True to the End

by CorsicanFiend

It is said that when the stars align, the Rites shall come to bear. But now there are no more stars, and the Rites have ended alongside them. The Reader has been left in the Downside, their future undetermined. Yet despite the troubles they faced during the Rites, they will find it was nothing compared to the trials that await them now. Happy endings are not so easy to obtain.

2. Riteball!

Shanna approached the red door hesitantly, before reaching out with a feathered limb and giving it a few good knocks.

"Hello? Are you in there?"

No response.

Well, that's just perfect, the harp thought to herself. She waited a moment for knocking again, only to be met with the same lack of response.

"Hellooooo? Anybody home?"

Barker said that that he saw him heading for the wagon, yet he didn't seem to be responding. Maybe he was asleep? She reached out to shake the doorknob, only to have the door slowly swing open with a long creak.

Shanna slowly peaked her head inside the doorway. The inside of the wagon was larger than it appeared on the outside, having a large rug, a wooden round table, a desk, and ladder leading upward spread across its wooden flooring. Shelves lined the walls, containing all sorts of knick-knacks from vials to bones and even a fancy knightly crest, glittering softly in the daylight brought in by the open doorway. Five ropes hung from the ceiling, tied to handholds meant for piloting. What caught her attention most, however, was the table situated just left of a tiny stairway leading to another room of the wagon. Multiple books were scattered across it, however, they all seemed identical, bearing a smooth yet tough beige hide and the eight-starred symbol of the Scribes.

Shanna stared at the book, and carefully stepped into the room. She knew she couldn't read, yet had always been entranced by the idea of knowledge and wisdom that supposedly lied upon the pages of old. She had never actually seen any copy of the Book of Rites in person, before. What secrets did those old books hold that was so important, anyway? What kind of-

The harp was suddenly brought back to her senses by something small and hard roughly bumping into her head.

"Ow!" She stumbled back, only for the back of her skull to smash into a bell, causing a loud bang to resonate throughout the wagon.

Shanna immediately stifled her next cry of pain, the hairs on the back of neck shooting up and a cold chill darting down her spine. Her eyes quickly scanned the room, looking for any sort of movement or proof that she had been heard. Seconds crawled past as she anxiously waited. Only after she was absolutely sure she didn't alert anyone to her presence did the harp let out a breath, her nerves slowly returning from the heights they had just soared to.

Her eyes looked to what had hit her and were met by a small, shimmering purple stone that floated through the air as if completely ignoring gravity. She frowned, and swatted it away, causing it to fly over to another corner of the room. Her mother had always told Shanna not to trust magic.

He's probably not even here, she told herself. Her eyes slowly returned to the closed tomes lying in front of her. Shanna walked over to them, before taking one into her brown wings. Although harps were not as dexterous as nomads and some of the other races, the tips of their wings had small, individual muscles that allowed them to accomplish basic tasks with them. She ran those muscles over the cover of the book. It was far harder than its smooth appearance had led her to believe, likely the reason as to why it didn't bear a single scratch or smudge upon it.

Shanna flipped open the book, revealing its first page. Although she couldn't make out the characters, her attention was captured by the way the page seemed to almost glimmer. Small spots of light appearing and then disappearing as quickly as they had arrived. The whole page seemed to sparkle like the stars in the night sky, and she couldn't help but find a certain beauty in-

"Looking for something?"

A voice rang out from in front of her causing her to peer up from the book. Holding onto the open doorframe with one hand and peering down at her was a cloaked figure, the same one she was hoping not to run into during her venture into the wagon. He wore a simple gray shirt and trousers along with worn traveling boots, but most striking was the beige cloak he bore, sharing the same color as the hide that bound the Book of Rites. The hood was pulled up, helping to obscure his face from the small amount of light that peeked in from the door Shanna left open.

The harp quickly let go of the book with a shriek, causing it to land harmlessly on the table where she had first retrieved it. "I-uh-I was just looking…"

"For what?"

"At the book-I mean you, I was looking for you, but I knocked and you weren't there and then the door was open so I came in and I saw the book and this stupid floating rock hit my head and I was like 'ow, that hurt,' then my head hit a bell and-"

"Are you alright?"

The question caught Shanna off guard, and she brushed a few white locks of hair out of her face before responding. "Oh, I'm fine," she stammered. "It didn't really hurt that much."

"That's not what I meant." The cloaked man replied. "You seem a bit… startled."

"Well yeah, because you scared me when you snuck up on me like that!"

"You realize I live here, right?"

Shanna blinked. "Well, yeah, sure, but you didn't need to be all creepy about it!"

The figure blinked back at her. "Creepy?"

"Well yeah!" The harp shot back, her embarrassment beginning to fade. "You're always off on your own and you never stop carrying that weird orb around. Plus, you never really talk to anyone, anyways."

"I talk to people…"

"And you're always wearing that cloak, are you trying to hide your face or something?"

"I'll have you now this cloak is quite comfortable, actually. Protects from the sunlight, too."

"And most of the time you're hold up in here, anyways." Shanna continued, "What do you do all day, anyways?"

"Read." The man replied. "Write, why-"He stopped himself, before audibly taking a breath moving to get a better look at her. "Did you come in here just to call me creepy?"

"Oh!" the harp exclaimed, having remembered her purpose for coming to the wagon in the first place. "Barker sent me to go get you since the game of Riteball is about to begin.

"Oh, right. I must've dozed off. Tell him I'll be there shortly."

Shanna nodded, "Alright, but don't get mad at me if he's angry at you for being late." She turned to exit.

"Watch out for the-

Bang.

"Ow!"

"…bell"

---

The Reader watched as the harp girl, holding her now plenty-bruised head in one wing, close the door behind her as she left. He sighed and turned to go back into the common room, holding a hand against the wall to balance himself. The cloaked man grabbed his cane which he had left leaning against the wall, and knelt down to retrieve a certain green orb using his other hand. As soon as his hand came into contact with its glassy exterior, a familiar voice echoed in his mind.

"You should see to installing a lock on your door, dear Reader."

"You heard that?"

"I am aware of things happening outside this prison of mine, Sam. At least, in the nearby proximity."

The Reader grunted as he used his cane to pull himself back into a standing position, and shifted to hold the orb under his arm. "You know, you may be stuck in there but at least you didn't get called creepy."

He heard a chuckle resonate from Sandra's ethereal voice, bringing a small smirk to his own lips. "It was a shame that girl interrupted us. We were just getting to the good part."

"I should've realized there was a game today. I assure you there'll be plenty of time for fun later."

The mention of the sport immediately brought a frown to Sandra's face. "That poor excuse of a game is an embarrassment to the Rites. I can't believe you let yourself be a part of it."

"Well I'm not actually participating, you know. I'm just the referee."

"Regardless, I would prefer another hundred years trapped in this dreaded prison than to have to witness that sport," The Reader could practically feel the air quotes radiating from her ghostly voice, "ever again."

"Yikes," Sam replied. "You really hate it that much?"

Sandra merely grunted in response.

The Reader sighed. "Alright, I'll let you stay home for this one." He placed the orb on the desk next to where all the copies of the Book of Rites that the Nightwings had gathered. "I'll probably only be gone for an hour and a half at the most."

Sandra didn't respond, apparently still infuriated at the very existence of Riteball. Sam adjusted his cloak and made sure his boots were laced, before turning back to the orb.

"Alright, I'm off. I love you, Sandra."

No response.

"I said I looooove you, Sandra!"

"…I love you too, Sam."

Satisfied, the Reader swung open the door of the Blackwagon and exited his home cane-in-hand.

---

Having been crippled from a young age, Sam had quite a large amount of experience when it came to watching from the sidelines, physical activities making up the majority of such pursuits he could not participate in. So it was on good authority that he decided that out of all sports he had seen in his life, Riteball was by far the most entertaining.

It was during a voyage across the wastes of the Downside when he had spotted Barker and his Dissidents from the skies doing what he had thought was reenacting the Rites, yet after landing the Blackwagon to come speak to them, was surprised to learn that they had decided to turn the sacred ceremony into a recreational sport. However, they had problems, such as the fact that since the Rites were over, there were no magical boundaries to create a fair and equal amount of space for each team, there was no Celestial Orb that would appear, sent down from the stars themselves, and there was certainly no Pyre to plunge into.

Sam was even more surprised when they had asked him to help out in redefining the rules so that they could actually make the game work.

So it was together that the Reader joined forces with the infamous Dissidents in what may have been possibly the most unlikely alliance ever to grace the Downside to turn the ancient, sacred ritual known as the Rites into a sports game. Ti'zo helped too, of course.

Although Sam would like to have said he did it purely because he was being nice, that wasn't quite the truth. It had been months since the final Liberation Rite, months since Volfred had ascended and returned to the Commonwealth and enacted his revolution, transforming it into what was now known as the Sahrian Union. And although the Reader had Ti'zo and Sandra to keep him company, and although he often exchanged letters with his liberated comrades, he had begun to get a bit… bored.

Bertrude had opted to return to where he and the rest of the Nightwings first stumbled upon her, though she did promise to keep in touch if anything should happen, and provided the Reader with plenty of elixirs to fight off sickness and tips on how to effectively identity food that was edible compared to what would turn your stomach inside out, along with how to cook so that he could actually survive on his own.

Tariq had told Ti'zo to watch over the Blackwagon and even suggested they make further use of it. The remaining Nightwings made sure to make use of his advice and generosity, using it to circumvent the treacherous journey down from the Fall of Soliam to the base of Mount Alodiel they would've otherwise had to make on foot. They dropped Bertrude off at her outpost, returning her to the bog-crone community that dwelt on the edge of Flagging Hands before heading off.

They moved around for a while but didn't encounter anyone else until their run-in with the Dissidents. So they helped setup a few new rules, made sure to measure how long the field would be, provided substitutes for Celestial Orb and Pyre, and soon enough Riteball was born!

The game was fun enough that when other traveling exiles of the Downside came across the group, they had opted to stay for a bit, "just for the game", they had said. Others who came decided to stay as well, and soon enough a small nomadic group had been born. And although some did leave, a larger number of exiles decided to stick around.

