It all started with an axe and a broken arm.

Sixteen year old Farren kneeled on the dusty ground, clutching her arm and staring at the parched yellow grasses. Sweat fell in heavy drops and seeped into the dust. The inside of her head felt as though about to burst open, her throat dry and chest heaving.

Audryn, drill sergeant of that time, was shouting at the top of her lungs, her words jumbling together in Farren's exhausted mind.

"On your feet, lass."

No response.

"Soldier! Answer when I speak to you!"

She made no signs of getting up-- because she couldn't. Hot tears now joined the sweat upon the dust as Farren cradled her injured arm, which Audryn had shattered a minute ago with a blow from the flat of her axe. The strike had not been intentional; merely a part of training. She was supposed to parry the attack, but instead of it hitting her blade, it had slammed into her arm.

Audryn came over, and took her by her good arm. Her voice softened. "Come. Let's get you to a healer. Then we resume practice."

"No!" Farren wrenched her arm out of her grip and scurried away. Her good arm pressed against her mouth, she broke out in muffled sobs. "No more healing magic, I beg you!"

The same routine, every single day. Train with Audryn, get hurt, get healed, then again more training-- only to come back injured. Healing hurt, but so did broken bones, split lips and sprained muscles. Farren could take no more of that godforsaken healing magic. The pain would drive her insane.

Audryn sighed heavily, then sat down on the grass, wiping sweat from her brows. "How would you become a warrior if you shed tears so easily, lass?"

Farren wondered that too. No other recruit was so much of a mess as she was. They clenched their teeth and endured it all. They were so much stronger, braver. Even after everything she'd been through she still remained...useless.

In truth, she wanted none of this. Farren yearned to go back to Fallmead, to Finnian and Gran. Back home.

After Sir Troth was done dealing with the city guard who had arrested her-- sending him away to some distant coal mine, the nobleman had dragged her out from behind the bars-- not out of kindness, but to ensure she didn't reveal anything of his involvement with the trade at Silver Knife Square. She hadn't said a thing, much to his relief.

In fact, no coherent words had escaped her down at the dungeon. She only remembered the golden embers that flew from the branding iron, then shortly after, the red hot mark pressed up against her arm-- cruel and burning and blistering.

But despite all, it had ensured her release from the clutches of the gang in Silver Knife and that was all that mattered.

Until the man approached her with the offer.

Farren had looked up to see an officer of the Midaelian army. A man from the Brihurst Isles, he was gaunt with graying hair. The insignia on his cloak identified him as a lieutenant. She observed him with a squint, wiping blood from her nose.

"I saw you fighting the guards back there," he'd said, then grinned. "Weren't you the one with a metal pipe?"

She was.

That was the first thing that came to hand when the city guards surrounded her, a particularly feisty one on their lead. Farren had to put on a show of resistance, lest the gang should see right through her trick of getting captured intentionally.

And being Farren, she'd gone overboard with her acting when the leader of the guards challenged her for real.

The lieutenant kneeled to face her where she crouched on a sidewalk, where Sir Troth had left her after sorting things out. He observed her for a moment, then handed her a piece of parchment-- a notice about the Midaelian forces taking recruits.

"I'd like to see your skills with a real blade, this time. Get there on time and tell them Lieutenant Evander sent you." He got up, and brushed dirt from his cloak.

"You fight well. It's about time you put that to good use-- an honorable one. "

Now her thief's brand became a hurdle in the way of it all. Farren had managed to turn up for the enrollment nonetheless, after an painstaking effort of scraping the burn scars off her skin.

Yet, like most people in her life, she had disappointed the lieutenant too.

"Perhaps this life is not for you, Clearstrike." Audryn now got to her feet and strapped her axe back to her belt.

Perhaps Audryn was right.

So when looters rode into the village from over the hills and Kinallen went up in flames, when there came the first battle of her life-- Farren ran.

She did not care if they labelled her as a coward. The Midaelian army could do without an useless soldier.

━━━━━━⚔︎━━━━━━

Rainsoaked soil squelched beneath her boots as Farren scurried through the dark woods, tripping over roots and getting her cloak snagged on branches that jutted out like cruel talons of some monstrous beast. Screams and shouts echoed into the night as the helpless villagers lost their homes and lives. Farren tried not to listen.

