2412, Strilaxis 8, Daleth

Marin shuffled behind the group, drawing her oversized cloak around herself. At least thirteen other people marched with her, following a tall woman with an oversized turban around her head. The stringent tapping sounds of the end of her cane against the grass were the only thing keeping Marin on her toes, as well as telling her how many steps has it been since they emerged into the other side of the malleable marker.

Now that's a surreal experience, something Marin hasn't seen in all her life. Cardina did little to prepare her for the vastness of the things she had yet to encounter. It was also the last thing she expected to happen after the flow of things from the past few days.

It started innocently enough. Marin left the Temple of Magic with a heaviness in her heart—something she couldn't replace in a million years. With only the guidance of the moons during the cold nights and the sheets of white clouds during the scorching days, she eventually made it to a clearing with three diverging paths, each leading elsewhere. Upon siddling close to the brightly-dressed merchants lounging under the shades of the canopies, she learned the paths went to three different cities in different territories, all known to be populated by fairies.

Daunting, Marin thought before, but she didn't have any other choice. The only fairy she ever met was Xanthy, and that woman got Marin's father killed. If she has to brave into a territory full of them, she'd brave it, if it's to get her father back.

She hadn't really thought about it before she left, and as she trudged through the shady forests at the outskirts of the Royalty region, she plotted her steps and came up with nothing. That time, the plan was to wander around until she hit something, preferably with favorable chances of her realizing her goal.

The merchant back then advised her to go to Helinfirth, particularly Rabante. With it being a livelihood city, she'd be more fortunate to land a paying job there. "It's not easy for people like us," the merchant said, eyes trained on the silver ring around her finger. "Most of the time, we need to do more than anyone else just to get somewhere."

Marin had been through numerous purges and always managed to survive it, thanks to her father's wits. She knew every corner of what the merchant said. As a half-blood, all she had going for her in Cardina was delivering messages across the Commons as soon as she could walk and follow instructions. Her brother, Malin, was treated the same way.

She used to ask why her father let himself and his children be treated that way, but her father never gave her a straight answer. Now, she knew. It's because he's fulfilling another oath to a faraway concept, and whatever that was, it involved Xanthy and her strange magic. Virtakios, was it? Marin couldn't care less. It's what got her into this mess and took everything from her.

And what did Xanthy ever say to Marin? Sorry—as if that could undo everything they have been through and solve all their problems. It wouldn't, and Marin couldn't bear seeing Xanthy triumph here and there without acknowledging the fact that it was Marin's father who had to die to get her there.

The other paths would lead Marin to cities like Gulstead and Carcalet—things carrying little to no bearing in Marin's limited mind. The words almost blurred in her head, when the merchant explained the condition of the nearest territories from that diverging clearing. Was Gulstead in Lanteglos and Carcalet in Carleon? She didn't know. Forgot about it already. The second choice made sense, since both names started with the same three letters.

She ended up going to Carcalet. The idea of slaving away under keiju masters didn't appeal to her and wouldn't start for eternity. After being chased out by the weirded-out looks from elaborately-dressed fairies though, Marin fled to a neighboring city called Nanvera. That one, while being filled to the brim with towering establishments and grand architecture, didn't bother with a small fry like her in its streets. She even managed to steal a cloak from a drying rack left out in the sun. Never mind if it was several sizes bigger. If she had the money, she'd buy herself the nicest cloak and dress ever.

But she had to survive in the new city, and to do that, she had to eat. Nobody told her the prices in Nanvera was deathly sky-high, with it being a tourist drop-off point and all. She had to gouge up the last of her savings made from working under that pretentious noble, Vikara Sandiega, just to purchase a set of fairy potions.

Back in Cardina, she hasn't had much luck with procuring those items. Every meal had to be something solid, cooked to the bone and stored into clay pots for the next day. Malin used to complain about that practice, but Marin learned to stuff hers down. Nothing would get better even if she opened her mouth, so she learned to never do it.