Living in a community in the Downside had its pros and cons, comparing to just being on your own. Everyone had to carry their weight in one way or another, and they couldn't stay in a single location for more than a few weeks in fear of depleting local resources. Yet their numbers were large enough that howlers didn't dare to attack their encampment, and there was always someone to provide assistance if anyone came down with disease or was injured.

Though to the Reader, the best part was being able to have time to simply think. Participating in the Rites had been an exciting adventure and one he would treasure for the rest of his life, however long that may be in the inhospitable reaches of the Downside. But aside from the few moments of anticipative respite after a Liberation Rite, he had never truly had time to himself to ponder on all that had happened. Even after the stars had vanished, he was kept busy by having to continually make sure he had enough food and drinkable water. Luckily for him, Ti'zo was more than happy to put his fishing skills to use to ensure their continued survival.

But now that it was someone else's responsibility to get the food, and now that he didn't have to worry about any howlers looking for a Reader-sized snack, Sam was finally able to put aside time to get his thoughts in order.

He thought of the Hedwyn, Jodariel, and Rukey, who he wished the best of luck for.

He thought of Fae, who, although had left the world of the Scribes she treasured so much and had reentered the one that so easily cast her aside, he was sure would fare well under Jodariel's watchful eye.

He thought of Sir Gilman, who he was sure would find the honor he desperately longed for in the Sahrian Union, although to the Reader, the brave wyrm had never lost it.

He thought of Pamitha, who he hoped would forgive him for defeating her sister in the Essence's Liberation Rite, but hoped most of all that she could learn to forgive herself in her liberation.

He thought of Volfred and was thoroughly amused that the sap seemed so dumbfounded about how easily he was voted into office as the Union's first Prime Minister. He was sure the nation would be a fine one with him in charge.

Yet what troubled the Reader was not the thoughts of his friends, no. What had refused to leave his mind was those that he and the Nightwings had defeated.

How he saw the hope in Ignarius' eye extinguish just as his pyre did at the Fall of Soliam, and how in further Rites he saw only growing cynicism and self-loathing.

How Almer's rage was calmed by his cur foster father, who simply met the Reader's eyes after their defeat with a respectful yet solemn acceptance.

How, as his abilities as a reader grew stronger, he could virtually feel the pure hatred boiling within Tamitha, growing only stronger after every defeat.

How he had heard from members of the camp that Lendel, one he actually didn't mind defeating, had descended into madness after the last liberation Rite.

How-

"OI! READER!"

Sam was brought out of his thoughts by a loud bark. He blinked, focusing on the cur with the red mohawk that had approached him.

"Ya took your sweet ol' time gettin' down here, didn'tcha?" Barker sneered, causing the chains attached to his collar to audibly jingle.

"Yeah, sorry about that." The Reader apologized. He must have gotten lost in thought as he traveled down the hill the Blackwagon rested on. "I hope I didn't keep you waiting very long."

"Only ten whole bloody minutes! Ya ready to get this show on the road or what, mate?"

Sam felt a small smile come to his face. Only Barker could be so enraged by a simple ten minute wait. "Sure, I'm ready."

"Then let's get goin'!"

The Reader followed Barker as the two made their way through the camp to the Riteball court. A few nodded and waved as they passed, though none looking too happy. Not surprising since the camp was currently situated in the barren badlands of Jomeur Valley. Members of the encampment had set up tents and tarps where they took refuge from the blistering sunlight. They did, however, respect Barker's decision to stay here for the next few weeks, before moving somewhere else in the sand-blanketed landscape. The energetic cur was seen as something of a leader to the group, and although he would occasionally come to Sam for advice, specifically anything regarding Riteball or really any major decisions, he would always take credit himself for arriving at his "genius conclusions," something the Reader was fine with. And although the Jomeur Valley wasn't the most abundant location when it came to natural resources, the plentiful cacti and local howler population gave the camp enough sustenance to live comfortably for the time being.

The heat of the area was something the Reader had to get used to. He had been through the valley before, but never lingered enough to truly realize how hot the area was. The temperature was less a welcome warmth and more like an intrusive wave that crept into every nook and cranny it could, only receding at night when a frigid chill took its place. Fields of sand, dust, and dirt covered the ground. This particular area they had nested in, for the time being, was mostly flat apart from the few foothills that were scattered across the distance. Right now it seemed to be early afternoon, the unforgiving sun just beginning its descent.

Sam took note of how Barker was already clad in his team jersey, a garment similar to the holy vestments of the Rites, but since those were magical in nature and could only be modified by adjusting to the proportions of its latest wearer, the Dissidents and other players had to settle with substitutes. The Reader had to give Barker credit. The outfits looked nearly the same, except for two key features. The first being the absence of any masks, and the second being the crudely drawn ASHPAWZ team name on the back.

Both teams were waiting by the court when they arrived, "Ashpawz" on one side, and Shanna's "Saints" on the other, dressed in orange and violet respectively. They perked up as Reader approached, getting up from where they were resting on the sands.

Sam was impressed. They had only just arrived in this stretch of the valley and yet they had already prepared the Riteball court. The Reader made his way over the small folding chair that had been erected just aside the court and sat down as Barker made his way over to his team.

The boundaries of the court were marked by pieces of rope tied to sticks planted firmly into the earth, giving a playing space roughly about the size of the actual Rites, if it a bit larger. Straight down the middle was a line marked with chalk that had been purchased from Falcon Ron's last visit, denoting each team's side, and the small circle in which the Riteball itself would be placed. Although the Celestial Orb was truly magical and glowed with an arcane light, the Riteball was merely a sphere constructed of woven twigs and a few small ropes. Unlike the actual Rites, which often contained geographic obstacles such as rocks, malevolent plant life, and lava-filled pitfalls, the court was drawn specifically in a place where there were no obstructions, giving each team equal footing. In place of pyres were small circular-shaped nets, held up by wood like a mini trampoline. Whoever possessed the Riteball had to jump into the opposing team's net with the sphere in hand to score a point.

The game was divided into three "tribunals," inspired by the triumvirates which had competed in the Rites. Each tribunal lasted three minutes, with a minute-and-a-half break in between each. However, unlike other sports where should a player drop the ball the timer would stop, in Riteball the timer never stopped. Neither team has the ability to call a timeout to plan anything or adjust strategy. Riteball can only come to a pause if one team scores and has to return the ball to the center, at which immediately upon returning to their edge of the court the game resumes, or they suspect another team of foul, such as hurting another player or the ball going out of bounds.

At first, the Reader was opposed to this, but Barker had insisted on it. It turns out that the cur was onto something, as once they were able to actually play their new sport, they quickly discovered it was far more hectic and fast-paced than the ones which were practiced in the Commonwealth, and even the Rites themselves, something Barker was immensely proud of. The lack of banishment specifically made for a very animated event: all players were active during the game at all times, except for when the Riteball was being placed back in the center, naturally.

The Reader's job was to sort out any fouls and, if necessary, administer penalties to the team who committed them (which were simple two-second head starts for the other team). His abilities to tap into the minds of others that he had gained from reading the Book of Rites assisted in this, not that he had told anyone.

"Well, lad?" Barker barked from his side of the court. "We gon' get play some Riteball or what?"

Shanna crossed her wings, tapping her talons on the ground. "Yeah, I'm ready any time now."

"Alright, let me get the timer ready." The reader takes out a small talisman from his pocket and holds it up for both teams of three to see. It was a stony, spherical-shaped thing, marked with arcane runes that inscribed power onto it.

"Get in your positions!" Each team assumed the arrowhead formation around their net just as an exile would have around their pyre in the rites.

"Get set!" The Reader spots Barker adopting a toothy grin, his back legs ready to take off at a moment's notice. Shanna similarly crouches down, preparing to bounce in flight.

"GO!" Sam squeezes the talisman, its magic causing a loud cracking sound to resonate across the arid playing field, and both teams dart to the center.

---

"One minute left!" Sam leaned back in his seat, crossing his legs as he watched the third tribunal reach its end.

The ferociousness of Barker's Ashpawz had helped them to score, but the fact that his team of three curs had little counters to Shanna's control of the air helped the Saints get up to an even point-count. The Reader had to admit that if Shanna was a member of a triumvirate, she would've made a fine conductor of the Rites. Her lack of tiring despite the beads of sweat running down her tanned features was a testament to her endurance, and her clever team composition of a harp, nomad, and savage made for a balanced defense and offense.

The Reader watched as Barker, with the Riteball in his teeth, leapt over a Saint and began falling into the net-

Only for Shanna to sweep down from the air, snatching the ball from his maw with an outstretched talon, who then began to fly over to the other side of the court.

Bit a ball hog, isn't she? Sam mused as he watched her make her way across the court. He saw the nomad Saint trying to fend off the curs of the Ashpawz, but he was no match for their speed. Shanna barely managed to move her leg out of the way as one jumped at the ball, causing the cur to go flying by her in the air, the ball mere inches from his snout. The savage member of the Saints rushed forward to the other end of the court, waving her arms to her airborne comrade, but the harp seemed too busy trying to avert the three Ashpawz trying to steal the Riteball from her grasp, and if the slowed beating of her wings were any indication, she was beginning to tire out.

The Reader rested his head on his hand. He couldn't help but be reminded of the actual Rites during these games, and already felt his mind contemplating strategies on how to get out of the situation-

Pass the ball to your teammate by the goal, they're trying to wear you out.

The telepathic message surged out of Sam before he could even form the words.

The Reader blinked, confused. Did I just- his thoughts were brought to an end when he saw Shanna staring straight at him, despite the canines snapping at her heels.

He quickly directed his eyesight away from Shanna and over to her the net. Sure enough, in a matter of seconds, the Riteball was soaring through the air. The moon-touched woman reached up to grab it before vaulting into the net, landing harmlessly just as the buzzing from the talisman indicated the end of the game.

"Alright, that's enough!" The Reader grabbed his cane from its resting position against the folding chair before standing up. He felt lucky that his hood kept his features hidden, as he's sure the calm expression he was trying to adopt could easily be seen through. "The game is over. Victory belongs to the Saints!"

Shanna and her teammates cheered, and so did some of the audience they had gained over the game's course. Barker, however, was not as pleased.

"Oi! Wot happened there, mates? I thought we 'ad it!"

