“I’ll explain somewhere else.” Phyletta said. “I think we should… leave him alone.”

  For a Victus oozing with confidence, Vaelar whined all too loud. Uncomfortably long. The kind of whining that compels one to stab out their own eardrum. Arnzos was feeling its effects quickly. As well as a sensation of stomach shrinking, in embarrassment, upon watching Vaelar flail around like a tantruming toddler. Arnzos agreed with a one-two grunt and chose a horse from the selection of strays. Ultimately stealing Vaelar’s steed.

  The anger flushed from his system, and all he had left was… a twinge of sympathy. Not in any way that would force him to help this asshole. No, he wasn’t like that. But he hoped—barely hoped, he didn’t get on his knees and pray for it—that Vaelar would reconsider his life choices. Maybe try to get away from war and destruction. Perhaps it was Arnzos’ newly founded cherishment of surviving Fort Blavim. To which he still didn’t understand how he survived.

  Even though Arnzos silently gave Vaelar a wish of changing, he yearned to finally get away from this conflict. In return for his service, all it gave him was agony.

  Arnzos threw the reins up and clapped them down. The horse understood. And soon Vaelar’s vulnerable, stumbling husk was all alone. No sword, no supplies, and no functioning eyes. He fished the bolt out of his shoulder, ripped off a part of his shirt, and patched himself up.

  Arnzos did his best to navigate the treacherous terrain in between Jama Bog and Gjoffir Greenage. It was odd to think the patch he was traveling in seemed more unkempt from the bog itself. But that was the truth. Likely true from a lack of visitors willing to clear it out. Why would they want to? Nothing was there for them. Its natural resources could be found anywhere else, and without serious injury. Arnzos galloped forth, only following a faint star for direction. North.

  Next to him, keeping up without issue, was the drifting spirit.

  “I’d like that explanation now.” Arnzos said.

  Phyletta pretended to sit her ghostly form on the horse. “I would not deny you it. Well then…”

  “First, you should know my name. I am Phyletta N’Tula, empress—former empress—of the Tulas Empire. I ruled it with my husband, Milosk, for nearly a century. Though it stood for a thousand years before our rule.”

  “My condolences. If this empire was predominantly elves, then the Ontullians probably took over all your old territory.”

  “I assumed as much.” she said, a pinch of melancholy sprinkled on her brow.

  The depths of green and brown tangling shrunk with every hoofstep north. Though they had not reached it yet, the northern forests past the swamp could provide a peaceful repose. Their blue thistled trees blessed the ground with an almost sacred aura. A sacred property that was well-maintained by the felinian tribes living there. Oh, how Arnzos would treasure the tranquility of untamed wilderness. The riches of being free from contract and violence. Wealth in an unburdened mind.

  Sure, his burdens would not stay gone forever. But he earned himself a few days of rest.

  Arnzos’ attention swayed back to Phyletta. “I’ve heard of ghosts returning to Ystryx because of frustration. Did your husband have an affair or something?”

  “No.” She backtracked, pondering for a second. “Mm, not that I know of. He had an array of problems, but that one? I doubt it.”

  “And I’ve never seen magic like that either. Flashes of light. Not like the Pure Sorcerum. Not at all.”

  “I am just as lost as you are, Arnzos. But, ever since I returned, I had an objective to complete. Like an order that rang in my ears; One I couldn’t silence. In life, my husband was power-hungry. We waged war like it was our gods-given purpose. Many conflicts I was able to stop. Others… sadly not. I died after a nationwide revolt enveloped our land.”

  “Executed?” he responded. She looked away. A ‘yes’ in everything but spoken word.

  “I could have been better to my people. And I will be better for those now living. Because my husband resurrected with me.” Phyletta said.

  “And he found someone, just like you found me?”

  Again, she gave another nonverbal confirmation. A swipe of her head. “Very likely. We both appeared in this black vortex not long ago. Like a giant castle made only of shadow. Milosk and I were the only ones there. We questioned what was happening, until I heard whispers. He must have heard more than me, because his confusion turned to rage. He rambled off about saving mortals from their damned souls. Killing them for their benefit. I tried to calm him down, but we were whisked away… here. To the physical world. Then, I reached out to you.”

  “You didn’t comb through others? Just went straight for me?”