But what a joy was it to discover she could eat a meal that'd help her last for days on end. The fairy potions she bought in Nanvera were still with her leagues away and in yet another territory, and for her, it's the best deal ever. Maybe this was why fairies had so much time in their hands. They simply didn't need to eat three times every single day. They didn't have to cook, and yes, they didn't have to shoot, catch, and peel the skins of their meals.

With her food concerns solved, she moved on to the next part of her goal—to figure out a way to get information on how to resurrect the dead and bring her father back. Xanthy told everyone it's impossible, but what did she know? They both grew inside the restrictive borders of Cardina. None of them knew any better.

And if Xanthy could learn what she was through tomes, Marin could figure out how to contact and raise a soul from the depths of the Land of Wonders through them too.

She just had to find out where said resources lay.

Which brought her to the humble abode of a tavern. She looked out of place when she sat on a stool and pretended to be interested in the drink she bought for herself. Alcohol was something her father stressed the importance of surviving without. It'd just smooth her versallis out, leaving her with nothing but an addiction and an empty pocket.

But Marin needed it for her covert mission, because she couldn't afford to get thrown out. Not while the conversation in the nearby table turned more and more interesting. Two grown men dressed in dusty work clothes grumbled with each other, wishing their lives and jobs were better. The one on the left said, "I wish I have a hundred kalta selme. The big ones!" He added a circle made by his hands. "That'd set me up for life."

"Why not double the amount?" His friend suggested, taking a sip out of his cup. "The gods might hear you today, and it'd suck if you're only given a hundred. You know, you gotta milk every grace Calaris had to spare."

"Bah, I'd go to that shoddy business instead." The man waved a hand in front of his face. "At least, the promises of fulfilling our wishes looked more valid since we can see them and wring their necks if they fail to deliver."

"A business of granting wishes?" Marin interjected, unable to stop herself anymore. The two men, startled beyond measure at the appearance of a half-blood child in the middle of a tavern, whipped towards her with wide eyes and parted lips. "Tell me all you know about it."

As if forced by a petulant child, the men told her about Trisa Sarthra, a woman in the haze of hearing out people's deepest desires and acting upon it. They gave her a series of directions and what to say, but the one in Marin's left gave her one last piece of warning: "Don't ever trust anyone there," he said, leaning close in a sort of conspiratorial whisper. "Trust only in the leader, the one who is above everyone."

Marin wondered if the man had been inside whatever that business was, and if so, how was he able to get out. She wasn't a fool. There were similar cults in the Commons who willed nothing but to take people's versal and run off into the night.

But she'd take a chance, a risk. That's what brought her to a stately manor in the corners of Nanvera, almost to the border of Dwanzeig and another city called Thenaserine. After hollering at the gates, she was eventually let in. There, she met Trisa Sarthra in the flesh, and Marin wished she had never.

The woman had an intimidating flare, with her rigidly-straight back, tapered cane, gilded turban, and the silver-rimmed spectacles resting on her nose. She bore the face of a young adult fairy, but Marin wasn't taking chances. Trisa was probably ages more ancient than Marin. Not that Marin was around for an amount of time worthy of mentioning.

Trisa took one look at Marin, golden eyes sharp behind those spectacles. A prickling sensation settled on Marin's skin. It's like the woman had sized Marin up, made the decision, and declared her fate—all in a split second. Finally, after a period of silence, Trisa stood up and dragged Marin into a separate room, muttering under her breath, "You'll do."

It was history from there. In the next few days, Marin was shuffled from place to place, meeting more and more people picked up at several estates. Eventually, they were stuffed inside a dagrine-drawn cart and brought to the edges of another territory called Desara. It's where a fairy sub-race called water sprites dwelled, and when Marin disembarked the cart, her jaw dropped.