"It's 'cause we can't fly, boss!" One of his curs bowed his head in shame, his tail falling between his legs and his ears drooping. "Can't do much when she's up there and we're down here."

Barker let out a low growl that eventually turned into a sigh. "A'ight, let's just make sure it don't happen again, lads. We got a reputation to uphold."

"Sure thing, boss!" the two curs seemed quite grateful for their leader's benevolence, their energy returning as they panted for air.

The leader of the Ashpawz turned to the harp who had defeated them. "You did pretty well, girly."

Shanna turned from her teammates, a look of surprise cast upon her olive skin. "Uh, yeah. You guys did pretty well, too."

If Barker had any appreciation for the girl's good sportsmanship, he didn't show it. "A'ight, ladies and gents, shows over, pack it up! Tomorrow it'll be Cosmos and the Emeralds!"

The Reader smirked as he watched the crowd slowly disperse, returning to their tents erected upon the sands. When he first met the cur, he never took Barker for the honorable or fair type, yet his easy forgiveness of Rukey and the clear respect he held both those under him and those who bested him pleasantly surprised the Sam. It was no coincidence that out of all the encampments in the Downside (as few as there were), he found himself staying at this one.

"Ahem." A voice in front of Sam coughed.

The Reader looked up, returning from his thoughts to see the fatigued yet satisfied face of Shanna, the white mop of curls atop her head splayed across her face, soaked with sweat.

"Sorry, I was thinking about something. What is it?"

"Do you always do that? Just trail in and out of deep thought when people are trying to talk to you?"

Apparently, more times than I would like. "Only when I have something worth thinking about. Did you want to ask me something?"

"Oh, right," the harp's inquisitive tone suddenly turned to an apologetic one as her eyes met the floor. "I'm sorry about breaking into your wagon and looking at your stuff."

"Well you didn't technically break in since the door was unlocked, but I appreciate your apology."

Shanna's amber eyes widened in surprise at the Reader's words. "Oh, thank you." She rubbed the back of her neck with a wing. "I guess I'm off to go sit around until the next game." The harp turned to leave but stopped in her tracks. Her head looked back in Sam's direction. "Did you happen to say anything? During the game, I mean."

The Reader feigned a look of surprise. "No, I didn't say a word. Why?"

"It's… nothing. I'll see you around."

The Reader didn't know why or how his mind went off like that. I probably just lost focus, that's all he concluded.

The harp departed and made her way back over to her tent to seek protection from the desert heat. Sam didn't blame her, the sun's rays already was forcing sweat to seep out from his pores, despite his cloak's protection. The Reader packed up the folding chair, holding it under his arm as he made his way over to Barker's own tent, where extra supplies were kept for the games. Ironically, although he had been clad in the cloak as punishment, marking him as one who "spat in the wise teachings of our merciful Commonwealth" by pursuing the act of reading, it provided adequate shielding from the elements.

Sam ducked between the tent flaps and made his way to the corner where he dumped the chair where all the other folding chairs, riteballs, pieces of rope, and all other miscellaneous supplies lay. He turned to leave, but his exit was suddenly blocked a certain mohawked cur.

"Grr, we shoulda' 'ad 'em!" Barker groaned as he walked past the Reader, before turning to look at him once more. "You saw it, yeah? They were on the ropes!"

"I did, I thought it was going to have to go into overtime for a second there." The Reader said. "Have you considered switching one of your teammates with someone more apt to counter her abilities?

"Wot you tryin' to say, mate?"

"Maybe if you adjusted your team composition, you may have fared better."

Barker looked up at Sam for a moment, his face unreadable, before suddenly letting out a bellowing, guttural laugh. "You tryin' to git me to replace one of my boys?" He laughed even harder, his voice protruding all throughout and around the tent. "Listen 'ere, mate. It's me and 'dem, 'dem and me 'til the end. I don't care if Old Murr himself rose from the grave to give our team a go, we're a pack. Ain't no seperatin' 'til the day we die."

The Reader nodded, slightly grinning at the cur's commitment as the laughter died down. "I'll keep that in mind." He lifted the tent flaps to step out but stopped. Those same thoughts from earlier began to return to him now that the excitement had ended, circulating in his thoughts like a storm that refused to end. "Say, Barker…" Sam found himself unable to meet the cur's eyes and stared aimlessly into the distant sands. "What would've you have done if you had won?"

"Hmm?" The black cur scratched his ear. "Guess I woulda' celebrated 'widda boys and cracked open a bottle of that sweet whiskey we got from Ron last time he came through." He snorted. "Not that we're plannin' on not drinkin' tonight, anyway."

"No, I mean the Rites. What would you have done if you were freed?"

A silence filled the tent. A few delicate seconds passed before Sam heard the coarse sound of Barker snorting. "Didn't ya just hear what I said? We're a pack, mate. If there ain't no them, there ain't no me. You got a slug up yer ear or sumthin'?"

"I must be tired. Anyway, you're right. I'll see you at supper."

The Reader exited just in time for a certain flying imp to descend down upon him from the desert sky, landing firmly on his head.

"Scraa-kiriri-hi!"

"Glad to see you're back, Ti'zo!" Sam returned his friend's greeting, happy that he had returned from his short voyage. "Find any fish?"

"Krri-hoo…." The Reader could feel the red imp's head slumping down in defeat from atop his own.

"Ah, well I'm sure you'll find one in one of the lakes around here, eventually."

"Scra-kirri?" Ti'zo asked, the absence of fish in his stomach a clear motive for the question. If he were an imp, he would be curious as to why he'd want to live in a fish-forsaken place too, Sam figured.

The Reader scratched the back of his head. "While there are few sources of water around here, almost all of them are far less contaminated than other sources in the Downside, so we don't have to boil them as long. Plus, the subterranean creatures that pop out of the sand are high in number, so we only have to move every couple of weeks."

"Krri-kir-hoo.." the imp's fluttered downward from his position on atop his friend's cranium, his usually joyful face drooping with sadness at a lack of aquatic sustenance.

"Tell you what, after this tournament's down we'll take a small trip up north and stock up on as much fish as you can eat," Sam promised, smiling at the prospect. "Though, we'll have to hide them from the others. But that won't be a problem, will it?"

"Scraa-ki!" Ti'zo saluted with a small blue wing, his wide, trademark grin returning to his face. "Ki-hoo!" The imp suddenly perked up, his face changing from joyful to looking like he had forgotten something.

"Hm? What is it, Ti'zo?"

"Hree-kiriri-kir-hoo!" Ti'zo stated, indicating he had run into someone they both knew from the Rites.

"Really? Who?" The Reader questioned.

"Scraaaa-kii!" The imp flew in front of Sam, making his way over to the hill where the Blackwagon lay perched.

See for myself, then? Hmm. The Reader followed his tiny airborne companion. Besides Barker, he hadn't run into any other members of the other triumvirates. It was probably for the better, he reasoned. He had denied them their freedom, they should hate him. Sam doubted the rest of them were like Barker, who was only in for the fun of it. They all had lives: people they loved, ambitions they strove for, dreams they wanted to fulfill.

And the Reader had spat in those dreams, making them watch hopelessly as one of their enemies gained the freedom they so dearly desired.

"Scraa-hoo?"

"Right, coming."

---

"Hold on, I'm getting there."

Sam made his way to the red door of the wagon and promptly swung it open, the wood letting out a large creek as he and his imp companion made their way inside. "Alright, so who's our special guest-"

The Reader was rather shocked to see Sandra projecting herself out from the Beyonder Orb, her closed eyes twitching in anger. He was even more shocked to see a very frightened Almer cowering in front of her. The boy's fearful eyes immediately turned to him.

"Almer, is that you?"

"Get this… wraith away from me!" The boy cried, backed up against the corner of the wagon.

"Sandra, play nice."

Sandra grunted, but relented and floated away from him. "If this foolish boy did not wish to summon me, then he should have stayed his hand from my vessel."

Sam took this moment to get a good look at the son of Dalbert Oldheart. His fair skin was contrasted by his wild, dark hair which he had tied back loosely, causing multiple strands to hang off the sides of his face. He still bore the bone-like earrings, paw pendant, and blue-striped markings at the tip of his nose, but no longer wore the raiment of the Fate, opting instead for a meager brown cloak and loose blue apparel, obviously meant for travel. His large, navy blue eyes looked to the Reader's own for a moment, before turning to Ti'zo.

"Creature!"

"Kraa-he?"

"You said you'd be back in five minutes. You left me here with… her for twenty!"

"Hraaa-he." Ti'zo apologized, remarking that he was hungry.

Almer groaned in exasperation, sitting down on a nearby stool and holding his head in his hands. The Reader didn't need to read his mind to know the curses and swears he was likely holding back.

"What brings you to our blackwagon, Almer?"

The brunette perked up at that, his eyes meeting the Reader's. "I wanted to see you."

"Me?" Sam pointed a finger at himself.

"Yes, you." Almer's voice carried the same air of irritation as it did when they had met during the Rites. "You know a lot about the Scribes, right?"

Sandra scoffed at the mention of those who had imprisoned her but otherwise remained silent, sitting on the table her orb was situated on and crossing her arms.

"Er, yes, it comes with reading the Book." Sam replied, still confused as to how and why the boy was in the Blackwagon. "Before you go any further, how did you even know I was here?"

"I went to Hollowroot, a man there said that you and Barker's gang were camped out here in Jomeur Valley."

Must have been one who just passed through, the Reader concluded. "Okay, so what is it that you want?"

"I…" Almer trailed off, his eyes meeting the floor. "Father… he wanted me to go on a pilgrimage. To the places where the Scribes had left their mark."

"Scraaa-he?" Ti'zo fluttered his wings, landing on the table near him.

Almer seemed to pick up on the imp's question without necessarily understanding him. "He…" The boy's voice sounded strained, and Sam could see his hands clenching as he looked further down at the floor. "My father passed… about a month ago."

Sam's eyes went wide. "Oh…" The polite cur that was his father… dead? He knew that Almer's father was old, but he wouldn't have considered him infirm or sickly. I suppose that those who don't transform into demons don't fare as well in the Downside. "I'm... I'm sorry."

