather herbs when she awoke, and now their remains are mixed with soot and debris.
It seemed so unreal.
Her foot got tangled underneath an overgrown root. She stumbled, and fell so slowly it felt like an entire age passed before she hit the ground. She let moments pass, absentmindedly listening the hunters draw closer. She wasn’t sure she wanted to get back up.
Issara cursed under her breath, and yanked her back up. She glared at her, and yelled at her; but to Asaara, her words sounded like guttural gibberish.
It was enough for her to shrug off the paralyzing numbness, and almost welcomed the pain from the blossoming bruises across her back. It distracted her, and, more importantly, distracted her mind from thinking.
She really didn’t want to think right now.
She nodded at her sister, and both picked up their pace. They ran, from the humans and the rapidly spreading fire. They only dared to take a break when the voices had faded. But when Asaara turned towards her sister, her relief was only short-lived.
Issala coughed, and held her side. The shaft of an arrow stuck out between her fingers. She removed her hand, and drew in a sharp breath. Her palm was slick with blood.
“Issala-”
Her sister lifted her bloody hand to silence her, before she broke off the shaft, with her eyes squeezed shut and her teeth pressed together. Exhaling forcefully, she reached into a pocket sewn into her jerkin, and produced a flat container.
She dipped two of her fingers into the substance inside, mixing her own blood into it. “Here.” She moved them across Asaara’s cheeks and forehead. Her hand was shaking. “Rashvine vitaar. Make them fear you, if you must.”
Asaara’s skin began to prickle and burn where her sister had applied the vitaar. She shrugged it off. Instead, she focussed on her sister before her, her face twisted into a grimace of concentration and pain. Her eyes were as unsteady as her hands, and her slightly parted lips were dark and wet with her own blood.
Asaara closed her eyes. It was easier to pretend everything was just like it had been the day before. When her home hadn’t been burnt down by a rabid mob; when her sister hadn’t been shot; when her parents-
She gulped back a sob. Her eyes stayed closed even when she didn’t feel her sister’s touch on her face anymore. Until something smooth was pressed into her palm.
Her sister curled her lips into a lopsided smile. “Run, kadan. Don’t let them catch you.” A coughing fit interrupted her, and more blood came forward. She could barely stand on her legs. “But if they do… Make them suffer.”
“But you-“ Asaara’s gaze flitted to where they had come from; the voices had become louder. If they didn’t hurry…
Issala shook her head. Every word she spoke seemed more laboured than the one that came before. “It’s too late for me. I would only slow you down.” She covered her hands with her own. “Survive.”
But all Asaara could see was the thin trickle of blood making its way down from the corner of Issala’s mouth, and all she could think of was that she would never see her parents again.
How could she have lost so much in so little time?
The shove against her back was weak, but sudden, and had her staggering forward. She spun around, holding her staff protectively before her chest. Instead of someone sneaking up on her, she watched Issala vanish between the trees, back towards the militia.
All she wanted to do now was break down and cry, like a petulant child. Tears were already streaming down her cheeks, and exhaustion had settled in her limbs, but she began moving once again. Everything inside her screamed at her, to turn and join her sister. Together they might have had a chance…
She bit the inside of her cheek. No. Her sister would be fine on her own, and her parents weren’t dead. In a few days’ time, they might even laugh about this. And they would move on, like they always did.
If she kept repeating that to herself, she might even start to believe it.
A nearby howl startled her out of her thoughts. It brought back the memories from earlier, though it felt unbearably long ago. She hadn’t given it much thought back then.
The creature that broke through the underbrush before her was no ordinary wolf, however. Standing on its hindlegs, its hulking body dwarfed even her. Saliva dripped from its muzzle, vanishing on the forest floor or in its matt fur that covered its weirdly misshaped form.
No wolf should look like this. And neither should man.
It snarled, a vicious ugly noise, and pounced towards her, its long talons aiming at her.
She threw one hand forward, creating a wall of ice between them. The monster easily broke through. It snatched at her with its massive jaw, and she quickly rolled out of the way.
Not quick enough. Pain surged through her arm, and she struggled to hold onto her staff. She pulled more threads from the Fade, weaving them into sparks, and then flame. One orb after the other danced around her hands, and she threw them at the beast. The light seemed to annoy it more than the pain did; even though the repugnant stench of burnt hair and flesh whiffed towards her, its fur didn’t catch fire completely.
