"What if it's a trap?" Wescherlie said.

Cypur stopped in his tracks. They were already at the log house, but he hadn't thought about that 'what if' or any 'what if'. That meant someone would have had to know he and Wescherlie were coming this way. Wescherlie had her hand on the door.

"Should we knock? Nah," she said and turned the knob, yanking it open. Inside was a little dining room with broken tables, chairs, and vines and grass growing through the windows or from beneath the floorboards. Didn't seem like anyone had lived here for a long time.

"Nobody home? Hello?" Wescherlie called as Cypur cautiously followed her in.

Creeping into the abandoned—hopefully—log house still felt like he was intruding on someone's property. Something creaked in the corner making him flinch, but it was just an opened windowpane loose on its hinges.

"You're a chicken, there's no one here." Wescherlie stood with her hands on her hips. The shadows in a room behind her seemed to move, but Cypur convinced himself it was just a play of the light.

"Not afraid. Just cautious." He crossed his arms and lifted his chin. "Sorcerers don't fear anything."

Except other Sorcerers, he added to himself.

"You know, I'm so hungry, I could eat a whole chicken all by myself." Wescherlie patted her stomach, ignoring him. "Famished. Makes me drool just thinking about it."

"Isn't that cannibalism if a Rauvuren eats chicken?" Cypur didn't want to think about food because he was also hungry, but what could they do? It was his Faud's fault. Good that it was out, but not good that it caused so much trouble for him.

Wescherlie looked out one of the broken windows. "Nothing. Just forest. Yeah, actually I always wondered about that. Do Asaves eat birds?"

Asaves were the bird type of Halfhumans. Rauvuren were considered a sub-specie of Asaves but since they were born with magick in their veins most of the Asaves population tended to think of Rauvuren as a separate specie from Asaves.

Cypur once read that Asaves tended to not eat birds because they thought it was disrespectful to their race and anthropomorphic ancestors. But that was centuries old information. Modern-day Asaves were notorious for stealing and suspected to live in an underground complex somewhere in the Second Ring.

Wescherlie wandered the dining room. Cypur saw the shadow in the kitchen move this time. That was it. He was going to get to the bottom of this.

"I'launna." He cast a light orb into the air and widened the glow. The kitchen was dusty, the sink was filled with fauna and dirt, a tree had broken through the window like an obnoxious thief. Another room cast off to the side led into a small walk-in pantry with bare and broken wooden shelves. Only a few cans rolled on the floor covered in dust and cobwebs.

"No ghosts?" Wescherlie was suddenly beside him, making him jump.

"Bastard! Don't sneak up on me!" he shouted. "And Sorcerers don't believe in ghosts." He returned to the dining room, huffing as he went. He hated that Wescherlie had been able to sneak up on him. The hunger made him unfocused. He could usually detect if someone with magick was close by.

Cypur checked other accessible rooms, shaking off that embarrassment that was creeping up on him. But the rest of the house had been invaded. A jungle of vines climbed up the walls and covered the ceiling. Twisting trees broke through the floorboards, lifting up the wood. There were also pale white mushrooms the size of his hand growing out from between the floor and wall. Probably poisonous.

This time, I feel you. He turned to Wescherlie, peering down at the mushrooms as she came in.

"So, if Sorcerers don't believe in ghosts, then what do they believe in?" Wescherlie asked. "When Rauvuren die, our ghosts go to the stars. Sometimes they're said to linger."

Cypur did know many Sorcerers would actually argue that ghosts were real. To them, ghosts were see-through post-dead citizens that wandered the world looking for revenge or just a place to rest so they could rise to the stars in peace. It was aesthetic ethics for some Sorcerers to believe that one would still wander the world after death.

But there were also Sorcerers that didn't believe in ghosts because, well, Sorcerers didn't die easily and when they did die, they just kind of evaporated. Although he didn't want to, Cypur had seen the deaths of two Sorcerers. That was the final death. 

Sorcerers, could, however, half die and it would take magick to fully revive their bodies. It wasn't resurrection so Sorcerers wouldn't be committing the sin of revival or resurrection magick which was forbidden. Sorcerers just needed to have their bodies reformed.

"Half souls," he said after giving a short explanation of half death, "most Sorcerers believe and know that after you die, you can become a half soul if it wasn't a complete death."

"So, you could be a Halfhuman with a Halfsoul after a Halfdeath?" Wescherlie giggled although he didn't find it funny.

"Yeah, Humans, too. But you have a time limit to be a half soul. If too much time goes by, you die."

"Sad," she said, although she didn't sound sad.

"It's sadder for death-sentenced criminals actually," he said, recalling something he read.

"We're having a morbid conversation," Wescherlie commented with a smirk, "How so is it sadder?"

Cypur pondered for a moment while he recalled the text. It had been a rather fitting thunderstorm day that he was in the Academy library reading about the various ways in which Sorcerers can die. He had decided that, as nearly immortal beings, he should how he could die if it ever came down to it and if he ever needed to be careful.

"Well, criminals sentenced to death, I heard, suffer longer because they execute only halfway. So, after the criminal becomes a half—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," she interrupted, waving her arms in the air, "Wait, a moment. Half execute sounds like a live corpse deal. How does one half execute someone?"

"Injure the Sorcerer in such a way they can't heal themselves but without killing them. I heard that some Sorcerers considered this an art form and even take classes and get trained to perfect it." He shuddered, saying it out loud. Occasionally there would be news about some criminal's half soul finally dying after so many decades of loneliness.

