I remember a story that was told to me, of a war that happened before my time. Where the people rose up against the Mad God, Veran, and toppled his reign over Arenoor; but that war paled in comparison to what came after. The victors declared that the use of mhyra, one of Veran’s gifts to humanity, forbidden. That by wielding the tainted source of his power, anyone practicing spellcraft contributed to his resurgence. What started as a prohibition, escalated to prejudice, and eventually the systematic removal of anybody and anything touched by magic. Casters across the land met their end by rifle; those that didn’t go down fighting went into hiding or outright fled to more tolerant shores, others willingly chose subjugation.
When I experienced my awakening, my heart was not overwhelmed by fear, but set ablaze with fierce outrage. A storm of anger and betrayal toward a nation that dared to condemn me for simply being who I am. Where I was expected to either submit in silence or run away, with no voice, no say—like my existence was something to be erased. My awakening was a declaration that I will stand tall, unbroken. A promise I would not be chased out of the home I was born into.
Blair’s eyes stayed shut as footsteps pounded down the hall outside. Around the room, the others were gathering what little they had—not that three days were enough to amass much. The door flung open, spilling daylight into the storeroom. Even with the brightness filtered by their eyelids, Blair winced before a hand clasped their shoulder and shook them.
“Blair, you all need to get out of here.” Lahcen’s voice was hushed despite the rising panic in the room. “Open that cabinet there," he directed to someone else, "it will lead outside.”
Blair opened their eyes and sat up in a smooth motion. They looked to the Boscolan man, this foreigner showed them more humanity than their own countrymen. The man nodded to them and maintained a calm, fatherly air as he rose to help the others escape. Elsewhere in the house, glass shattered and someone screamed. Lahcen turned to the door as shouts rose from the other rooms.
Another hand gently grabbed Blair’s arm and tugged on them. Rue looked at Blair with fearful, pleading hazel eyes. The pair stood together and made their way to the stout cabinet affixed to the wall before kneeling to crawl through the opening inside. Blair turned back to Lahcen, who stood at the doorway with his back to them. “Thank you, Lahcen.” Blair said before crawling after Rue.
Out in the open air, shouts rang out as people scattered in varying directions—the rule was to never group up when escaping. Blair grabbed Rue’s hand and they ran towards the tree line. They didn’t look back at the farmhouse; chances were that the barn was the first to be searched. A crack rang out through the air, followed by another. Virgins were usually eager and couldn’t focus on a singular target. Blair and Rue stayed low as they reached the dense forest. Rue broke away from Blair and rounded a tree. The girl of seventeen winters panted “Wait, Blair. I just—” then started dry heaving.
Blair stood next to her glancing around the tree to monitor the clearing. It didn’t look like anybody was following, but they weren’t going to take any chances. “Are you good to keep going?” They asked softly. “I won’t make you run.”
Rue slowed her breathing. “Yeah, but if we have to, I will.”
Farther into the woodlands, the sounds of branches snapping caught their attention. Blair grabbed Rue and led her away from the commotion. “Panicky idiots are going to get us all killed.”
“Who do you think it is?” Rue asked.
“Somebody who clearly wants to be picked off by a virgin.”
“But if there were virgins, that must mean there weren’t any Beholden, does it?”
Blair muttered. “I wouldn’t count on that small mercy.” Rue did bring up a good point with the mage hunters. It was probably a couple of wardens supervising a bunch of virgins based on how uncoordinated it appeared. There likely wasn’t a traitorous mage accompanying them, but Blair didn’t last this long on the run making baseless assumptions.
The two crossed through a creek when a whisper rose above the running water. “Blair, Rusuuz!” Blair whipped around to see a lanky, middle-aged man wading through the water; his trousers were soaked. “I thought that might have been you!” He whispered exuberantly.
“Guspare!” Rue exclaimed quietly. “Where have you been? I thought they got to you!”
“Was that you making all that racket?” Blair accused.
Gus sheepishly stepped out of the creek, dripping onto shrubs and rocks. “As much as I like you all, the lavatory only provides so much solitude when you have to share it with a dozen people.”
“Lahcen is probably dead.” Blair announced. “He made sure that we were able to get out.”
Gus grimaced as he planted his hands on his hips. After a moment’s pause, he uttered “Guess we better get going, we owe him that much.” He stepped past them. “We should stop by the town and stock up.”
“Lake Clough is probably riddled with Bloodcloaks.” A man’s voice emerged from behind the three. A tall, grizzled figure stood at the bank of the creek. “They’ll probably be patrolling along the railway too. We’re better off chancing Gansberg.”