Ti'zo too had looked both surprised and saddened at the news and gave his own condolences. Sandra didn't say anything, but her face had lost its irritated expression, transforming into a more neutral one.

A silence filled the wagon. It was only after a few moments had passed that Almer decided to speak up. "He said that he could tell you knew a lot about the Scribes. It was the way you held the book, or the way you helped conduct the Rites, or something. Whatever it was, he wanted me to ask you to accompany me."

"Accompany you?" The Reader asked, "Throughout the entire Downside?"

"You don't have to come with me the whole way." The boy looked up again, his eyes a bit red. The two navy orbs looked desperate and his forehead was creased in fear of refusal. "Just to the Spring, at least. It's been years since I've been there so I'm not so sure how to find the way, and plus…" Almer looked off to the side, a blush of embarrassment coming across his face. "I may have slightly damaged my blackwagon.

"Slightly?"

"Well, it can't really fly anymore, but that's beside the point!"

"Hmm…" Sam slid out a chair from the table and sat down next to the boy. "You realize that I've got responsibilities here, right? I can't exactly run off."

"It shouldn't be too far from here, assuming we take your wagon."

"Hraaa-kerriki!" Ti'zo concurred, estimating the voyage being less than an hour.

The Reader rubbed his chin, leaning back in his chair. He and Ti'zo were on cooking duty tonight, and he didn't want to get reprimanded by Barker if he got caught out in a sandstorm and shirked his obligation. "I don't know…"

Almer peered up at him, utilizing a skill that Sam had thought native purely to curs. His eyes turned big and his mouth began to quiver.

"Pleaaaaasse?"

The Reader sighed. "Fine…"

Almer hopped off his chair. "I'll go grab my things!" He quickly made his way out the door, leaving the cripple, the imp, and the ghost in the wagon alone.

"Scraa-hi!" Ti'zo chirped, his smile wide and his wings fluttering happily at the outcome.

Sandra scoffed. "You're too soft."

---

It turns out that when Almer said "things," he had meant literally everything in his wagon. From the countless canine memorabilia, to the myriad of bone-charms, and even to a life-size bust of Jomeur Many-Mane himself. Even the drive-imps from the Fate's blackwagon had decided to come over and nest in the attic where the Nightwings' own drive-imps lay. Sam was reluctant about all the new items being put into his wagon, but the boy swore that he merely didn't want any of his things to get robbed or stolen while they were away. The Reader had never had anything stolen from his blackwagon, but then again he had a certain phantom to ward off any intruders, so he conceded on the condition that after they were back, he wouldn't be the one to unload it all. Luckily for the Reader, Almer's wagon was parked nearby, on the same hill, in fact, allowing the transfer to take less than ten minutes. A quick glance at the torn wings and fractured woodwork would cause any to deduce that it crashed, but the boy swore that he had only just "bruised" it and that it was fully capable of flight, only needing a few "minor repairs."

Regardless, after Almer was situated, the Blackwagon took flight for the Spring of Jomeur. Ti'zo had flown up to the where the drive-imps were in an effort to make use out of the new arrivals, leaving Sam and Almer in the main room of the wagon.

"Er, Reader?"

"You can just call me Sam."

"What's with the ghost lady?"

Sandra had receded into her orb, which Sam had placed in the folds of his clothing. "Well-"

"I am not a ghost, boy."

As if on cue, the blind assassin manifested in the room once again, a thin, wispy stream of green energy linking her ghostly form to the orb. She glared at the boy as much as someone who was blind could glare.

Almer immediately shot up, but to his credit had adopted a far less terror-stricken expression than when he spoke to her earlier. "Just what are you, exactly?"

"I am Sandra, as our lovely Reader has already informed you. Sandra the Unseeing. The Scribes you hold so dear imprisoned me in this orb many centuries ago.

"What did you do?"

"I was good at my job and loyal to my employer, and that's all it took for them, I suppose."

Sam decided to keep quiet and instead focused on piloting the Blackwagon, his hands deftly switching between each of the five handles used for flight and his eyesight focused on the windows to the outside.

If Almer had curiosity toward her vague response, he was wise enough not to act upon it. "And you can just… appear like that?"

"If I so desire. Primarily I exist within the orb: a small space in which I can draw the spirits of others in."

"How does that work?" Almer seemed to have lost his usual irritated tone, his intrigue sparked by the phantom before him.

"Simply by touching the orb."

"So you've been in there alone for centuries?"

Sandra's eyebrow twitched. "Others exist within as well, all of us unwilling members of the Beyonder triumvirate."

"What's that like?"

"Has anyone ever told you that you speak too much?"

The boy snorted. "Well excuse me for being curious about some specter who just appears in front of people simply to insult them!"

"I only insult those who deserve it."

"She insults everyone, don't take it personally." The Reader chimed in.

"I don't see her insulting you!"

"That's because he knows how to keep his mouth shut, unlike you, worm."

"Worm?!" Almer got up from where he was sitting at the table, his face turning red with anger.

Oh boy.

Before any of the two could get another word out, a certain imp spoke from the attic. "Kraaa-hi!"

"Alright, I'll start descending now."

Sam pulled on one of the handholds in the back, and slowly the Blackwagon began making its way to the ground. Almer and Sandra both had turned quiet, each avoiding each other's eyes as the vehicle descended. After a few minutes, the wagon rocked as its wheels made contact with the ground, causing all the ornaments in the room, new and old, to shake as the wooden axes spun across the sand. Slowly the Reader decelerated the wagon, and within a minute it came to a stop.

Ti'zo fluttered downwards from the attic. When Volfred and Tariq had restored the Blackwagon's flight system, they informed the Reader that the drive-imps actually had a small window in their attic that allowed them to see out in front of the vehicle, granting them the ability to see where they were going. Ti'zo affirmed this, but Sam was never able to actually see this himself, one reason being that the drive-imps highly valued their privacy, the second being that the attic was far too small for him to fit in. He had always had a number of questions regarding how a group of such small creatures could allow the Blackwagon to not only move across land but sea and sky as well. Volfred simply told him to trust in the designs of Lu Sclorian.

"So? We're here, then?" Almer asked, having approached the Reader.

"So it seems." Sam grabbed his cane which he had left resting against the wall and headed to the door. Sandra turned her head toward Almer and gave one last sneer before her phantasmal form vanished in a swirl of green light. Ti'zo, as if oblivious to the conflict between them, happily followed Sam out to open air once the Reader opened the door.

Almer shuddered and clenched the paw pendant that hung from his neck, closing his eyes and breathing deeply.

"You coming?" Sam asked. He didn't need to read the boy's mind to know he was thinking of his father.

"Yes. Let us depart."

---

The first thing that greeted the Reader when he exited the wagon was the huge, decayed carapace of the hive-titan Bianlanthius. Its stinger, although upright, fell limply across the large ball of beetle dung that Jomeur had dumped on the monster's head some eight centuries ago. Luckily, it had dried and hardened over the centuries and left no horrid smell despite its organic contents. Under it lied the crushed head of the beast, its shattered chitin expression one of terror. Its huge claw, a mixture of white and blue shades like the rest of its body, were clenched shut, likely in a reflex of pain in the titan's final moments. No matter how many times Sam visited the Celestial Landmarks of the Scribes, he would never stop being impressed with the monumental feats they performed.

Contrasting the massive remains was the large shining pond before it. The bright water glittered in the desert sun's light as if it were a mirror. The waters were bright and translucent, like those surrounding the tropical islands to the east of the Sahrian Union's lands, and the spring was so still that as he approached the Reader could see his reflection almost perfectly, his hooded form staring back at him from the sacred waters.

He heard Almer approaching from behind him. "So this is the Spring?"

Sam turned, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "Yes, I thought you had been here before. In fact, this was where our triumvirates first met."

"Well yes, but I have never actually seen the Spring itself. Father and I were camped out just nearby, and after our Rite, he suggested that we move to a more open area so that when the stars next shine for us we could be ready to go wherever they might lead us."

"Your father could read the stars?"

Almer nodded, staring into the waters beside the Reader. "He could not read the Book like you do, at least not enough to make use of its contents. But he had been a proud follower of the Eighth Word before we were exiled and had always sought to see the landmarks himself. Once we were cast down, he insisted we stay in more "safer" locations, such as Hollowroot, where we lived for a while."

"Wait, you two were in Hollowroot?" Sam's eyes widened in surprise.

"Yes, what of it?"

"The Nightwings and I went through there on our way to our first Rite. We must've passed right by you."

Almer blinked in curiosity. "Really?"

"Yes, but if we went by you how was it that you made it here first?"

"We just went once Father saw the stars tell us to go. I remember it, it was in the middle of supper, he almost knocked over the plate he was eating from."

Sam rubbed his chin. "Strange, it was only after our Rite with the Accusers that the stars shone for us, and that was late in the night."

Almer shrugged. "Perhaps the stars shine for different triumvirates at different times."

"Scraaaaa-ki!" Darting in between the two, Ti'zo, having returned from stretching his wings, immediately plummeted into the pond with a loud splash, causing water to go flying into the faces and onto the heads of the two.

"Urrgh!" Almer grunted, shaking his hair wildly to get the liquid off. This caused only more water to get splashed upon the Reader, but his cloak protected him from the brunt of it. "Damn creature, watch where you fly!"

If Ti'zo could hear him from under the Spring, he did not respond, opting instead to zoom through the water like a swordfish. Sam was quite surprised when he had learned from Ti'zo that imps were quite adept at swimming. It was how they caught their food from their place of origin in the Deathless Tempest, but just from looking at them the Reader never guessed them to be aquatic hunters.

The imp surfaced after a moment, but both Sam and Almer had already prepared for the next splash and shielded their faces with their arms.

"Scraaa-hoo…" Ti'zo small form sighed.

"No fish here either?"

The imp nodded silently.

Sam knelt down and dipped his hand in the water. To his surprise, it was actually quite cool, compared to the warm bodies of water that could scarcely be found across the rest of Jomeur Valley.

"Hmm."

"What is it?" Almer asked from behind him.

"I'm just wondering if the water is kept cold because it used to be titan blood, or if it's even truly water."
Almer knelt down and tested the water with his hand as well. "Father told me about the story. His blood turned into the Spring, right?"

