“You shouldn’t say those things about your mother,” Archbishop Vulka said in a singsong tone.

“I’ll say whatever I damn well please.”

“Because she isn’t here?”

When no retort was made, Vulka let out a chuckle. He resumed walking. And for reasons Lisŗa didn’t know, she continued following.

“Your mother is remarkable to have attained the status she possesses, being once a citizen of the Aldren Empire. Those deep in the interior of Faleria have a disdain for your late culture. Your forefathers fought the hardest out of all our conquests, and it shames our nobles to acknowledge how close we were to losing that war.” Vulka shook his head. “But alas. Your people made several mistakes too many over the course of the conflict. And once the scales tip even the powers of a Highcaster were inadequate to bring it back.”

“Your gloating is doing wonders to admonish me from rebellion,” Lisŗa said. “So much pride in what your generals’ did too. Is it normal to congratulate yourself for winning a war you didn’t fight in, holy man?”

Vulka regarded her with a thoughtful gaze.

“A sharp, self-aware tongue. I had a routine planned to convince you to behave. Now I’m curious.” He turned around to face her fully. Nothing about his appearance changed, but Lisŗa took a step back. She hadn’t felt like this even when she stood before an officer of the law. Vulka asked, “What do you want?”

“Why on Etrylis would I ever tell-”

“Help me help you,” Vulka said, every syllable lower and deeper than the last. Or did Lisŗa hear it wrong? She felt shaky. Similar to the time Licelle let her try firegrape schnapps. She felt as though she needed to speak.

“I… want to leave this city. Make a life away from here.” Tears were forming in her eyes. “So mother won’t have to do th-this kind of work f-for me anymore.”

Lisŗa gritted her teeth and shook her head once. Her senses returned.

“What?” She glared at Vulka. “Why did I just… I don’t know why I told you that.”

“Because, dear child, such a burden is heavy on someone so young so you trusted a man of high faith to bear it with you,” Vulka said. “And you were right to. I won’t tell a soul what you’ve said. Tell you what. I’ll do something for you. Have you heard of the Karavane Hawks?”

“That’s a sub-military squadron for guarding transports right?” Lisŗa recalled. “What of it?”

“There’s a special division in the Hawks, guarding not transports but expeditions. Would you like to be submitted?”

“I don’t know.” Lisŗa’s eyes began to dart. The possibilities were availing. Experience away from the city, merits in the military, travel. Independence. Self-sufficiency.

“The minimum age for enrollment is sixteen. But they make exceptions for younger recruits if they show promise in some field. Swordplay, arcanery perhaps, physical adroitness.”

“Would they accept someone of Aldren descent?”

“Faleria has always been meritocratic,” Vulka said. He made a thoughtful face. “But if I were to send a word or two to the Commander I can guarantee a lack of prejudice.”

“Why would you do this for me?”

Vulka smiled warmly once more.

“Well your mother was the one who wanted me to talk to you,” he said. He put his hands together. “And I have done so. Your destiny is your own. Good luck, child.”

--

Jorge’s arms were still numb from a day ago. When he woke up he discovered he had chipped a nail. He spent the first minutes of morning filing it down to a stub with an abrasive stone. Hunger hadn’t settled in yet. He had sprung awake several times the night before from bumps in the dark. The constant looking over one’s shoulder was not an appetizing routine.

The forest was changing him as well. He caught himself feeling proud for having the sense to relieve himself far away from his makeshift shed. The camp itself had been improved with a bedding of fresh fern leaves. Or what looked like ferns. A single stalk had dozens of flanking leaflets that could swallow a child.

With his shelter no longer being the most uncomfortable place in existence, he spent the next few hours exploring the area around the camp. The forest floor was uneven and home to many exposed roots spidering about. The roots could be anywhere from as thin as a pinky to as wide as Jorge. Large caps, white frills on the underside and red on the roof, sometimes lined the sides of trees like abstract stairs. The living steps sometimes climbed all the way up the tree, spiraling along the way. Jorge made a note to avoid them. Best not to be too close to fungi that colorful.

The vines were another matter of difficulty. Networks of green rope connected tree branches at every level. There was no end in sight. Jorge quickly found walls of the vines that were impenetrable. His hatchet barely made a dent in the ropes. If he were lighter he might have been able to climb them.

In his exploration Jorge nearly fell several times. The forest floor was uneven. Dunes and valleys riddled the earth, etching a chaotic maze into the world. Drop-offs and steep climbs were a staple of the geography. He left the impenetrable wall of vines and tried to retrace his steps, but found himself in unrecognizable terrain. He was in a sunken path flanked by dirt walls. Somehow, the saner mind prevailed. He was too tired to panic, too thirsty to feel sorry for himself. Only a cold logic remained in his overheated brain. He ran a finger along the earth as he walked, hoping it served as a marker.

Daylight constantly shifted. The canopies were a fierce competition by the green lords of the forest. Ancient, glacial rivalries fought for surfaces exposed to the sun. The scraps of light that made it through were sparse. The whims of the wind ruffled the branches above and in turn shook the shadows below. It made him dizzy. Jorge had been walking for hours.

The earth maze deposited him in a clearing he had never been before. A pool of water was in front of him. Even in his state, dazed and exerted, he knew better. Sweat stung his eyes, but he could see that the water was brown and stagnant. He was beginning to feel faint. The world was spinning.

‘What the hell are you doing son?’

“Dad?”

‘At your age I was doing laps with fifty pounds on my back! Come on fatso!’

“Dad, I just can’t…”

‘I didn’t spend my twenties eating IEDs to see my flesh and blood fail Phys Ed!’

A shred of sense remained in Jorge to know he wasn’t actually talking to his father.

“Dad I’m not like you,” he said anyways. The words were a long time coming. “I should have stood up to you and told you. I’m not you. Stop forcing me to become you. Stop trying to make me into something I’m not…”

‘The hell you mean?’

“What?” Jorge looked up. He squinted. A gargantuan man stood in front of him with his back to the sun. Gustavo Faett bent over with his palms on his knees, lording over Jorge. His father’s face was covered in shadow. The sun peeked over the rim of his short hair, too blinding to look at directly.

‘Son, why do you think we’re doing this?’

“I don’t… remember this.”

‘You need discipline. You need self-control.’

“No. I’m not like you. I don’t need-”

‘I never wanted you to be me. You need discipline for your own health. And you need control to protect the kids around you from yourself.’

Jorge’s eyes opened. He pushed himself off the wet dirt to a kneeling position. The walls of the clearing were still around him. His thirst was tremendous, his lips felt like hard husks. A rustling came from his side, something large.

This is it. I’m done.

The leaves above the clearing pushed aside, and out poked two heads and branching antlers. The deer spared him an aloof glance before walking away. Jorge dragged himself upright. Without another thought he followed the animal.