"Anyway," He continued in the face of Wescherlie's eager gaze, "being a half soul after half death means you can only interact with the one that half killed you. So, if the executioner isn't there to talk with you, it's pretty lonely until you just fade away. Half souls can talk to half souls but usually they're put in individual prison cells away from others. It can take at most up to thirty years for a half soul to finally die. No matter the magick level, I think."

Wescherlie stretched her arms up over her head, squinting her eyes up at the ceiling. "Damn. If I half die, Cypur, you have to half die with me, so I won't be lonely. Promise me."

He grimaced at her outstretched hand as a smirk played on her lips. "No one's going to die or half die, but fine." They shook hands on it, making a promise he knew they wouldn't have to keep.

A wailing sound pierced through the air. Cypur snatched his hand away and snuffed out his light.

"What was that? A half soul?" Wescherlie called as he went to the door and peered out.

It was suddenly evening, but understandable. There were rogue portals here and enough of them could cause the time to distort. He panned his gaze across the rippling water as it reflected a scarlet and indigo sky. Not only was it evening here, but it was also quickly morphing into nighttime. He squinted at the shore of the lake all the way down to the other end where they had come in from.

A breeze picked up, growing into a mighty wind that blew leaves and dirt into his face. Cypur turned his head and blocked it when he heard the wail again. Now he knew what it was—Scentaurs hot on the scent. The police had found their trail.

How in the name of the double moons? Teleportation doesn't leave magick trails. He chewed on his lip, realizing that maybe he didn't know as much about Scentaurs as he thought. He slipped inside, closing the door. They couldn't stay here.

But without the old lady, there was no way to get into Zarkentauf. It was a locked city with strict security. Not just anyone could go in.

Remembering the map and knowing where they'd come in from, Cypur realized they were close to Mevinmauderie. He didn't know anything about Mevinmauderie except that it was more of a middle-class city compared to his city, Cormeialette.

Maybe citizens are nicer. He wished he knew more citizens that were nice so he could go to them at a time of crisis like this. The only citizens he knew were those he disliked and that disliked him.

"Wescherlie," He said, "do you know anything about Mevinmauderie?"

"Maybemomdaddy?" she said, and he rolled his eyes, rubbing his forehead while she cocked her head as if she didn't just severely butcher the name. So, it was up to him to decide.

On an empty stomach. He sighed and turned to face her when the wailing sounded right outside the door. They both jumped at the same time and at that moment, something forced itself out of Cypur making him gasp for breath. Pain shot through his body. Heat blazed into his face. Squealing sounds rang in his ears and he couldn't hear anything else.

Burnt wood scents filled his nose. Sweat dripped into his lips. He crumbled to the floor. All he could see was a blur of blue or white water magick that did little to squelch the wall of golden flames. When Cypur closed his eyes, he saw what his Faud was seeing. 

The terror-filled faces of Sorcerers looking up at his Faud, a towering lizard-like beast. The Sorcerers were shooting water magick and anything else they could think of, but nothing hurt the Faud. The Faud burned them all in gold flames. They were actually dying, evaporating, and no half souls lifted into the sky.

Stop. Stop it. Cypur thought desperately as a sudden gust of air blew into his face sending a chill up his spine. He opened his eyes in time to see the canopy of a forest below him. His legs dangled as someone gripped him under his armpits. When he closed his eyes again, he saw Sorcerers at mercy of this beast of a Faud with only the single goal of destruction.

"Cypur Cromlight is a danger to our society. Capture him!" The ordering yell of the policewoman sent Sorcerers into the air. Another gust of wind pushed Cypur away from the forest, just seconds before his feet met the tops of trees.

"Fluezen! Fluezen!" came Wescherlie's desperate cry from above his head. A few black feathers fell before his face. Was she flying? With a broken wing? Another dangerous drop was met with another gust of wind pushing them upwards and along. 

The last stretch of forest was before them. He could see a brick-laden path ahead. Sorcerers stopped to point, gawking at the sight and then behind them. The wail of the Scentaurs and the squeal of Cypur's Faud filled the air.

"There they are! Excuse me, it will be death to you, Cypur Cromlight. Mass murderer!"

"Fluezen! Please!" Wescherlie screamed, gripping him harder.

The ground was nearing fast again but a breeze pushed them on. They passed gatherings of two-story houses, then one-story houses built farther apart from each other, and finally they burst out into a field dotted with bovine and other cattle. They ran away, startled as Cypur and Wescherlie began to fall towards them.

Cypur squeezed his eyes shut, but it was worse. His Faud crashed through the forest, squealing and breathing golden flames at anything in its way. It stopped briefly before a Sorcerer policeman who had brandished a sword.

Stop, please. Cypur pleaded, but it wouldn't listen. It breathed golden flames on the Sorcerer who died instantly, evaporating into the air. His magick was a murderer and he could do nothing to stop it. It was hopeless. They would be captured. Dead end. And for him, maybe even death.

"Fluezen!" Wescherlie cried, but the wind gust was weak. They were falling. "Oh, starlights," She winced, "Just—oh!"

Something tugged at his chest, like a rope pulling taut. Then, it snapped. Golden magick burst from his body with such force that it blurred his vision, and he went limp. As darkness slipped into his vision, he lost all sense of touch. Was Wescherlie still here? Were they captured?

Why won't it listen? He thought as his Faud squealed in his ear while he drifted into unconsciousness.