Within minutes she was before the waterfall, where stood the statue of the nameless god who did not care for the blazing fire that was taking over the village, nor the hapless soldier fleeing the battle, no-- all the tributes offered were in vain.

Before her the stream flowed fierce and full of life, rejuvenated with the last few days of endless rain. Water flowed in thin streaks over the wooden planks that lay across it.

Despite the chaos running amok, her mind was clear. On the other side she would find the Lakefront trader track, and from there to Fallmead-- back home. At least that's what she called it after what remained of her family moved there from Larton.

As soon as she made to cross the stream, the water-worn, mold-stricken wooden planks splintered below her boots-- then snapped in half. Farren went pitching into the water, and scraped her face on a jagged rock-- barely missing losing her left eye.

"Please-- somebody, help!" a woman screamed nearby.

Water gushed down her throat, and the gash left by the rock stung as Farren struggled to get back to solid ground. When she finally did, she was on her knees, retching and spewing out water. The woman screamed again.

There, at the foot of the statue a villager kneeled as though seeking sanctuary from the Unnamed Lord, clutching a babe to her chest. A bandit was striding up to her, blade unsheathed and gleaming.

That was what the raiders always did-- pounce upon them like bloodthirsty hounds. There wasn't much to be looted from poor peasants, yet they took pleasure in chopping them down in a show of bestial power and terror-- so much so that this man had followed the hapless mother all the way through the woods.

Farren sucked in a breath. What could she do? She was useless. A coward.

She couldn't possibly match blades with the thug.

A few moments passed, then the sky above split open with a roll of thunder.

I'll do it the coward's way.

With trembling hands, she gathered up rocks. Blood trickled from the cut on her left eye, hot and stinging.

"Oy!" she shouted, "this way, you bastard!"

A big chunk of rock flew through the air, hitting the man hard on the back of his head. The bandit reeled, then turned.

Slack brown hair pasted to the forehead, one missing eye-- yellowed teeth bared in a grin, the bandit faced Farren. "You haven't even got a sword, fool!"

But he had underestimated the rocks-- which plummeted through the air the next moment. One after another, by the harsh blows unyielding-- skull bones cracked, teeth shattered, and the lone eye, blinded forever.

She did not desert that night.

✦✧✦✧

"This marked one's got something to say to you, milady."

One of the Silver Knife's thugs shoved Farren so hard through the door she stumbled to her knees. The Quarleen mask fell off, clattered across the floor and came to rest before a pair of shiny, heeled boots.

The Countess of Silver Knife Square put her smoking pipe aside and looked at her down her long, crooked nose. Rumours said she was a child of the streets once, named Charlotte. In her early days of... business, she would call herself Charlie-- although now she had permanently taken her regal title of Countess.

A woman in her forties, her face was gaunt, rugged blonde hair pulled back in a bun under the huge feathered hat atop her head. A tawny brown, gaudily embroidered gown adorned her tall frame, set with a dark corset and matching gloves.

Living up to her name, she commanded a royal air in her own kind of corruption-ridden kingdom-- a black leather armchair for her throne.

"State your purpose, marked one," the Countess spoke in a drawl.

Farren took a deep breath, steeling herself. "I...request for permission to barter with the canal-side merchants of Ebon Street."

The woman fell into a stunned silence, watching her with wide eyes.

The Countess's associate, who'd shoved Farren in, cursed from the doorway. "Sweet, sweet Draedona...Ebon Street of all places?"

The Countess ignored him and addressed Farren. "You must be very desperate then, to achieve whatever it is that you want."

"I am, my lady."

Strength. Endurance. Power to tolerate pain without crying out.

The wizardfolk who traded there down Ebon street offered the most tempting of deals, but for a sheer price-- which was not always paid in money. The place reeked of dark sorcery, and not all of its source was the Mortal Realm.

The Countess raised an arched brow. "My lads have gathered information about you. You were in Hyde's gang-- until you were marked, that is. After that, you were gone to pursue an...honorable purpose."

Farren stayed silent, slipping her sleeve further down her arm. "The days I was a part of them, I remained loyal."

