Warning : this chapter has been moved from its previous position. Updated chapters on the 10/29/2022 are 10, 11 and 15. This has no impact on the story's content. Chapter 9 focuses on Amyra's POV and issues regarding the revolution. For continuity, chapters 10 and 11 focus on that aspect. Chapter 15 picks up after Heron and Davir where left to burn by the soothsayer.

Thanks for understanding and happy reading!

• • •

The flames crawled up the bundles of the hut's ceiling, devouring wood behind a curtain of smoke. Sweat percolated on his forehead and the shivers that ran down his back were stifled by the ropes tangling his limbs. Heron's heart seemed to beat in his ears.

Attempting to break the ropes with traction landed no results, they remained thick and tight against his arms. Heron pinned his back on the wall and pushed himself upright by sliding up the wood, to no avail. He fell buttocks first, the handknife inside his pocket budging to press against his thigh. He summoned all his strength and leaned on the wall until he could feel rough spots poke through his tunic. Still, the farthest his finger could brush was the fabric of his trousers where the blade's tip protruded.

The smoke tasted bitter on every portion of skin it touched, from the tip of his tongue to the back of his throat. Even shut tightly, his eyes burned.

The wood of the ceiling crackled and a flaming bundle crushed on the ground. The fire spread on the walls with a whistle, propelling a blazing gush inside the hut. Heron's legs faltered and he fell again, the knife piercing through his trousers, tearing flesh on his thigh this time. Blood soaked his leg.

If the flames reached the door, they would be doomed. He pleaded the smoke swirling overhead would knock him out before the fire crackling the wood touched him. Two strides to his left, Davir convulsed as if he was inhabited by a beast fighting to escape him. Sweat leaked down his face like rain, and for the first time, Heron saw despair in his face. But a primal instinct of survival refused to give up. "Davir, listen to me," Heron screamed – battled a fit of coughs–, "the vineknife in my pocket. Take it. Before it's too late."

• • •

Even shutting his eyes landed no result to calm the shadows roaring inside him. They pressed for an escape from the prospect of eternal death, running up and down his body with electric pulsion. Any attempt to summon them for rescue for strength to break the ropes failed. The fire rendered the shadows useless, and the shadows rendered Davir unable to use his normal faculties. It was the perfect trap.

The heir's scream, his rage for survival, cut through the mayhem inside Davir. In a strenuous effort to exert control over himself, Davir rolled on the ground, stalling beside the heir with a bump. Skin scratching on dry wood, he adjusted his position until his hands –made a bunch by the ropes grasped the spot where the vineknife was planted.

As he fumbled to retrieve the blood-soaked knife, the heir fought back the grunts, the cries only becoming audible once Davir dislodged the blade from his leg, ripping both fabric and flesh alike.

Handling the knife sloppily to press against his ropes, Davir carved cuts on his palms. His fingers ran on a slippery mixture of blood and sweat. He tackled his legs once his hands were free. As if they perceived Davir gaining control over the situation, the shadow's turmoil lessened, though his eyes were still tortured by the sight of fire. He shut his eyes and expanded his vision outside of his body, freed the heir and they abandoned the doom hut.

Outside, several strides away from the crackling fire, the heir convulsed on the grass with coughs that rocked his body. Davir ripped his tunic, then stilled the heir's wounded leg with a grip to wrap a cloth around the wounded area, a cut half a finger wide and long. He scanned the cuts on his own hand too. No blood flew out, as if it was solid, one with his flesh. The deepest cuts — caused by the final push that had freed him from his ropes— were white in their core. Not the white of flesh freshly wounded before it was flooded by blood, but a sandy white.

Davir brushed a finger over the cuts, the hard surface underneath. He winced from the pain. But he pushed his finger deeper to feel the core, reaching a numb spot and scratched. Then looked at his bloody finger to find bits of stone trapped in his nail.

Vixen's arse, the soothsayer hadn't lied. He had stone in his body. He realized his hand was trembling. From an already ripped tunic, he cut a rope to hide his wounds from sight. Eyes averted away from the fire and despite the distance, Davir's vessel still stirred.

"They shouldn't be too far yet." The heir gasped between each word.

"It doesn't matter now."

"Not after what we've heard from her," the heir appeared to say the words tentatively, as an insinuation. A better alternative to saying that Davir had been dead. That he had been brought back from death. Taking his soul back from The Order of the Shadows sounded like madness, even to Davir. "That woman knows your origin."

"She's already provided enough information on that."

"You're not being serious."