Blair wasn’t surprised in the slightest that Oziomon made it out of the raid. “I take it that you know the way, Oz?”
The former soldier had an errant shave-line from cheek to just above his jaw. He produced a compass and frowned at its face. “Southwest; we will need to move quickly.” He trudged through the waters to join them on their side of the creek. “I didn’t see any Beholden, but we should carry on as with the expectation that they’re tracking us.”
Gus squeezed water from his laden pant legs. “And from Gansberg?”
Rue opened her mouth to say something, but Blair tersely squeezed her hand and gave her a look. Now wasn’t the time for that suggestion. The surrounding trees filtered the echoed shouting; the four started moving in tandem.
“Doesn’t matter where.” Oz muttered. “Hasn’t mattered then, probably won’t now either.”
Blair scowled at Oz’s fatalism, but bit their tongue when Rue returned the earlier squeeze. They followed the man through the brush without another word; a distant pop barely pierced the natural ambience.
~
The village of Gansberg was barely more than a hamlet, a handful of buildings clustered around a river. Blair didn’t have to chastise Oz, an air of regretful frustration emanated from the man. Residents of smaller towns tended to be more perceptive of outsiders, especially if those outsiders wandered in from the wilderness looking worse for wear. Every decision was a gamble, depending on what gained more attention. Their collective arrival might rouse suspicion, as neither of them resembled one another and couldn’t pass as familial relatives. Trickling in was risky without knowing how much foot traffic Gansberg saw in a day. The most appropriate option was to send one in of them to gather whatever they could.
“How much do you three have between you?” Gus asked as he pulled out the linings of his pockets. “I didn’t have anything on me when it happened.”
Blair made it a habit long ago to always have flux on them. They fished the notes out of their own pocket and counted fl4 in front of the others. Rue held up a lone piece of silver, higher than Blair was comfortable with. Oz carried a fl5.
“Nine flux isn’t going to get us very much.” Blair announced, lowering Rue’s hand. “And silver in a small town is louder than thunder.”
“I can probably finesse some modest rations.” Gus offered. “Especially if I—”
“Not a chance.” Oz interjected. “You should conserve your mhyra.” He looked to Blair. “This one’s better suited for something like this.”
They huffed as they held their hand out to Oz. “If things go south, you get her out of here and as far away as possible.” Oz remained expressionless has he handed off the currency. “I want you to promise.” Blair reiterated.
“Blair, it’s fine.” Rue soothed. “We’ll be waiting right here.”
Blair’s brow furrowed as they walked past Oz and Rue. Backtracking to take the road in would have been the smarter approach, but they didn’t have the luxury of time. A deep overcast blanketed the skies throughout their trek through the forest; carrying the threat of rain. Fortunately, a field of heirloom wheat gave Blair enough cover to walk toward Gansberg without being easily noticed, but it didn’t make it look like they were sneaking around either. Nobody paid them any mind, not even a second look.
Gansberg didn’t have a traditional town square—probably didn’t have electricity either, given how far into the sticks it was. Blair worried that any wandering would stand out, but the fragrance of fresh baked bread gave them the direction they needed. Whether it was a bakery or a public house, there was an opportunity for food. The only issue Blair could foresee was having to explain walking out with a generous amount that was clearly more than one person was capable for one sitting, especially one with their dainty frame.
The smells grew stronger, which also attracted some of the locals. Blair grimaced as they worked their way around the crowd. After running through woodlands throughout the day, a lingering rank blended with musty sogginess was inevitable. Blair counted themselves fortunate that fieldworkers congregated into the queue, maybe they could pull this off without incident. With that possibility in mind, Blair kept their head down and followed suit with the chatting locals.
A nearby bell rang in two quick successions, silencing the crowd. Blair froze at the implications, but dared not ask what the significance was.
“Didn’t think that word got out so quickly!” A man close by guffawed.
The man behind Blair added. “Must be the mail carrier coming in from Lake Clough.”
The woman standing in front of them turned around with a raised eyebrow. “This late in the day?” She briefly made eye contact with Blair and frowned before a cacophony directed their attention. Children broke away from the crowd to get a better look. Blair slowly released the breath they held before the sight made them catch it once more. A small procession entered the main drag; several locals grouped around two men on horseback.