"Loyalty!" The Countess snorted. "Loyalty doesn't mean anything unless you have achieved something worthwhile! You could've slit Hyde's throat and taken his position for all I care. As long as you earning me coin, we're good, yeah?"

She then chose that exact moment to take a drag from her pipe and let out swirls of silver smoke, followed by a very drawn out, very dramatic pause.

Farren had a feeling the Countess did not even like to smoke that much, but simply did it for the effect.

The thug in the doorway sighed with the air of a man who had seen this sort of exchange for far too many times.

"Uh-- boss?" he said, "you've got a meeting with Sir Troth by ten bells, remember? If you could hurry this up..."

The woman sat up straight with a start, dropping her solemn demeanor. "Quarleen's blessings upon you, boy. I'd forgotten!" she then turned to Farren, and extended a gloved hand. "Quick, girl-- no time to chat, let's get to the point. The toll."

Farren reached into her satchel and placed her meagre earnings of a recruit upon the Countess's outstretched hand. She counted the sum with surprising speed, then clicked her tongue.

"This won't do, damnit. Troth changed some policies."

Farren's heart sank. "Then if you'd tell me how much more do I have to--"

The market square's clocktower rang ten bells outside.

"No time." She got to her feet, setting her pipe aside and grabbing a black lace parasol. She watched Farren with squinted eyes. "You've got guts, to have dared to set foot here with that mark-- and headed for Ebon street no less."

The Countess raised Farren's chin with the end of the parasol, as though trying to read her face.

"Hmm, well. For the rest of the payment you'll drop by next week-- my lads will make sure of that-- and run a few special errands for me. Then we'll call it even. Got it?"

"Special errands?" asked Farren.

"Shouldn't prove too hard for you, given your record. How discreet are you at picking pockets?"

Not again. "Fairly," she answered.

"What if you are to do it with sorcery, instead of your hands?"

"I don't know that." Farren drew herself upright. "But I can learn."

Those special errands would become her training grounds for sorcery. What the Countess taught was of the crude sort, used by thugs and cutthroats, and she'd only ever mastered one spell. Yet it was still magic, and Farren would take what she could get.

But for now, she thanked the Countess and set out for Ebon Street.

Where she found nothing of use.

Although that in no way suggested that the dreary little street was short on strange magical objects.

She came across potions that could make one stronger than a plains bear, swifter than a fox, but only for a day; the side-effects being madness, blood sepsis and death.

Then an enchanted sword which would slay any foe, slice through armour and shatter shields-- but a bone of the wielder's body would snap with every successful hit.

Next, an ancient spell to instantly relieve any sort of physical pain-- by transferring it to a loved one.

Despite the grim merchandise, the crowd of customers in Ebon Street was astounding. Farren scurried away from the bustle to get some fresh air by the canal, where boats and floating shops were moored. Eyes on the boats swaying gently on the water, Farren let out a long sigh. Had she spent all her month's earnings for nothing?

Remember what you're here for.

Reminding herself of her purpose again and again might sound empowering, but it hardly achieved anything for real.

The sun's harsh glare and the jostling crowd was increasing by the minute. Farren made to step to one side-- and someone collided hard against her, scattering the objects they'd been carrying.

Stalks of lavender and wolfsbane petals flew into the air from the stranger's basket, runemarked stones skittered across the cobbles. With a sigh, Farren got to her knees to help them collect their belongings.

"I'm so sorry, lady!"

Farren looked up to see the stranger-- a handsome young man, his long chestnut hair tied back, an apologetic smile gracing his lips. She felt her cheeks flush.

When his things-- what remained of them, were back in his basket, he regarded her with a concerned look.

"This place is not for good folk, you know," he whispered, glancing around. "I'm off as soon as I get my supplies."

Farren's nose flared. "Do I look like good folk to you?"

She raised her scarred brow, as though in emphasis. The young man only chuckled-- a charming, ringing laugh.

"Outward appearances can be deceiving," he said.

He then lowered his basket onto a nearby boat. "I'm a fortune teller by trade. Would you perhaps like a reading? I'm no adept, but maybe it'll give you a better outlook in life-- help you discover the good folk in you."