A loud crackled resounded from behind. They watched the cabin disappear under the weight of the flames that engulfed it. "Come on," Davir urged the heir to his feet and wrapped an arm around his shoulder with a firm hold. "Stop spewing rubbish. We must go. How long to reach the domain on foot?" Davir asked. The heir remained silent. "I thought this time you had the slightest idea of what you were brewing. I beg the Spirits you do it again, by leading us back to the royal domain. Maybe I should ask you not to. That hat seems to be how to motivate you to do something."

"I didn't escort you here with a knife to your throat," the heir retorted. "I had your agreement. Still, you attempted to screw me over by consulting the soothsayer alone, you bastard's excrement. If we had entered the hut together, perhaps we could have avoided almost being burned to death."

Davir sighed. He found himself admittedly cornered. "The soothsayer is too dangerous for us now, she's off limits," he said. "Let's get out of here."

Heron pressed his wounded leg on the ground, hesitating as if everything could collapse beneath his feet. "Venom." He grimaced, failing to take a full step. "Two days on foot," he said. "It's impossible. Go ahead and come back with a horse. I'm not moving."

"Don't say rubbish. You know well if anything happens to you, I'll go from guard to the most dangerous criminal in Ceres." Davir forced the heir forward with a pull. They walked toward the southwest, hands vacant of the last Ceric coin, weapons, or pocket clocks. To track time, they had Davir's timestick cylinder only. For Davir it amounted to the same, he'd never get used to a wheel indicating the three periods of the day on the foreign circular gadget.

"You're too antiquated," was Heron's reply.

Deep in the forest, whenever Heron attempted to free himself from Davir for rest, Davir forced him forward, sometimes almost carrying his weight. When the heir was strangely quiet, Davir came to expect his stubbornness to manifest. As a sign that his pain was still bearable enough to allow him to remain conscious.

They aimed to reach the banks of the Eyrees, the nearest source of water before they could rest, but the heir's ill state forced him to halt sooner. They rested when the night fell.

"We'll find water in the morning," Davir gave in, helping him to sit. The shadows of the night already covered half of his face. Along with the dark, settled the cold, the sounds of the forest, and insects that crawled onto the skin faster than they could tell whether they were dangerous or not. They crouched by the base of a tree, a box of craters carved by roots and bark.

Davir took off what remained of his torn tunic. "You'll need it more than I will. It will get colder than this."

"You're never cold?" the heir asked. "I remember now you completely naked in the chapel during The Chill, and still I was the one shaking under two quilts. I feel daft I didn't understand what then."

"It's happened once, in the forest when we found the body. Along with the fear," Davir said, unsure if that matched the heir's sensation of cold. That cold had come with a terror that could be maddening if it had persisted. He felt cold too, whenever he touched the shadows, and when the soothsayer had manipulated them. "Although, it hadn't been fear and cold, rather cold fear."

"Cold fear," the heir mumbled. "What the soothsayer said was true?"

"I can't tell."

"What are the chances?"

Davir shook his head. "She knew my name. She knew who you were—"

"You are like her?"

Davir stared at the heir in silence, considering his response. What was there to hide now? If it hadn't been clear yet, it was certain now he had exactly one ally. It was far better than none. Specially considering the resources an alliance with the heir was bound to provide him. "I am," he said. "I am like her."

"You have been reading into my mind all this time?" the heir's facial expression bordered a grimace. As usual, fearing things terribly, still pushing himself to do them. Only this time, he couldn't hide his apprehension.

"No," he said. "I perceive general states. You can't hide anger from me, but I can't see into your thoughts— not yet."

"Yet?"

Davir chuckled and shrugged. "I don't think I can't do that, honestly."

"I'd asked you if you had any inclination to the supernatural before we entered the forest," the heir said.

"Well, I lied to you. I'm plunging into an abyss with a candle. You must be familiar with lying to protect yourself," Davir said, silence ensuing. "You were right I tried to keep you from entering the hut to keep you away from the truth. It would have been safer for us to remain together. I apologize. I know you are alone too. Perhaps it's time we consider seeing each other as allies, instead of pawns to attain our objectives."

"Perhaps it's time, yes," the heir said. "I am ready to disregard your past regardless of what comes from it."

Davir nodded. Unsure the heir understood the full meaning of his words.

"Swear to the Ancients you will never invade my mind again," Heron demanded.

"I won't swear on that," Davir said. "But I give you my word I'll refrain from it unless it's necessary."

Heron wrapped the ripped tunic around his neck, like a scarf. "Feel free to take it back if you suddenly start feeling cold," he said, "like the rest of us."

The rough bark against their backs made for an uncomfortable shelter. The cage-like hole forced them to sit facing each other, their limbs casing together. The bark offered them a barrier ahead, useful if some famished animals that could trace their smell wandered nearby.

"How does one fall asleep in this?" Heron complained, budging to adjust his position to better withstand the roughness of the bark behind him.