Sam nodded. "Indeed, thankfully it's not sullied by the waste."

"What waste?"

The Reader turned to Almer. "The waste that he dumped on Bialanthius, what else?"

"You mean the rock?" The boy pointed to the large lump that sat upon the dead beast's head.

"That's no rock, didn't your father tell you the story?"

Almer's eyebrow furrowed in confusion. "Yes, he did. The Alpha-Chief lured the hive-titan here and crushed the thing. Are you saying there's something else?"

Sam found himself chuckling. It would appear that perhaps the Eighth Word, either on purpose or accidentally, had missed a little detail in the story. "Yes. That's not a rock, Almer."

"Then what is it?"

"16,000 tons of beetle excrement.

The boy's eyes immediately widened, but then squinted as he frowned skeptically. "That's insane. Is this your idea of a joke?"

"It's no joke. It's written in the Book of Rites itself, chapter five, page 81, in the words of Underking Ores himself. "

"How would someone even get that much…. and from beetles, of all things?"

"Ores claims that Jomeur refused to explain."

Almer's eyes scanned the Reader's own for a moment, searching for any sign of deception, but found none. He grunted, turning his attention back to the water. "Unbelievable."

"The Scribes act in mysterious ways, Almer."

A silence fell across the three. Ti'zo silently lamented his misfortune, lying on his back and lazily using his wings to guide him across the water. Almer pondered on the strange story, and Sam simply took in the beauty of the Spring. Eventually, the Reader spoke up.

"Aren't you mad at me?" he asked. His voice was quiet and unsure.

Almer didn't need to ask to know what he was talking about. He let out a low sigh. "I still am, to be honest. But Father… he told me not to be. He said that the Scribes will favor whom they shall, and that if we were to lose a Rite then we were to lose, and not dwell on things outside of our control."

The Reader stayed silent, simply staring into the blue pond.

"I'm don't think I can forgive as easily as he could." The boy continued. "I'm not sure about the Scribes being grand, mystical deities either. But what I am sure of is that he wouldn't want me to end up angry and cynical."

"For what it's worth… I'm sorry." Sam spoke softly. "I… we both had people we wanted to be free of the Downside. That doesn't make it okay, but… I just want you to know that we never held anything against you or your father. We actually enjoyed your company, compared to that of the other triumvirates.

"Do you keep in contact with them?"

"The Nightwings? Yes, I do try to send messages to them when I can. Why?"

Now it was Almer's voice who turned unsure. "Do you know what happened to the girl you traveled with? The one with the frizzy hair?"

"You mean Fae? As far as I'm aware, she's living with Jodariel, another member of the Nightwings. Why?"

In the corner of his eye, the Reader could see a small redness spreading across the boy's cheeks. "It's nothing." He said quickly. "I was merely, curious, that's all."

Silence fell across them again, before Almer eventually turned to the Reader, who met his navy blue eyes with his own.

"For the record, Reader, I don't think I'll ever be able to forgive you for denying my father freedom."

Sam nodded solemnly, "I understand-"

"But," Almer interrupted, "I don't blame you freeing members of your own triumvirate. We were not related by blood, but Father was always family to me, and I would do anything for him. I didn't see much of your triumvirate aside from the Rites, but from what I did see, you seemed quite close as well. So while I can't forgive you personally, I also can't blame you for putting family first.

Sam's eyes widened in surprise. Surprise of forgiveness he did thought he did not earn nor deserve in any way. He simply nodded once more in silent acceptance.

A third moment of silence passed before the Reader used his cane to hoist himself up. "Well," he stretched his free arm upwards, and then switched his cane to his other hand to do so with his other arm. "Let's get done what we came here for."

Sam reached around his neck and unclipped the small clasp for his cloak, causing it to fall gently onto the sand behind him. He reached his hand back to help smoothen his chestnut hair, which he kept swept-back under his hood. His skin was fair, if it bit pale, and soft green eyes complimented his narrow face. A thin nose sat above his set of small lips, which pursed as he focused on the water before him.

"Uh, what are you doing?"

"The Book says that those who walk within the Spring will experience "the resplendent glory of the land." Considering we came all this way, why not see for ourselves?" The Reader used his cane to balance himself as he made his way down the gentle incline into the water.

The water was cool, but not cold, and felt like that of a gentle spring rain against his skin. His clothes naturally got wet as well, but he knew the heat of the scorching desert sun would quickly dry them once he got out. The incline into the Spring was long and gradual, allowing him to walk a good distance before the water rose to his hips. He turned to Almer. "Are you coming in?"

Almer watched the Reader from the edge of the large pond, his face unreadable, before he stood up and too unclasped his cloak, before rolling up his pant legs and making his way in. Soon enough both of them were standing beside each other, their imp companion still floating around off to the side.

"Well, it's certainly refreshing." Sam stated, relishing in the relinquishment from the unrelenting heat of the arid valley.

"It is quite nice." Almer agreed.

The two stood there for a moment longer before the Reader spoke up. "Well, I'm having no feelings of "resplendent glory," or divine enlightenment, what about you?"

"The water's nice, but I'm not feeling anything too "resplendent," either, Reader."

"You can still just call me Sam, by the way."

"Oh, right." Almer rubbed the back of his neck. "How come everyone in your triumvirate called you "Reader" anyways?"

"I'm not sure. It just kind of caught on, I suppose." Sam answered. "What about you, Ti'zo? Any feelings of resplendent glory?"

"Hreee-hoo."

"Guess not." The Reader sighed. "Well, it seems we're just about done here, so let's head back and-"

Before he could finish that thought, Sam's head exploded in a sharp pain. It felt like someone had slammed it against a wall and then ran a knife into it for good measure. Stars danced in his vision as he fell to his knees, his cane dropping into the water as his hands grasped his head. He could make out the muffled voice of someone calling his name, but everything seemed to blurry to make out.

Just then, his vision returned to him. But he was not in the Spring. He saw rough sand and dirt around him, along with a myriad of sand dunes, a sharp contrast to the relatively flat badlands of Jomeur Valley. His body felt heavy and wet, as if he had been dunked into a cold lake and roughly pulled out. His breath fell short, and he could feel someone cold and hard pressed against his face. He tried moving but found his arms were bound, only being met with the harsh jingle of a set of chains. He looked up and saw a river running harshly. It cascaded in a winding, treacherous course. It was with a panicked realization that Sam realized that this was the Sclorian River, the same cold, harsh watercourse that he had been thrown in to transport him to the Downside.

What… what in the world just happened?

The Reader's thoughts were interrupted by his body being forcibly dragged off to the side. He felt a hand around the chains that bound his arms, belonging to someone strong enough to whisk his entire body around with one arm easily. Suddenly he felt the hand bring him up into a kneeling position, and his eyes were met with a concealed visage. The collar of whoever the person grabbing him was wearing was pulled up so high it surrounded the back of the man's head like some sort of fan. A thick, silvery fur scurf covered the figure's nose and mouth, and atop his head was a black hat with a wide circular brim, stretching outwards causing shade to fall across the stranger's features.

But what caught his attention most of all were the large glass goggles the man wore. They were a deep red and wide like saucers, and stared back at him, hiding the eyes of the wearer completely. The Reader was unnerved by this, but was even more frightened by the foreign reflection he saw staring back at him in the glass. Although distorted, he could make out a white, porcelain mask. A small black line fell across where there were two holes for the eyes, and he could see the line marked with three small vertical ones, one on each side and a larger one in the center. Just below that was two small holes meant for his nose so that he could breathe. A grey powdered wig lied atop of his head and fell down to his shoulders, sodden by the river water.

Across the forehead of the reflection, however, was a tall, glassy star-shaped headpiece, the center of which was a painted pentagon that was evenly separated into eight different parts, each marked by a different color.

The Astral Crown. The Reader recognized it within seconds. Which means…

Before Sam could finish that thought a hand clad in leather drove back and then launched forward, the stranger's fist brutally slamming into his face, causing a large a wave of pain to roll across-

"Sam!"

The Reader gasped, blinking reflexively, only to find himself kneeling in a pool of water. He could feel someone's arms under his own preventing him from falling in and could make out greenish phantasmal energy, which surrounded a very beautiful and very familiar face.

"Sandra?"

"Sam? Can you hear me?

"Yes, I can hear you. What just-"the Reader looked around. Sandra was in front of him. Her face had loss its typical stoic or smug expression. Instead, she looked worried, her forehead creased and her lips pursed nervously. Behind him, he noticed Almer, who was been holding him up. He too looked down at Sam with a worried expression, as did the imp perched on his shoulders, his large eyes wide and frightened.

"Boy, help him up."

He felt arms hoist him upwards and noticed his own arm guided to being draped across the boy's shoulder. Almer knelt down for a moment, grasping at the cane that floated to the Spring's floor and put it into Sam's free hand. "Here, just lean on me."

Together they made their way back to the sands. Ti'zo fluttered around them, trying to make sure nothing got in their way, and he noticed Sandra, who although she couldn't see, was still scanning the Reader for any sign of weakness or injury he may have possessed. He let himself be guided back into the Blackwagon, where Almer set him down in the chair.

"I'll go get your cloak." The boy quickly exited back out the door they came.

Sam took steps to control his breathing, closing his eyes and trying to slow down his racing heart. His bad leg felt strained from the pressure he had put on it, and a dull pain lingered in the back of his head, like a receding headache.

"Imp, go fetch a towel."

"Scraaa-hi!" He heard Ti'zo's wings beat quickly and retreat into the common room.

"Sam, are you okay? Are you hurt at all?"

"No, no, I-I'm fine. Just a bit out of breath." He opened his eyes, the sight of his loved one offering comfort to his panicked form. "I'm guessing you didn't see any of that?"

"See what?" Sandra questioned, still trying to detect if there was anything wrong. "What did you see?"

"So you didn't." Sam deduced.

"I didn't see anything." She answered. "What do you mean by that? What do you mean you saw something?"

"Scraaa-kirri!" The flapping of wings alerted the two to Ti'zos return. He clenched a small hand towel in his feet, which he offered to the Reader.

"Thanks, Ti'zo." Sam grabbed the towel and wiped his face with it, cleaning off a layer of sweat he didn't even know he had.