Farren hesitated, and looked into her satchel, at the few coins she had left.

The fortune teller lifted the tapestry hanging over the entrance to his little cabin and gave her a soft smile. "Free of cost, for your help."

Why not? Thought Farren and stepped inside.

And then it happened-- what usually happens when one accepts the suspiciously generous invitation of a stranger like a dimwit.

With a flicker of sorcery, the tapestry turned into a solid door and slammed shut, followed by the windows. The candles burning in the cabin blew out, and the last glimpse she caught of the fortuneteller was of him seated behind a crystal ball, grinning from ear to ear-- before the cabin plunged into darkness.

Draedona take me already, I'm done with life.

"Of course!" she banged her fists and boots against the door, punctuating her words with the hits.

"As though-- my life weren't-- miserable-- enough!"

A few moments of screaming into the abyss, then someone spoke-- making Farren jump.

"Oh, stop shrieking and sit still, you mortal gremlin. You're giving me a headache." A raspy voice came out of the darkness. "No one's eating you alive."

"Look, immortal, demon or whatever you are, I'm of no use to you. In fact I'm the most useless piece of shite you could've stumbled upon."

"Aye, that's the spirit!" said the voice cheerfully, "a cynical, self-doubting one. The very best I could ever ask for."

The candles flickered to life again, the flames burning blue. The windows flew open. Grey, lifeless light filtered through. A hooded figure swathed in black now sat where the fortune teller had been, sipping what looked like juice made from wolfsbane petals.

His face was deathly pale, yet ethereal. Farren had expected a hideous monster to emerge from beneath that dark hood, but he was beautiful, in the same way an overcast sky was beautiful.

Then he revealed rows of razor sharp teeth in a ghastly grin and Farren changed her mind. Nope.

"Helps with a headache, wolfsbane wine." He raised his glass, showing her the purple drink. "Unless you're a mortal. Then it's toxic."

Farren put her hands on her hips. "What am I supposed to do with that information, good sir?"

"Suggest this to someone you don't like." He downed the rest of the glass, then pondered over it. "Erm...then blame it on someone else you don't like." He shrugged.

She scoffed and strode to one of the windows, only to find they were floating on a dull grey sea, with no sight of land in any direction. "Sweet Mother Draedona..."

"No, no. She's my colleague," said the hooded one.

"Ah, I see." Now recognition dawned on Farren's face. "You're that deal-broker from the Celestial Realm, aren't you? Lord Rhilio kicked you out from his court or something?"

"Ahem." He adjusted his collar, even though there wasn't one. "I am Atruer. God of despair, the harbinger of suffering, one who walks war-ravaged lands, lord of--"

"Rubbish," said Farren, who was very much done with every aspect of life, "unless you can offer me a worthwhile deal, let me off this boat."

The blue flames of the candles flared angrily.

The god muttered to himself in a hushed voice-- trying to calm himself and not burst into anger and obliterate a certain bratty mortal on the spot-- but truth be told, Farren wanted just that, a merciful release from the miseries of her life.

"Control," he whispered to himself, "you've dealed with worse, and this one is just a wee little girl. You got this, darling."

Then, having calmed himself with rather admirable self-love, he faced her with his ghastly smile. The candles went back to normal.

"Worthwhile-- yeeees, of course. The aura of your miserable soul is so strong I could sense it from leagues afar-- sheesh. And to think you're only just a wee lass. Such a dark place, the mortal realm," said Atruer. "You desperately want to become strong and endure pain."

"That about sums it up, aye."

"You wish to protect your kingdom, your home. You've suffered the misfortune of losing your home once."

I don't want it to happen again, not to me, not to anyone else.

"Hmph, intentions far too noble for a frail, mortal soul to achieve," said the god, and reached out with his pale hands, where a golden orb flared into life, "but for an immortal one, it's naught but child's play. Good thing too, because I've got one right here."

The gold light emitted from the orb outshone the dreary blue flames, bright and blinding.

"An immortal soul...?" Farren reached out cautiously, as though it would burn her fingers. Warmth surrounded the entity, soothing rather than scalding.

