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Some nights in the seemingly endless forests of the Midland it's too cold for sleep. Perhaps I could curl closer to the fire, draw the extra fur around my shoulders. But most nights the cold has settled so deeply into the marrow of my bones that I know small scraps of warmth won't matter.

My nightmares begin to stir, reliving those desolate nights in the snow with my brother's blood still a picture etched into the backs of my eyelids. When I was alone in these haunted forests for the first time of my life.

The frigid air brings me back to the streets of Warroll, looking longingly at the kids wrapped around each other, warm together while I settled my back against the icy brick and watched for a knife or claws in the shadows, kept awake by a need for constant vigilance after what I sacrificed to earn mine and Dax's places within that crumbling shelter.

When I wake from those restless sleeps, I'm reminded that I'm alone, following a path carved jaggedly through the trees, no one to watch over me and no one to watch over.

The journey is far from easy, but I've grown accustomed to rocky paths and living nightmares. At least my path is now paved with less uncertainty. The directionless road is suddenly pointing somewhere. So, I keep my footing steady, careful not to stray from that path, knowing the madness that awaits me if I do.

Sitting up, I stare at the flickering orange coals that have become of my fire, the ashes swept away by the cutting winds that make the trees creak and groan. I splay my fingers over the wood, curling them. Then I breathe in, the slight smell of smoke that lingers in the air filling my lungs.

I don't focus on pain or hurt or anger. I focus on what I know is within me, the flame in my veins, flickering below my skin like a candle in the dark. It's there, all I need to do is coax it out of me.

I taste it on my tongue, smoke and char, a power uncanny. I want to pass my fingers through it, have it wash over me in a deep wave. I want to be consumed by that energy, feel it like the pulse in my throat.

My fingers tingle with it, a crackle deep in my bones, a snap of a whip in the hollow of my chest. It bubbles and froths, it thirsts and hungers. It cups my face and draws the breath from my lungs and replaces it with its own air, an air of vigour, a potent cloud that crawls through me.

Light engulfs me and the fire gathers in my palm. I send the flame into the wood and it catches, trickling warmth over me.

For a moment I can marvel at that power, the certainty it brings me that I'm not weak. This energy belongs to me and only I can control it, direct it, wield it to whichever whims I want.

Then I lurch over to the side and spill my guts onto the forest floor, sickness gripping my insides and twisting. As I blink the sudden tears from my eyes, I see splotches of blood in the sick.

I wipe my mouth, kick dirt over the evidence, and turn back to the fire.

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Blood splatters my cheek, searing and sizzling, burning my flesh. I wipe it away with a huff of breath that fogs in the air before driving the blade down again, slicing through thick skin and tendons before reaching bone. I heave the blade through the spine before tearing away the head, throwing it over my shoulder, it makes a wet thud against a tree.

I wipe the black blood from my blade onto the grass before sheathing it again. Then I summon my powers, letting the flame consume the demon before me in a crackle of noise and foul stench.

I wait for the sickness to roll through me like a frothing wave, making my vision waver and my hands tremble. Swallowing, I taste blood and bile on my tongue but it's becoming easier to ignore, though no less awful.

This isn't the first group of spindly, red-skinned, black-blooded demons I've faced in these woods and it certainly won't be the last. The demons are scattered all across this path, the Legion of the Dead's supply lines unavailable to me now that I don't have their token. And I won't risk being captured, knowing there are still those out there who crave a power like mine.

Pressing my hand to my gut, I will the queasiness away. But as I do, a sound reaches me; the crunch of wet leaves. I spin around but am too late to dodge the swipe and a clawed hand slams into my shoulder, knocking me to the ground. The demon is upon me before I can shake the stars from my sight, hunched over me with blackened teeth bared and saliva dripping from its jowls. It lunges as I shove a hand against its chest and rip the power out of me in a roaring burst of fire. Chunks of the demon fly into the air, splattering leaves and thudding on the ground.

Rolling to my feet, I watch the demon fall, a large cavity in its back, revealing its jagged and twisted spine.

Something hot drips onto my lip and I lift my hand to touch it. My glove comes away glistening with blood. Then the dizziness rocks through me and I stagger forward a step.

That's as far as I make it before I collapse.

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Low light shifts behind my eyelids as I turn my head with a groan, my skull feeling like someone has stood on it.