The door creaked as Almer brushed by it, his own cloak draped across his shoulders and the Reader's in his hands. "Here." He gave it to Sam, who graciously accepted it.

The three wordlessly gave the Reader a moment to catch his breath and collect himself. Ti'zo stood on the table silently while Sandra stayed quiet, attempting to listen in an attempt to discover any other aberrations in the Reader's health. The only sound, apart from Sam's breathing, came from Almer as he paced across the room, the wooden boards creaking under his feet.

Once Sam had ensured he calmed himself and that he was alright, he spoke.

"I saw something. A vision, I think."

Almer's eyes immediately met his own. "From the Scribes?"

"I'm not sure… How long was I out?

"Only about a minute or so." The boy answered. "So, what did you see?"

"I was by a river: the Sclorian River…" the Reader trailed off, then quickly looked to his imp companion. "Hey, Ti'zo."

"Kraa-hi?"

"The Sandfolds aren't too far from here, right?"

"Scraaaaa-kiri-hoo!" Ti'zo affirmed.

Sam's attention then turned to Almer. "Almer, do you have anything else you need to do today?"

"No-at least, I don't think so. Why?" The boy cocked his head in confusion.

"Then it's settled. We're heading to the Sclorian River." The Reader stood up, grasping his cane and making his way over to the flight controls.

"Hold, Reader." Sandra floated in front of Sam, blocking his path. "Why is it you wish to travel there? Does this have to do with this vision that you've seen?"

"Yes, but just trust me on this."

"Sam," Sandra's voice had just a hint of concern to it, something the Reader knew only he could detect. "You've been out in the desert sun with those peons for weeks on end, you probably just need some time to rest. Some time away from the mouth-breathing hordes."

Sam shook his head, his voice determined. "No, this wasn't just some fever dream or hallucination. I know it was real, I felt it, and I'll tell you all about it on the way. Trust me on this, Sandra. Please?"

The blind assassin was silent, her expression unreadable. Eventually, she gave out a small sigh. "Only you, Sam." She whispered before returning to her orb in a flash of green light.

Sam walked over to the flight controls. "Ti'zo, get the drive-imps ready, please."

"Hree-hi!" Ti'zo flew upwards to the attic, vanishing into the small room.

"Sorry about this, Almer." The Reader grabbed one of the rope's handholds and pulled it down, causing the wagon to open up its wings. "You don't mind, do you?"

Almer just grunted, before sitting down at the chair he was in before, crossing his arms. "Just make it quick. I don't want someone to run off with the Fate's wagon."

Sam wasn't sure how someone could steal a broken wagon, but nodded nonetheless, bracing himself as he felt the Blackwagon leave the earth and make its way back into the sky.

---

The Convict grasped the riverbank with an outstretched hand, pulled himself upwards and onto the sands in front of him. His breaths came out in heavy heaves, and his entire body was soaked wet from the cold, unforgiving waters of the Sclorian River. He had been thoroughly informed of and prepared to travel down the treacherous thing, but no warnings could have prepared him for just how hostile the river truly was, its rushing torrents and freezing temperature unmatched to anything he had ever seen topside.

Then again, he had traveled down it once before, but that was years ago, and he didn't have to worry about extra cargo back then.

As he knelt keeled over on the riverbank's upward incline he felt the chain he had wrapped around his hand pulled further downriver. The Convict stood upright, turned around and directed his cold gaze to the water. The chain he was holding was connected to another man who was floating limply down the Sclorian River. His long, heavy robes, once white, pristine, and as bright as the stars themselves, were now soaked and sullied beyond recognition. His powdered wig fell across his porcelain mask like a wet curtain, and his gloves, once a fine black silk, now dangled loosely from his wrists.

The Convict grunted, annoyed at his captive's lack of consciousness and yanked the metal link harshly. It was tied around the robed man's body, binding his arms from movement but left his legs free. The man's body was spurred by the movement but didn't show any further signs of stirring.

The man grunted under his thick scarf, once belonging to a silver fox, before grasping the chain with both his hands and beginning to reign his captive in. It took some effort, but eventually, the holy man was brought before him, joined on the riverbank. The Convict delivered a slight nudge to the figure's shoulder with his foot.

Nothing.

The Convict used his foot to push his shoulder up, causing the unconscious man to turn over onto his back. He then raised his knee, before delivering a heavy stomp straight into the center of his captive's diaphragm with his steel-toed boot.

The figure lurched, gasping in agony as his ribs screamed, bruised and screaming in pain from the force of his captor's attack. He laid on the riverbank, taking in sharp and painful breaths before his vision came into focus of the man who looked down at him.

"Androbeles." The Convict's voice, although muffled from his scarf, was thick like mud and emanated from the man powerfully.

The Archjustice, still gasping and wincing every time he did due to his injured ribs peered up at his captor. Some water must have seeped under his mask during the journey down, making it even more difficult for him to breathe.

The Convict gripped Androbeles' by the neck of his robe, his finger digging into the man's chest, and yanked him up so that they'd be face to face.

The Archjustice immediately realized how much taller his captor was than him, his towering frame challenging that of demons. His body was covered in a long grey traveling coat, the inside lined with wool still dripping from his journey down the river. It had brass buttons that held it together, each dirtied with dust and dirt from longtime use. The collar of the coat was pulled up high, helping conceal his face along with the wide-brimmed hat and scarf. And on his eyes he wore large red goggles, completely concealing his eyes from the view of Androbeles.

The Convict's other hand grasped the Archjustice's chin, and Androbeles braced himself. However, he was only met with digits clad in leather undoing the clasps around the bottom of his mask and lifting it forward slightly, causing a small reservoir of water that had accumulated to come spilling out.

Although it still hurt to breathe, now Androbeles could actually get a good amount of oxygen into his lungs and took great gasps of air to do so. The Convict watched silently as the infallible head of the Commonwealth utilized what little strength he had to simply catch his breath.

"Who…" his voice was weak and sounded more like the gurgle of an old, dying man than the booming preaching and sentencing from the Commonwealth's highest authority. "You… you have no right..."

Androbeles wasn't in idiot. He knew that he had made many enemies in his position as the Archjustice, just as all archjustices before him had. But now that the Commonwealth was overthrown, people could actually act upon that animosity. Whoever his kidnapper was, he knew that he likely wasn't going to keep him alive for much longer. He probably had brought him to the Downside to enact some sort of poetic vengeance, he figured.

Androbeles focused his mind, utilizing the enlightenment he had gained from the Rites, the knowledge that the Book had given him, and the power that was bound between its pages and hidden within its words. He had been living in the Downside for about a fullmoon and a half with the Nightwings, and although they had multiple failures, each offered him the opportunity for his powers to grow even stronger. This would take a lot out of him, but it was the best chance he had.

He directed his gaze to the man before him and focused on trying to send a psychic barrage toward the mind of his captor. His thoughts slammed against the psyche of his opponent, unable to penetrate in the slightest.

What? How is this possible? The Archjustice's panicked thoughts raced through his mind. When his abilities as a Reader began to manifest, Androbeles has utilized them to their fullest, dazing opponents and reading their minds to gain insight into their plans. Yet whoever this was appeared to be fully immune. Sure, Androbeles' abilities had likely waned over time since he had held the Book, but his position as the Voice overseeing the Rites had definitely ensured that he still held a large degree of power.

Is he a Reader as well?

The thought petrified the Archjustice. If that was the case, then he was doomed. Desperate, Androbeles focused all of his remaining mental energy on a psychic shockwave, hoping at least to alert someone nearby to his presence. Anyone at all, he didn't care so long as they rescue him! His thoughts reverberated throughout the landscape, spreading like a large ripple and seeking any who could sense-

"Ahem." An annoyed muffle grunt emitted from the figure in front of him.

The red saucers simply reflected his masked visage back at him, the man behind them staring silently. Suddenly he pulled his shoulder back, curling his hand into a fist before launching it straight into the jaw of the Archjustice.

Shards of porcelain rained down from his face in a resounding crack as the bottom portion of his mask shattered. The Convict had stopped supporting him as soon as his fist landed, causing the blow to send him sprawling back down to the bottom of the riverbank, the edges of his wig being swept along by the uncaring water.

"I have every right."

The Convict grabbed the groaning man and pulled him over his shoulder, easily carrying the Archjustice without trouble.

"Don't try anything like that again." The gravelly voice warned. "I know your tricks."

A splash from in front of him caught the Convict's attention, causing him to look at the river. Just upstream was the body of Chaplain Decimus. He had thrown the old man down the river before leaping in with Androbeles. It was good to see that he had at least made it this far before dying. The more suffering he went through, the better.

A low croak proved the Convict to be wrong, however. The muffled groaning of the man betrayed his living state, causing the Convict to reach in the waters and grasp his foot with his free hand, the one not holding the Archjustice and wrapped in the chain leash, just as it began to pass him. He inspected the pathetic geezer through his snow goggles as he pulled him ashore. Unlike the Archjustice who got to keep his fancy garments due to his house arrest, Decimus was wrapped in the thin rags of a prisoner, the edges of which had been torn off by the rushing torrent of the water. The prisoner made no indication that he was aware of anything happening around him, his bald and wrinkled features simply letting out a continual low groan. His lanky form shook with pain, beads of sweat beginning to manifest on his face.

He wasn't long for this world. Luckily, the Convict didn't plan to keep him alive anyway.

Carrying the weak Archjustice in one hand and dragging the chaplain with the other, the Convict made his way up a nearby sand dune. Once atop the mound, he set down the Androbeles on one side, dropped Decimus face first into the sand on his other, and sat, waiting.

The winds nipped at his longcoat as he remained perched on the dune, his eyes scanning the horizon for a sign of his contact. Decimus continued his groaning and Androbeles let out weak sighs and croaks, his energy exhausted. He could see the wetness of his clothes quickly drying in the sunlight. The three remained like this for minutes on end, until-

A nearby howl echoed across the Sandfolds. Howlers.

The Convict stood up and reached for Decimus' collar once again, dragging the tattered garment and its wearer along with it across the sand as he searched for the source of the animalistic cry.