"A warrior's soul, no less. Pure of heart, yet ill of fate, this one," said Atruer, eyebrows knitted together in an exaggerated show of sorrow. "A tragic tale he had. Died in the Grand war long gone, yearning for his lover till his last breath. Ah...young love. It can be heartbreaking, even for gods. And he was indeed, a god's lover."

"Oh?" Curiousity bubbled in her. "Which god are we talking?"

Atruer cocked his head with a smile. "Oh, I would tell you, but King Rhilio forbids us to acknowledge his existence, I'm afraid."

Had this god not been offering her a profitable deal, Farren would have rejoiced punching him in the face, no matter the consequences.

"Anyway," continued Atruer, "this warrior's soul shall grant you the powers you seek. You will wield a blade like none other, endure wounds without so much as a grimace. But remember, the effects will be dulled by your mortal soul, so if it is an extremely grievous wound, it will hurt. Common mortal magic, minor healing or medicines shall be resisted if applied upon you."

"Still, good enough," she said.

For a moment, she stood mesmerized. Power, strength, a promise of glory-- everything she ever wanted was right at her fingertips. Then she stopped.

"What's the price?"

"Nothing, really. A rare deal this one is, out of my pure generosity and compassion."

"As if!" Farren's eyes narrowed. "Let me guess. My... first born?"

"Heavens no," the god dismissed her with an offhanded gesture. "That's outdated information you've got there. I stopped receiving my payment that way because most mortals who agree to it later decide they're more comfortable with a kitten. Besides, it's sort of foolish. What am I supposed to do with a babe? Can't even wield a cursed sword of misery, those little devils. They do naught but wail!"

Farren thought he had a point. "But how come you have an immortal soul in your possession?"

"Good question." The god hesitated. "Well, er... I believe there should be no secrets between us now, as we are about to get linked together through a deal and--"

Farren smirked. "You stole it. It's written all over your face."

Atruer hastily pulled his hood lower over his face. "King Rhilio once asked of me a great favour, you see. It is a tale of long ago, when the Apocalypse struck down this land. I was given the task of eliminating all undue interruptions in this enormous event, one that would shape the future of the land. I did as he asked, yet when the time came for payment, he cast me out with the foulest of insults!"

Farren snorted. "You've got guts, asking King of the Gods for payment."

"No one is exempt of the terms and conditions of my deals, mortal! Not even the highest of gods," he said. "And so I chose my payment myself. I captured from his realm the soul of this mighty warrior. I simply wanted to build my own immortal champion, one who would become the harbinger of despair.

"But now King Rhilio is searching everywhere in the Celestial Realm for this. Apparently this would disrupt the harmony between the realms or something-- let me tell you, he's naught but a paranoid tyrant."

Farren considered this. "Then how can I be sure the King of the Gods himself doesn't come after me, and mark me as the thief?"

"A clever girl you are." Atruer flashed a wide smile, then picked up one of the rune-marked stones. "Watch, mortal."

He tossed it out of the window, and it sank with a soft plink, vanishing beneath the grey waves with the blink of an eye.

"Now. You know the stone is down there somewhere, yet can you dive to the very bottom and retrieve it?" he said, "no. Just like that, you cannot locate an immortal soul within all the mortals out there, even if you are the mighty ruler of the Celestial Realm. Nay."

The golden orb settled in her palm, spreading its soft warmth down her arm.

"All I ask of you is that you keep this immortal soul safe inside your mortal one, until I find an opportunity to set it free and build my champion-- my own undefeated hero!" Atruer offered her his pale, blue-veined hand.

"Do we have a deal, dear mortal?"

They did.

And from that day, things changed. Or rather, Farren changed things.

✦✧✦✧

The clatter of hooves and clunking of boots brought Farren back to the rooftop of the stable, beneath the starry sky. Beside her, Linder had dozed off to a much needed sleep, his face resting on his folded arms, tired eyes closed-- looking ever so peaceful, as though he hadn't a worry in the world.

Below, the patrollers were filing along. Alarmed shouts rang and the camp was beginning to awaken to life, as did Linder.

"--W-what happened?"

Dorin Farler of the night-archers halted his mount and looked up at them, crimson eyes wide.

"We've found Alastair Henris!"