"We need to stop meeting like this."

I peel my eyes open, squinting at the speaker who leans against the stone wall with muscular and sygil covered arms crossed over their chest. "Illya," I manage even as sick churns in the back of my throat.

"You look like shit, assassin."

"I feel like it too." Fingers curling in the furs beneath me, I attempt to summon the strength to sit up, but nothing comes.

Illya approaches, her thick brows marred with a frown. "You're not injured. Are you sick?"

I give a shake of my head.

"Could I assess you?" She holds out a hand, palm facing towards me, sygils wrapped around her fingers like vines. "To see what's wrong and if there's anything I can do to help?"

Eyeing her, I debate the proposal. Something is broken inside me and if Illya can fix it, my journey to Oranday will be much easier. I let out a breath and nod.

Illya kneels beside me as she traces a sygil on her palm. It ignites a pale white, stark against her near black skin, and she hovers her hand over my body, her frown deepening. "No sickness," she murmurs, tilting her head, her thick lips pursing. "No injury. But your body is weakening, degrading, like it's eating itself. I don't understand why. I don't know how to stop it."

I reach up and grasp her wrist, pulling her hand away from me to stop her assessment. Her words bring no comfort and all they do is confirm the things I've suspected. "How do you feel when you use magic?" I question anyway as she stands when I let go of her.

"Stronger. Awake and aware."

"No dizziness? Sickness? Coughing up blood?"

"None. Is that what you're experiencing?"

I turn my face away from her and settle my gaze on the cobblestone ceiling. "I wasn't born with magic in my blood like you."

"But you've used magic. I've seen it."

Blowing out a breath, I come to my own realisation and have no stomach to voice it. "Maybe Kitala's cold got to me. I'm sure I'll be fine in the warmer climate in Oranday."

Illya's large, dark eyes flick between mine, not believing a word I said. "Right," she mutters, shaking her head. "On that note, why haven't you been using the Legion's supply lines? You earned the token I gave you."

"Someone else needed it more than me."

"Charitable," she says with a sigh before she reaches into one of the pouches on her belt and produces another token. She sits it on my pack. "Don't give this one away. In your condition, you could use all the help you can get."

My condition. I press my lips together to resist curling them in distaste. Using my powers has always had a toll, but I had hoped the more I learned to control them, the better I could handle the sickness. But now it's clinging to every part of my body like tar. It sticks in my veins, clots under my skin, and even when I'm not wielding the flame, the hurt still remains.

These powers forced upon me are slowly killing me, and I fear that was what they were intended to do.

With the threat the gods laid at my feet, it doesn't matter if this twisted magic within me is slowly tearing my body apart, I don't have a choice but to continue being the weapon I was created to be.

"Oranday you said?" Illya continues as she leans against the wall again, her arms crossed over her leather-clad chest. "What awaits you there?"

"A fight, most likely. And hopefully a princess willing to lend a hand to the future endeavours of the rebellion."

"Rashida is bringing his allies together?"

"I haven't had contact with Rashida in months. I follow where the trouble takes me."

Snorting, Illya shakes her head. "Good to know that if I ever need you, I just have to find the nearest fight."

I grin, but the smile is quick to fade as I study Illya. I don't know how she came to be here, a woman amongst the ranks of the Empire, but her men are loyal and she dedicates her life to carving a safe passage through the Midland.
There aren't a lot of noble people in Rupteran and I'm certainly not one, but if I consider anyone noble, then it's Illya.

"There's a fight coming, Illya," I tell her. "A fight that a divided Rupteran won't be able to withstand. But I aim to unite us, strengthen us under a common cause. All of us."

"Who is the enemy?"

That's the question I've been warring with. If I aim to unite this land to fight the gods, then civil war isn't the answer, which is exactly what Palmira's actions will bring us to. She may very well help bring about our destruction in the hopes of stopping it.

But in fighting her, I may very well do the same thing.

"Your fight is against an army gathering," I tell her as I stand, planting a hand on the stone wall to prevent myself from collapsing as a wave of dizziness drenches me. I blow out a breath, squeeze my eyes shut, before opening them to look at Illya. "I don't know when they'll come, but I suggest you prepare."

"And your fight?" she asks, reading between the lines of my words.

Straightening as the dizziness passes, I will myself to have the strength to continue on. "I'm going to avenge a prince."