Desara was paradise. With its lush groves of tall trees with orange fronds rustling with the humid but salty breeze, the endless expanse of ecru sand, and the stretch of the blue sky unhindered by canopies—it was easily the best place Marin had been to. Her father would never believe where she was.

Like lemper following in a shepherd's wake, Trisa had them file into a single queue. The next thing they knew, they were instructed to walk straight into a boulder. Long after the thrill of seeing what's supposed to be hard rock ripple against her skin, they followed the elegant woman deeper into this spacious expanse of tents and grass.

Now that Marin thought about it—it's like a different world hidden behind their own, a space meant for select people chosen by people like Trisa Sarthra.

Trisa snapped her fingers, stealing all of their attention. They approached the biggest and most colorful tent in the sea of bland others. "Each of you will enter in the Heiress' presence," she explained. "Behave accordingly. It will not be our fault if you get zapped to death if the Heiress found your attitude unfavorable."

The rest of the recruits bristled as one. Marin considered going back to the entrance and fleeing, but she stood her ground. This was the only way she found to get what she wanted. Of course, she'd go with it, all the way through.

"Marin Draswist," Trisa called, making every set of eyes turn to her. "You're first. Go."

The tent flap rose as Trisa yanked it up. Marin chewed on her lip, but scurried into the tent's shadow. An oppressive force settled on her shoulders, and she couldn't shake the feeling of her every movement being watched. She gritted her teeth and straightened her back. Whatever this was, she'd brave it. For her father. For Malin too.

"Draswist," a silky voice flitted into Marin's hearing. She whirled to find another woman seated behind a cluttered desk, dark eyes trained towards her. "You've got a beautiful name."

Marin has yet to be used to all the accents in the keiju territories, but her ears perked up at the slightest hint of the Ylanenla accent lacing around the woman's words, even though they're in Keijula. Whoever this woman was, she has roots in Cardina. In the Nobility and Royalty region, maybe. A number of nuances in how she worded her statement only made sense if she translated from Stolyala—a sub-dialect of Ylanenla spoken mostly in the more sophisticated regions of Cardina—-to Keijula.

"Thank you..." Marin twiddled with her thumbs, unsure how to address the woman.

"I am the Heiress," the woman answered, catching the slightest shift of uncertainty in Marin's tone. They wouldn't have problems communicating, then. This woman seemed to know everything about her already. "You may address me as Heiress, or if you're feeling fancy, the Ancient Keijula equivalent—Peredeira."

Marin would stick with the word she could pronounce, then. "Thank you, Heiress," she said, ducking her head at the woman. "I got it from my father."

The Heiress hummed. The rigid bun of the blandest brown hair Marin had ever seen bobbed when she turned from Marin to the sheaves of parchment scattered over her desk. Some trinkets and mechanized systems even vanished under the same storm.

"I assume that's why you're here?" she said, grabbing a quill from a half-consumed bottle of ink. She scrawled a few squiggles into the first sheet. "To have a wish granted; something concerning your father..." She took a sharp breath before tilting her head at Marin, as if she's utterly curious about something. "How is he, anyway?"

Air knocked out of Marin's lungs in a strangled gasp. What's her deal? If she knew, if Trisa already poured every information to her, why was there a need to ask? "He's...dead, Heiress," Marin rasped, her insides curling upon the untimely reminder. "I've come to hear your terms about the fulfillment of my wish."

A passive look stretched the Heiress' features. "Oh," she quipped, turning back to the document she's been writing. "Do you wish to bring his soul back?"

Marin's teeth ground against each other, but she forced herself to blurt, "Yes, I do."

"And I'm the only solution you can come up with?" The Heiress cocked an eyebrow despite her head ducked over the parchment. "What other ways have you tried?"

Marin pursed her lips. This woman had a unique talent of making people who faced her feel stupid and insignificant. "I would be after any information regarding how to raise the dead," she said. "But I'd rather have my wish fulfilled when I can."

"A short cut, then," the Heiress concluded, scratching a quick loop of squiggles at the bottom of the page. A signature? The parchment crinkled when she guided it to the fold she wished. "Is that what you see me as?"