The one leading the petite parade was adorned in armor, resting upon his pauldrons was a crimson mantle. Strapped to his back was a longbarrel, the weapon favored by mage hunters of the Zherrai-Myr. Bloodcloaks. Blair turned to face them, knowing full well that shying away was akin to admission. The people around Blair excitedly called out to the Zherrai-Myr agents. Small populations were the first to buy the extravagantly hateful propaganda wholesale, Blair could only imagine the eggshell-covered streets of larger cities like Sagerholm or New Arelyn.
“Gansberg welcomes you, Warden Ailgric!” a boisterous voice rose above the hubbub.
The warden of the realm, a silver haired man with a deceitfully youthful face—clearly no stranger to a sound sleep—waved to the people with a sickening humility. Joining him was a much younger man, markedly lacking the Myr’s signature cloak. He’s no older than Rue or myself. Blair clenched their teeth while keeping a flat affect.
“What brings you to this neck of the woods?” Asked a man who must have been a stable worker based on his ease handling their horses.
“They finally heard how magical the mersu pinwheels are!” Shouted the man from earlier to a rousing laughter.
“Young Callum here is an Ascendant.” The warden declared, nodding to his junior.
The younger man sheepishly grinned as he stepped down from his mount. “If things keep on the way they did this morning, I might not earn my mantle before my twentieth winter.”
Blair dug their nails into their palms. The bloodcloak is awarded to ascendants who have killed seven casters; yet these men spoke of it so trivially as though they were discussing a birthday gift. It was appalling how the widespread practice became socially acceptable across Arenoor. Older agents of the Zherrai-Myr were dangerous because of their experience; virgins were equally as dangerous as they had something to prove.
“Which is why I recommend that you don’t shirk your drills.” The Bloodcloak advised. “You’d have two capes if you improved your aim.” That got a few chuckles from the crowd.
“You’d have a dozen if you had a Beholden.” A woman added. Blair bristled at the moniker.
The Bloodcloak scoffed. “Truly; it’s a shame that penanced mages so few and far between. The rot of Veran runs deep, but we don’t need such services for routine patrols.”
Callum’s expression became solemn, hardening his youthful features. “In a perfect world, there would be more casters willing to undergo propitiation. I might not earn my wardenship, but there wouldn’t be a need for it either.”
Blair’s neck grew hot as they struggled to maintain their composure. Not only was this virgin advocating that Blair and others like them openly embrace being chattel, but the sincerity in his voice made it all the worse. He truly believed that casters were better off relinquishing their autonomy to continue living not as a second or third-class citizen; but as something permanently lesser—a tool used to hunt their own. I’d rather die. A sentiment shared by countless practitioners of spellcraft, and those misfortunates accused with no evidence. I’d sooner be fed to their purifying pyre.
“Nevertheless, Gansberg will not be known for disrupting official business!” A prominently-dressed man announced as he approached the Bloodcloaks. “To the front of the line, we insist!” He ushered the men along as the crowd voiced their approval.
Blair slipped away from the collective and made their way back to the wheat field. There was no knowing if the Bloodcloaks would linger, better to retreat empty-handed than risk confrontation. Besides, the appearance of the Zherrai-Myr stirred the villagers and Blair didn’t want to stand out as an outsider.
“Stop right there!” A croaky voice rounded behind them.
Blair slowed their gait but didn’t stop. Several children ran shouting and laughing shrilly. A boy followed the group, a small branch in his hands and a burgundy scarf trailing from his neck, as well as another trail.
“You’ll never escape the Zherrai-Myr!” bellowed the playacting Bloodcloak, completely unaware that his movement—probably his presence alone—disturbed the latent mhyra around him.
Blair watched the morbid enactment of the boy 'shooting' the fleeing children with a dulled indifference. Kid, if only you knew how hard your words will come back to bite you. If the child was lucky, he’d live out the rest of his life without an awakening—or at least long enough before a Bloodhound sniffs him out. Nothing that Blair could do about it; they had enough on their figurative plate, even if their literal plate was empty. It wouldn’t be the first night Blair was hungry and on the run, but there were three other mouths to contend with. Especially without a gracious Boscolan farmer to… Can’t focus on that, just need to get as far away as possible.
Their eyes stung at the acknowledgement that has been the mantra for nigh ten years, Blair could barely remember what a life with stability felt like. Better than the alternatives. They reaffirmed through the echoed words of the virgin’s dream. Passing through the tree line, shapes peered around the trees deeper within the forest. As they got closer, Blair could see the disappointment in the men’s faces, but Rue gave them a reassuring smile. Despite all of this, I’m luckier than most.