Sure enough, within a minute a myriad of bipedal imp-like animals had approached the sand dune. Their fur was spiky and coarse, and saliva trickled down between their yellow, pointed teeth. The Convict remembered howlers from his time in the Downside. He did not encounter them until he reached the Downside Prairie, but regardless they existed in multiple regions of the plane, the Sandfolds and Prairie being two of many. The ones native to here liked to feast on new arrivals from the river, and their fur had turned a light brown to adapt to the arid region. He had been informed that he might face trouble from the creatures.

That was what Decimus was for.

The Convict grabbed Decimus' jaw in an iron grip with one hand and gripped his the back of his head with the other. Mustering a large degree of strength, he pulled with each until a loud, sickening pop resonated from the man's neck, causing his groaning to immediately cease. A quick look at his eyes revealed him to still be alive, merely paralyzed.

The howlers watched him from below, hungry and desperate. The end of the practice of exile meant they had gone hungry for many moons, eating what little scraps they could find such as bugs, or sometimes, even each other.

And there's nothing more dangerous than a starving, desperate animal.

The Convict shoved Decimus forward, causing his body to ungraciously roll down the dune until it landed just in front of the beasts. Without hesitation, they immediately rushed toward the chaplain and began biting into his frail body. The sound of flesh being torn and ripped resonated throughout the dry landscape as the beasts tore muscle and bone, eagerly filling their starving gullets with the marrow and meat of the dying man.

Their feast was stopped by a loud growl from the largest one in the pack. It grunted, and the howlers grabbed onto the man's open flesh with their teeth and began to drag him away. They left a trail of red lifeblood across the sand as they went, and continued until they passed a dune and went out of site.

Androbeles, unable to move his body lied there, horrified at what had just occurred. He had no words, all semblance of retort having exited him from the abhorrent sight he had just observed. He prayed the same fate did not await him.

But if that was how this brigand dealt with those he didn't even care about, he shuddered to think what fate awaited him.

The sound of a small pop shook the Archjustice out of his stupor, causing him to shift his head with what little strength he had to look at its source.

The Convict had opened a small canteen of water, and pulling his scarf down and gulped down the sweet nectar that was fresh water. He took it out from between his lips, pulled his scarf back up, and was about to cap it when he saw Androbeles looking at him from his place on the ground.

He capped the canteen. "You'll live."

Sitting down once again, the Convict casually rested his arm on his knee.

And he waited some more.

---

"I think we're just about there." The Reader spoke.

That apparently roused Almer from his nap, whose closed eyelids slowly opened with a yawn. "We're there?"

"Almost. I'm setting us down a bit downstream."

Sam could see Almer rubbing his eyes, sitting upright from where he had leaned back on the chair and fell asleep during their voyage. Ti'zo was sat in his nest, fiddling with the floating, glowing stone they had taken from Mount Soliam. It was evening now, the sun just nearing the end of its descent on the horizon causing an orange sunset to illuminate the Sandfolds, igniting the clouds with a soft glow. This star-forsaken desert almost killed the Reader when he was first exiled, but he couldn't help admit there was a certain beauty to the way the bright orange rays fell upon the dunes, casting a series shadows over the inhospitable desert.

The Reader landed the wagon behind one of the bigger dunes, concealing it from sight. He grabbed his cane and turned to the two others in the Blackwagon. "I think we need to go a bit upstream, and then we'll be there." He said.

"And this is where you saw this "goggle dude?""

"I wouldn't call him a "dude," but yes." Sam replied, swinging open the red door of their wagon. "Ti'zo, you ready to go?"

"Scraaaa-hi?" the small imp asked.

"No, I didn't see any fish-filled lakes, ponds, or other bodies of water when I first came through here."

Ti'zo let out a small groan but ultimately decided to join the Reader and flew over to his shoulder, where he sat perched.

"Almer?"

He was still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, but the boy nodded. "Yeah, sorry, I'm just a bit hungry." He stretched his arms upwards. "I'm ready-what the-whatisthatthingdoingbythestars-"

Almer's quick rambling caused Sam to look on his shoulder. Ti'zo seemed to be regurgitating something, and slowly but surely the shape of a small fish made its way out of the imp's mouth until he held it by his teeth.

Almer stared, equally dumbfounded and disgusted. "What."

"Scraaa-kirri-ki!" The imp's voice was muffled by the dead fish between his teeth.

"Huh. That's interesting, I didn't know you could do that."

"Hreee-ho!" Ti'zo puffed out his chest.

"Uh…" Almer kept glancing between the two. "What exactly is the imp saying, Reader?"

The Reader turned to the boy. "Oh right, I forgot, you can't understand him. He's just saying that he likes to keep things in his stomach. He was hoping to find some other fish so he wouldn't have to eat that one because apparently, it has a bad aftertaste. But he said he'll settle for it." Sam scratched his head through the hood of his cloak. "Wait, I thought you said you didn't find any fish."

Ti'zo nodded, the dead animal still in between his teeth. Aside from the saliva and strange thick slime-like substance that coated it, it looked completely untouched and undamaged. Sam figured if it was compared to another fish of its type, it would look identical, despite spending time the stomach of the imp "Scraaaaa-hi!" He chirped.

"That's from how many moons ago?!"

Ti'zo just shrugged and let out a burp.

Almer was still standing there in a mixture of confusion and revulsion. "What..?"

"It seems imps can store prey in their stomachs for extended periods of time." The Reader attempted to clarify.

"Screee-kir-hoo!" Ti'zo explained.

"Apparently it's because they have to hunt long distances for food, so mother imps have to be able to keep food in their bodies for their young to feed to them later. Huh." Sam shrugged. "Anyway, Ti'zo's offering it to you because you said you were hungry."

"Well, I'm definitely not hungry anymore."

"Kree-hoo?" Ti'zo's head tilted inquisitively.

The boy seemed to pick up on what he was being asked. "I… I've seem to have lost my appetite, that's all."

Shrugging, the bit down and sucked the fish into his mouth, chewing on it with a few large, crunchy bites, before swallowing it for real this time and letting out a slight burp.

The Reader looked to the brunette. "You ready to go?"

Almer's widened eyes closed in a small sigh, likely struggling to believe the situation he had found himself in. "Yeah."

The three exited the wagon and began to make their way upstream, following the river. The heat was fierce and came over the trio like a wave, but it was not nearly as hot as Jomeur Valley could get on some of its worst days. Countless sand dunes dotted the landscape, some gentle and low foothills, others large and steep ridges. The sands, normally a bland beach-like color, were lit to a darker orange hue due to dusk's embrace. If one looked hard enough, they could just barely make out the edge of the Downside Prairie to the north, the verdant land only slightly less hostile, but nonetheless acting as a beacon to all exiles who seek to survive their sentence.

Sam led the way, with Almer staying behind him and Ti'zo flying around them. It was a few minutes before Sam held up his hand in a closed fist. "I think we're close." He whispered.

The Reader pointed to a nearby sand dune. "We can find cover there," he said. "Just make sure to be quiet."

Almer nodded wordlessly and followed. They had to use their hands to help them climb up the steep dune, and as they neared the top the Reader motioned for him to drop down low, himself setting down his cane and shifting his grip on it so he was grabbing the center of it, and lying on his stomach in an army crawl. His leg had grown sore from earlier, but the Reader ignored the protests of his body, driven on by his curiosity.

Almer followed suit, as did Ti'zo, who promptly whispered a chirp to Sam that he was entering "stealth mode."

The trio made their way to the top of the dune and concealed themselves behind the peak.

"Ti'zo, try to fly around and see where they are."

"Hree-ho!" the imp whispered back.

Ti'zo fluttered his wings a bit and circled around the other side of the mound, disappearing from sight.

"Is this guy really so dangerous that we have to hide from him?"

The Reader turned to Almer, who was lying next to him, looking irritated.

"I'm not sure, but I'd rather not take any chances." Sam replied quietly.

A few minutes passed as the two lied on the sand. The only sound they heard was the wind of the hot breeze worming its way across the landscape, occasionally causing a cloud of sand to fly up and float around before settling once more.

"He could be gone by now." Almer said quietly. "He likely is, assuming your vision wasn't just some heat stroke-induced hallucination."

"It wasn't a hallucination," The Reader murmured. "It couldn't have been."

"How can you tell?"

"I just can."

"I didn't know clairvoyance was an ability Readers possessed." Almer snorted.

"I'm not clairvoyant, this is …something else."

"Then what is it?"

"I don't know!" Sam hissed, still trying to keep quiet.

A couple of more minutes passed before the Reader heard the boy next to him let out an aggravated sigh.

Almer rolled his eyes. "This is stupid."

"Scra-hoo!" a voice rang out from behind them.

"You wait until now to say that?"

"I didn't want to appear rude after you gave me a ride to the Spring!"

"Scra-hoo!"

The Reader felt the orb slightly vibrate and could make out wisps of a green mist beginning to seep from the folds of his clothing. The last thing he needed was another voice joining the argument, prompting him to reach for the orb and grab it.

"I'm sorry, but this is ridiculous." Almer stood up, brushing sand off of his clothes. "I appreciate what've you done for me, Reader, but I'll wait in the Blackwagon."

"Wait!" Sam stood up as well. "You'll alert them to our presenceeee!-"

The Reader forgot to take into account how steep the sand dune was, his cane losing contact from the precipitous incline causing him to lose his balance. The orb slipped from his hand and began rolling down the way they came up the mound. He fell backwards onto the top of the dune, and his world went spinning as he began tumbling down the other side. Clouds of sand went flying into the air as he carved a trail down the dune, letting out grunts of pain as he rolled, again and again, eventually plopping onto the sand-floor. The airborne sand drifted around his fallen form like a thin fog.

Ow. Sam rubbed his leg, which had gone from sore to hurting once again. It didn't seem injured but stung nonetheless from the uncomfortable movements it had just endured. The Reader took a moment to get his bearings. He was lying on his stomach, face down in the sand. His cane had fallen a few feet away from him, and he was lying with his head resting on the incline of the dune.

Wait. Sam looked up. He lying at the bottom of the dune. On the other side.

Oh, that's just swell.

This was further cemented by the heavy footfalls he heard from behind him.

Well, shit.