"N-No, Heiress," Marin amended. All her life, she had cowered against similar nobles—people who had their heads high up in the clouds, believing they're more important than anyone else. This was nothing new. "I just...wish to have a father again. He was forcefully taken from me, and I'm not ready. I never would be."

The Heiress' nail whipped across the parchment's first fold, sealing it with a sort of finality that spooked Marin. "Death is not something you can prepare for," she said. "It's not something you can cheat, either. No magic will be able to raise the dead."

"Not even you?" Marin challenged. She's not ready to call this insanely long process a waste.

An amused chuckle flitted out of the Heiress' nostrils. "I like you," she said. "You've got some spunk. And wit."

She leveled her gaze at Marin. Even standing a few paces away, Marin felt it pierce her entire being. Maybe the Heiress could see her soul too. "You're right in that regard, though," the Heiress continued. "Magic will not be able to raise the dead, but I can."

"With what power, Heiress?" Marin ventured.

The woman smiled. "Something greater than what your little brain can comprehend," she said. Then, she folded her hands together, resting her elbows on her desk. "Now, shall we talk about the terms?"

"We shall," Marin said. "Tell me what I need to do."

"You will follow everything I tell you to do, even if it's to kill a person, a family, or an entire race. If I tell you to hang yourself into the next tree, you will. Without question," The Heiress said. "It's the only requirement I need you to swear into."

A huge lump formed in Marin's throat. "What sort of things would you have me do?" she asked. "Just so I can prepare for it. Maybe train myself or something."

The Heiress' eyes glinted. "I have just the job for you," she said. "I'm sure you'd do well in it."

Marin opened her mouth to ask more questions, but the Heiress waved a hand in the air and beat her to it. "Welcome to Cardovia, little one," she said. "I have high expectations."

"And I won't fail you, Heiress," Marin tucked her hands close to her gut and bowed. Pride swelled in her chest. Look at her, talking to powerful women and living to tell the tale. Her father would be proud. Maybe.

"Dismissed," the Heiress said in a flippant tone.

Marin retreated out of the tent flap, where Trisa gave her a side-eye. "Oh, you lived," the stately woman muttered under her breath before barking out the next name to stand in trial at the Heiress' presence.

Hours and several introductions later, Marin collapsed on top of a mattress in one of the tents assigned just for her and one other woman. "Dear gods, I'm beat," she said, stretching her neck here and there.

"I've forgotten how hectic it was for the new recruits," the woman who shared a tent with her replied, tucked under the covers of her mattress. A river of light green hair spilled from her head and all over her square pillow. "I'm Ilya."

"Marin," she answered. "How long have you been here?"

Ilya switched to her side to reveal a pointed ear sticking out of her head. "Long enough to realize the mess I brought upon myself," she said.

Marin knitted her eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

"Do you think Cardovia is some goody-toes organization focused on making the world a better place?" Ilya scoffed. "You're more delusional than I thought."

"I can't care less about the world," Marin replied. It's all crap, anyway. "I'm here to get my wish fulfilled."

Ilya scrunched her nose. There's no pleasing this girl. "We all are," she said. "And how many of us have ours fulfilled? None."

Marin was about to lurch towards the girl's mattress and pull her covers off, when Ilya flashed her a flat look. A smile stretched the girl's lips open, but she wasn't happy. Wasn't even the slightest bit amused. It was a smile of hopelessness and regret. "Cardovia is not your ally. It is your master," Ilya said. "It's only going to take some time before you realize for yourself what we are."

With that, Ilya grunted and rolled away, showing Marin her back. It's like she's asking Marin to plunge a knife into her back to end some sort of suffering. Marin followed her example and tucked herself to sleep. Before her consciousness faded to black, she had one last thought.

Ilya was wrong. Marin would never be corrupted, and she would get what she wished for—gods be damned.