"Different from what you are used to, I suppose."

"A little, yes," Heron said. "I believe it's the white curtains that are missing."

"You slept crouched against a wall the night a met you. For a noble, you're well versed at sleeping in inappropriate places, it seems."

"It should be blasphemy to compare the third small chapel of the domain with this," Heron said. "We were in known territory. And the Spirits were there with us. We're lost here."

"All understanding the Ancients are," Davir declaimed. "In their mercy thrive the meek and the yar. All zealous the Ancients are, should war break home or afar. In the dark evil may gnar..."

"Believe still, in Their presence, no evil can mar," Heron finished. "You know the old chants," Heron scoffed. "Endearing for a soldier. I don't believe I have ever seen a blue man sing a chant to the Ancients before."

"A soldier who doesn't recognize the Ancients is the worse type of heathen there is," Davir said, "we have the strength to serve the land. That's what's been decided in the Order of the Ancients."

"It seems you're a firmer believer than I am," Heron said.

"You either believe in the Onus of the Ancients, or you're a heathen."

"It's that simple for you? There's quite an amount of suffering, sometimes one wonders if The Ancients are there. And if they are, whether they bother enough."

Davir scoffed. "You were born a to be the next Monarch, my Lord." Heron fell silent. "The sun shine on you tomorrow," Davir said.

Upon the words, Heron grimaced with discomfort, adjusting his position to better withstand the bark again.

"You may lean against me," Davir suggested. "If you find it'll help you through the night."

Heron raised his gaze to Davir, lazily. He chuckled. "I'd rather not have body reacting inappropriately to that type of closeness. The sun shine on you," Heron said.

• • •

Both tiredness and thirst appeared to fade into the dark and the nocturnal sounds of the forest. But none of that seemed to be enough to put Heron to sleep even long before Davir had closed his eyes.

Heron had brought the soldier to the soothsayer because he suspected Davir could pose a threat. Davir bringing him to safety should have cleared his doubts about his intentions, but it was what they both ignored about Davir that didn't permit Heron to drop his guard. After all, Amyra had made her true motives known only a year after she'd stepped foot in the royal domain.

The thought that Davir had been brought from the Order of the Shadows, breaking the Purification of his Soul to bring to life again in the Order of the Physicals, haunted Heron with its absurdity. Yet Heron couldn't refute that. He had lied enough to himself.

Still, only the Ancients had the power to generate life from the Order of the Origin. The Trefoil of Souls dictated the realm of the living polluted a soul, and upon death purification intervened in The Order of the Shadows, agonizing yet necessary before the next incarnation. Fathoming what could have brought a dead man back to life exposed the insanity of the truth they'd been handed. Heron juggled the same thoughts in his mind incessantly, unable to sleep.

It was to the sound of a snarl ripping the air that Heron realized he had fallen asleep. He opened his eyes to the dark blue sky of dawn. A second snarl echoed in the distance. He stood with caution, shifting all his weight to his good leg and ignoring the pain the wound sent searing through his body. He peered past the small barrier of bark that lay ahead. Leaves and twigs vibrated and Heron cleared his throat.

The next snarl was dry, a prologue to fury and hunger. Heron steadied himself, his mouth dry. The canine maneuvered through the shrubs that lay ahead, its eyes as yellow as molten gold. Strong legs and powerful paws crushed dry twigs on their way, with nails sinking into dark sand. The beast's pelage was a deep black where light couldn't reach. Each step it took forward folded Heron's gut with nervousness further than he had thought possible.

The first time he had seen a wadog he'd been a boy, during the rut of hunting season near the Maleys border, north of the capital city. Entertaining Heron's childhood dream of becoming a hunter-athlete, his father had sent Heron to venture alone into the woods, despite his mother's apprehension. At eight years old, the excitement of catching his first white buck had led him to a wild dog.

It was as if the canine had smelled his naivety. A simple look of the yellow eyes, and even as a child he'd known he was prey. He'd never been quite certain whether the wadog had lunged for him. He had been dreading the sensation of sharp teeth strangling him and the next thing he knew was the beast's agonizing moans as it fought in vain against a spear that'd transpierced its neck.

His father had hugged him. Spirits! Don't tell your mother, won't you? his father had said before he pulled out the sharp piece, drawing a trail of blood on the ground that caused Heron's stomach to churn.

"Vixen's arse," Davir muttered from behind.

The shrubs vibrated again. A grey one came out of it. It sniffed the ground until it stood by the black's side. Then, another black, smaller in size, joined the pack. It was as if the spirit of the wadog his father had killed that day had followed Heron for revenge. Only now, his father and his protective spear weren't there.