  “You were the only one I saw. Were in tune with. I held your memories. Looked through them. So much tragedy.”

  Arnzos didn’t care to be pitied. Always uncomfortable. Reflecting on the past. “Right.” He shrunk a few inches. “Maybe this bonding process was based on values you held in your life. You felt regret not helping the commoners, then you bond to one. Maybe it’s the same with Milosk.”

  “He was loud, power-hungry, egotistical…” Phyletta trailed off.

  “Then maybe he’s bound to a noble. A knight. Someone high status. Maybe even another elf.”

  “So… you will help me then? Stop my husband?”

  “You saved my life, empress. As much as I’d rather turn away and forget you, I just can’t do that. My mother would be very disappointed.”

  If Phyletta had warmth to feel, in her phantomly body, this moment was certain to bring some. But since that was lost for her, she just had to imagine what it once felt like. So she did. It brought her some comfort. Or the idea of what comfort might be, at least.

  “If I could ask for one condition though.” Arnzos lifted a finger. “Give me some time to rest. I mean, you did see all the suffering I’ve faced.”

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  She snickered. But regretted it right after. “Sorry. I don’t know why that made me— Yes. You can take as much time as you need.”

  The following two days were quite uneventful. Gladly so for Arnzos. They rode through the poking brush and the looming greenery. Heard calls of frogs and tones of winged raptors. The breadth of all creatures graced the day. Unrelenting and true. It refreshed Arnzos like nothing else. Going without the barks of superiors who despised him. Or the slick deals of those who wanted to use him.

  They camped out by the road. Carving out wood logs to make a campfire. Arnzos missed Sunslash already, since making a fire manually was much more work. Still, he’d rather not laze and let the night’s cold consume him, so the fire was soon made. Flaming and bright. An excellent consolation that helped him sleep until the rising sun poked at his cheeks.

  He considered asking Phyletta about her history and what the times were like in her age, but she disappeared. Like she had before. It was not a total loss of her presence. It was more like she hid behind curtains of some supernatural fiber. A barrier that let him know she was there, but not showing herself with a spectral presence. It must have been her respecting his wishes. Well it wasn’t quite what he meant when he said ‘give me time’, he wasn’t going to pull her out of resting just to start small talk. Plus, he wasn’t exactly sure how to contact her again.

  The second of the two days came and went. A lot of riding, foraging for food in mushrooms, and drinking from a cold stream. Arnzos had the idea of bathing in it, but as soon as he tried to submerge an entire foot within the water, the chill of it sent a shudder through his scales. Tingled nerves that felt like stab wounds. He shook off the jeebies and aimed to find a warmer body somewhere else. The water wasn’t ideal for washing off his stink, but he did have another use for it.

  Arnzos withdrew Roxbane and found a sturdy stick embedded in leaf pile. He fished it out, cutting off the excess twigs and stuck out offshoots. Harnessing the soul of a woodsmith (though he never worked as one), Arnzos forged a makeshift pike of rough creation. Rough enough to kill, but also with a hint of artistry to its making. He inspected the spear. Pointed edge, able to pierce. All the unnecessary elements were carved away.

  A satisfactory weapon for fishing.

  Like a monstrous giant overlooking the lands it would soon destroy, Arnzos stood in the cold stream waters. Waiting for prey. Plenty of smaller fish used the water to glide down the liquid road to a more fitting home. A few others were fighting the current, and not exactly winning. But all this aquatic life had one thing in common. Their size, or lack of it. If Arnzos was to stab any of these passing fish, he’d better have the eyes of an eagle. Otherwise he’d hit water, scare them all off, and be a bigger fool after it.

  He needed a sizable quarry. A fish he could lay in both hands, from head to tail. There had to be some nearby, swimming through this submerged trail. He waited, as still as a dead possum. Slowed breathing, locked knees. With his net of eyesight, Arnzos caught one. A bigger fish. It went on its way—as all the others did—passing the shoed foot of Arnzos. He lined up his spear. Took a moment to position. Then, tskt! Arnzos’ hunt was successful.

  His prey flapped around, in an unfortunate display. The more it moved, the more its fins tensed. It could not save itself and it flopped over one last time. At least Arnzos had a better meal than grass and dried fungi. Some protein would help energize him. Push past the perpetual exhaustion he was still fighting. Surely it would taste good too.