It leapt at her again, but instead of toppling her it landed before her. It unleashed another deafening snarl, covering her face in its spittle. The foulness made her gag.
Asaara staggered backwards, and caught her heel on a root just as she summoned down lightning; it missed, splitting a nearby tree instead. But it diverted the monster’s attention long enough for her to crawl behind a tree and hide. She wiped sweat and the disgusting spittle off her face, pressing her back flush against the bark. Her hand burnt slightly with the vitaar paint she must have rubbed off.
She placed her staff across her lap, and let her wounded arm hang down. She winced when it brushed against her thigh.
This fiend was too much for her. Even if Issala was with her – she tried to quash the pain flaring up inside her at that thought, with little success – they would barely stand a chance. And not only was she alone – another pang in her heart – she was in no condition to fight. The few spells she’d worked today had taken their toll, and she was still weary from the earlier events; both physically and emotionally.
She drew as much energy from the Fade as she dared, and crafted it into ice crystals. They danced around her fingertips, making them go numb, but she continued, until she contained a small blizzard between her palms.
Claws splintered the wood of the other side of the tree, accompanied by another furious howl. The sudden impact almost had the spell fizzle out, and she knew she couldn’t control the spell much longer, if she didn’t want to lose her fingers to frostbite. So, she threw herself out of cover, twisting around herself to face the beast, and released the stream of ice.
It cried out in pain; where her fireballs had singed its fur, ice flowers covered the exposed patches of skin. It looked rough, but rather angry than seriously hurt. Instead of fleeing, it screeched, and positioned itself for another jump.
Maker! She cowered down. Her only hope was for it to make it quick. But nothing happened. She cautiously looked up.
The beast dropped dead to the ground before her, two daggers sticking out of its back.
“Are you alright?”
Asaara picked up her staff from and clutched it protectively in front of her chest. She watched the man pull out his daggers from the corpse of the creature for a few moments, before she remembered why she recognised him.
“Duncan?”
He smiled, and nodded. His armour was covered in more blood splatters than before, and a few strands have escaped from his bun and framed his face. But it was definitely Duncan, and, even better, he wasn’t out to kill her. Yet.
“I’ve heard rumours about werewolves in this forest, but I had hoped them to be gossip.” He sighed, and rubbed the back of his hand against his temple. “If they decided to spread through Ferelden, we’d be in more trouble than we’re already in- Oh. Let me help you up.”
She gladly accepted the hand he offered and let him pull her to her feet. More pain shot up her leg, and she grit her teeth to not double over.
“Where’s your companion-“ he interrupted himself, no doubt noticing the pained expression on her face. How couldn’t he? “Ah. I see. My apologies.”
He smiled kindly, and somehow, Asaara knew he meant it. He then glanced towards the smoke, and back to her. “You can’t outrun them for long.”
It wasn’t a question. She shrugged, and nodded. There was no way she could deny it; she had probably sprained her ankle when either diving into or out of cover, bruises were forming all over her body, and she was completely tapped out.
Duncan scrutinised her silently. After a while, just when the silence had become uncomfortable, and Asaara wracked her brain for a way to excuse herself, he pinched the bridge of his nose, and exhaled audibly.
“I can help you to get out of here. If you want.”
She responded without thinking. “Where to? I don’t have any place to go.” She gestured towards the smoke, forcing a smile onto her lips. “It’s my home that’s burning.” Her half-hearted attempt to joke fell flat.
Duncan only nodded gravely. “I know.”
She waited for him to continue, but he only frowned, seemingly deep in thought. The words spilled out of her before she could stop herself. “Will you take me to the Grey Wardens?”
He blinked, and she briefly feared she had been too forward. But a cautious smile returned to his lips. “If this is where your path leads you, certainly. But-“ He lifted his hand to interrupt her eager nods. “-this is not a decision made lightly. Some things aren’t as easily reversible as others.”
Asaara winced. “I- I have nowhere else to go.” She choked back tears building up again. “Please, I beg you, take me with you.”
He gave her a long, unreadable look. Then, he nodded. “Very well.”