  Another night, another excellent rest. The spear Arnzos had made also helped in holding the fish over his campfire. Cooking its flaky flesh to a crispy brown goodness. He munched and enjoyed and wished for seconds. Still, he had the mushrooms for charring. He ate those as well. Ones above, when was the last time his stomach was actually full? It had to be months. The baskets of rations the Ul-Baqshans had were mainly for their nation’s soldiers. Mercs weren’t starved, obviously not, but it was far from fine dining. Or normal dining.

  The stars and soothing wind brought the blue dracokin even more sleep. He welcomed it and prayed for more of it—to whoever would listen. He didn’t know religions quite as well as others in his family.

  Now, this third day of freedom for Arnzos held differences from the other two. Fascination, new discoveries, and a mortal he wished he had never met.

  However, to start, Arnzos and Phyletta finally made it out of Ontullia. His trek north finally took him into the Scrupled Lands. A great open plain awaited him; Deer pranced about, scattering at the noise of Arnzos’ horse. Off into the far wilds, they went. Though, for all the splendid life that greeted him, there was still a rancid air of… demise. It hung like apples on a tree. Arnzos then saw why.

  An oblong tube with hollow hunks attached to its sides, built from a metal unfamiliar to Arnzos, was half-buried in these plains. Upon closer look, the burly tube took on an autonomy. Resembling what might be a body, albeit with some creative liberty. Arnzos had seen a shape like this before. A creation like this.

  It was a Construct. Designed by a mysterious creator. Though it was a new type he hadn’t seen before. He knew of Sorcerum Constructs, artificial entities crafted by only the best of mancers; They could be servants or soldiers, or just friends to have around. Sunslash was once the arm of a Mini Construct—one Arnzos vanquished in battle. Phyletta manifested from behind her metaphorical curtains.

  Becoming real once more. “When I said ‘give me time to rest,’ you didn’t have to go missing for that long.” Arnzos whispered.

  “I know. I still don’t fully understand how to control this form. I fall into the Spectral Realm and it takes time to break out.”

  “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. Anywho, you know what this thing is?” Arnzos pointed at the unknown construct.

  Phyletta floated above the tubeful entity. She ran her spectral hand across it. “Oh, I remember these well. Psiona Constructs. When our empire invaded the Ena’qhy Nation, the felinian soldiers deployed these into battle. Without these constructs, Milosk would have probably genocided the Nation.”

  You were complicit in that, Arnzos thought. But he knew she grieved for others killed by her husband’s sins, so he decided not to say it. “I wonder why they’re deactivated.”

  “They all need Psiona pearls to operate. If the pearls are destroyed, then so are the constructs.”

  And that ovoid tube construct was not the only one present. Arnzos walked behind it, and strained his eyes to see in the distance. Dozens of slain constructs peppered these fields, all in different shapes and colors. They had many legs and few arms, or many arms and few legs, or none of the two together. Some had heads that were cubed and others spherical. Torsos like bloated prisms or narrow like fine metal blocks. There was no end to variation in these constructs.

  He got back on his mount to survey the graveyard, followed by the hovering empress. Until, straining his eyes once more, they gave him vision of… a lake! Such a sparkling beauty of pure blue waters. Arnzos left his mouth gaping in awe. He looked like a moron. Still, why would he care what he looked like in that moment?

  “Yes! Bless you, ones above!” he roared, the dumbest grin on his face. Off was he, sparing no time for anything else.

  However, unknown to Phyletta and Arnzos, a human sentry sat atop a steep hill. She watched his horse trot through mellow land and was not happy to see a visitor. That was, until she saw his saber. Roxbane. Looking very valuable. A mischievous smile climbed up her face’s walls.

  Ah, what to do with shinies if she stole and sold that saber. What to do indeed? But she was brought back to reality when faced with her boss. He would not be happy if he discovered a hidden bag of shinies. Made behind his back? No, no. That would not do; Not at all.

  Perhaps it was better for her to bring the information. Then, she would have a chance of making a decent slice of this take. Indeed, that would do. The sentry abandoned her station, and for the good of her fellow knights. After all, this part of the Scrupled Lands belonged to House Butcherie. All were welcome, if they had no trouble to give and money to sacrifice.

  The sentry would appeal to her master. Give him a gift beyond simple tribute. She would beckon for Lord Palmgrease.