He turned his head around hesitantly, the hood of his cloak having managed to stay atop the Reader's head and helped to conceal some of his features. A large, broad-shouldered figure was approaching him, but his back was to the sun, causing Sam to squint, unable to get a good look at the man.

The stranger got within a few feet of him and had begun to reach into his buttoned-up coat but stopped suddenly. It seemed that he was staring intently at something on the Reader's back. A chill went down Sam's spine as the towering man inspected him. However, now that he was closer, the Reader could actually examine the man. He wore wide red snow goggles, a large black hat, a fur scarf the color of silver, and a long gray traveling coat which fell to his knees and although worn, still seemed thick. The pulled up collar revealed an inner wool lining that looked sullied, perhaps once being as white as the sheep it came from but now had taken on a tannish hue.

All of it looked just like the man he had saw in his premonition, except for one small detail.

That small detail being the Archjustice himself, Androbeles IX, slung over his shoulder like a bag of potatoes.

Sam tried to meet his eyes but was unable to see past his goggles. He could see the man's head looking down in his direction, but was couldn't determine if the stranger was actually making eye contact with him.

Suddenly, the figure let his arm fall down to his side, causing Androbeles to fall to the ground with a large plop, accompanied by a groan of pain. That same arm then latched onto the Reader's shoulder and forcefully turned him around and onto his back.

Sam put his hands up defensively, and he saw the Stranger reaching for his face. He closed his eyes and flinched, bracing for the worse.

Only to find him fiddling with the collar of his shirt erratically, as if he were in a hurry.

"What are you-"

The Stranger yanked down the top of his shirt, revealing his collarbone. Sam glanced down to see what he was looking at.

There, near the top of his pectoral and surrounded by multiple lashing scars, was the brand given to all of those who dared to betray the Commonwealth's laws and self-described mercy by seeking the forbidden knowledge contained in text.

The Hollow Star.

It was the same marking that was on the back of his cloak, which had been given to him upon exile as a reminder to all of his "abhorrent crime" It was shaped like a typical five-pointed star, but instead of being a solid color it was merely a black outline with lines connecting the points of the celestial shape, and a single large line that ran down the center, splitting it in half.

The Stranger stared intensely at it for a painfully long time. Sam's hairs were standing on end as he lied motionless, afraid that if he moved he would spur the man into some sort of hostile action.

"Who've you got over there, Lector?" A feminine voice called from far behind the mysterious figure.

The Stranger let go of Sam turned around, allowing the Reader to see the voice's origin. It was a harp who was standing in front of a teal-colored Blackwagon that was parked at the base of a small sand dune in the distance. Her wings were a deep crimson, almost maroon, and she wore an ash gray jacket, the epaulets, double-breasted buttons, and folded collar of which revealed its military origin. Similar trousers covered her legs, leaving only her talons bare to walk across the ground with. Sam tried making out the details of her face, but the distance and glare from the sunlight made it impossible.

The tall man turned back to the Reader. He stared at him for a few seconds before letting go of his shirt and rising to a tall, imposing stature. Sam reckoned he'd likely only be a few inches under Jodariel in height. "Just a straggler." His voice, although muffled and possessing more gravel than an unpaved road, echoed back just as loud as the woman he was responding to was.

"Well then, just kill him and be done with it, already! I hate the way this sand gets in between my talons!"

Sam swallowed, a chill running down his spine. Just then a small winged shadow passed over them. The imp soared down from the skies and hovered defensively in front of the Reader.

"Scraaaa-hi!" Ti'zo screeched, baring his sharp teeth and outstretching his wings threateningly.

The Stranger, now known as Lector, turned back in his direction and considered the imp for merely a moment before directing his gaze back at the harp. "No point in wasting any more time."

"Then grab Androbeles and get your ass over here, the boss wants us to see her pronto!"

The Reader looked for the aforementioned Archjustice. He was just behind Lector, where had he had been unceremoniously dropped onto the ground. He lied face down, and Sam could see his crown dipped to the side of his head and his mask loosely hanging off his face, the bottom half of it shattered, revealing a weathered mouth that was locked into a grimace. Sam could make out blue, bloodshot eyes in the two rectangular lines that were drawn onto the mask

And he was glaring at the Reader very, very intently.

It was then that for the second time that day Sam experienced the mental equivalent of an imp exploding in his skull. He let out a yell of pain as his mind turned to searing hot fire, his hands grasping at the sides of his head in a death-grip. He inhaled sharply but found no release from the agony, and could already see the edges of his vision turning black and then something broke down the walls of his psyche, flooding into the innermost part of him like and tidal wave and by the stars does it hurt-

Then, as soon as it had started it stopped, leaving only a hazy ache in the back of the Reader's mind, and rendering him a gasping mess on the ground.

He blinked repeatedly, his vision slowly returning to him, and saw a familiar tall figure staring down at him, the Reader's sweating face reflected in those cold, unreadable red goggles. Androbeles was still sprawled out on the ground behind him but was now face down and limp. The large covered-up man started toward the Reader and reached out a hand, aiming for his head.

"LECTOR!" A shrill voice shrieked.

His hand stopped mid-motion. Lector slowly straightened his posture and turned back to the harp, who stood with her wings on her hips and was tapping her talons against the sand. Sam heard what sounded like a muffled grunt from the man.

Without a word, Lector grabbed the Archjustice and hoisted him over his shoulder. As he did so, the glass crown Androbeles wore fell off and landed on the sand. If the captor noticed, he didn't care enough to grab it. Lector left the Reader, walking over to the harp. They were exchanging words but Sam was too far away to make out what was being said.

"Scraaa-hee?"

Sam looked up to see Ti'zo, who had landed and stood on his chest, looking down at him anxiously. "Scraaa-hee?" he gently prodded again, his large eyes peering into Sam's own nervously.

The Reader reached put his hand as lightly scratched the top of the imp's head. "I'm fine, Ti'zo."

The slamming of a door grabbed his attention. Looking past Ti'zo, he saw the artificial wings of the parked blackwagon sprout open, before the vehicle began to move across the sands and pick up pace. It was only a few more seconds before it was lifting off the ground and soaring into the skies, which had just begun to turn a dark violet as the sun descended below the horizon.

Sam stood up, causing Ti'zo to flutter off of his chest. He hobbled over to his cane and used it to stand up, ensuring he was putting as little weight as possible onto his bad leg. He looked down at the Astral Crown, which had been left in the sand. Surprisingly it didn't look damaged at all, dirty yes but not actually broken. The Reader reached down and put the headpiece into one of the folds of his clothing.

The scuttling of sand alerted him to Almer, who had just made his way around the knoll of sand, holding the orb between his two hands.

The boy approached the Reader. "Are you alright?"

Before Sam could even get a word out, the orb erupted into a green mist, conjuring further a Sandra who looked more than a little angry.

"Boy," she growled, "I understand that the concept of bravery is completely foreign to you but do you truly lack the slightest semblance of courage?"

Almer frowned tossed the orb to the Reader, who fumbled with it before the boy retorted. "I was being tactical."

"Tactical means a plan of attack, you gutless skulker. Is cowering behind a sand dune, leaving my Reader to the howlers tactical? Is that what you call an attack?"

"There weren't any howlers!" Almer angrily threw his hands up in an exasperated gesture. "It was just one guy!"

"Then you shouldn't have had a problem defending him, you spineless pup. Or was it perhaps you knew you lacked the strength and skill?"

"Do not call me a pup, you miserable-"

"That's enough!" A voice shouted.

Sam hardly ever raised his voice, more content to let others do the talking. Even though his time with the Nightwings had 'brought him out of his shell,' so to speak, and their absence did force him to engage in interaction on his own, he still considered himself a quiet person, and knew others considered him that as well. Which made a yell from him all the more notable.

The heat had begun to die down, a hostile chill slowly seeping all around in its place. "How about we just head back to the wagon, and we can talk about this where we won't get eaten by howlers?"

Almer and Sandra both gave grunts of disapproval but otherwise didn't object. Ti'zo didn't say anything but was clearly happy at the idea of ending the argument, if his calmed facial expressions were any indication.

---

"Alright, is that it?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

They had returned to the Blackwagon and were situated inside, with Sam and Almer opting to sit down at the table with the orb safety returned to the folds of Sam's apparel. Sandra too was in the room, projecting from the magical prison into the air where she was crossing her arms, while Ti'zo sat in his nest, his little feet dangling off.

A few candles illuminated the room, along with the magical trinkets that were scattered across the wagon, each glowing with their own arcane enchantments.

"Well, I still think that if you had a problem with the whole thing, you should have mentioned it at the start, Almer." Sam tapped his fingers against the table.

"I didn't want to appear ungrateful."

"That didn't seem to stop you from getting up at the last second."

Almer rubbed the back of his neck. "Lying down in the sand and waiting for something I didn't think was true may have made me a bit… irritated."

"Being irritated does not excuse throwing a comrade to the slaughter, boy." Sandra chimed in.

"Well, regardless, it's over now. Besides, I doubt Almer rushing down to help me would have really changed much." The Reader stretched his arms above his head in a catlike motion and let out a yawn. "I'd rather not fly while tired, so I think it's best for us to spend the night here and then head back to Barker's camp."

"Wait, wait, wait," Almer crossed his arms. "Are we just going to ignore your little episode?"

"I wouldn't call it an episode, it was just a… random, really intense headache."

"And what about Archjustice Androbeles IX himself being in the Downside? Are we ignoring that too?"

"No, we're not ignoring anything." Sam out his hands up defensively. "I'm just as curious as you are, but we aren't really in a position to do anything about it right now."

"Scraaaaa-kii!" Ti'zo chirped, indicating the darkness that had set over the skies.

"Ti'zo's right. It's too dark to follow them, and we don't even know what's going on or if we should even involve ourselves. It's best we just sleep on this and talk about it later."

"I believe we have a more pressing issue, Sam." Sandra spoke, turning to face her lover. "I may not have been able to see it but I certainly heard that scream of yours."

"And I didn't see that "Lector" guy touch you at all," Almer added. "You just grabbed your head and started screaming."

"I…" The Reader struggled to find the words. He himself didn't even know what happened, and the last thing he wanted was Sandra and Ti'zo worrying about him. He felt fine now though, but he had to admit he was still struggling to understand what exactly is going on. "I'm not sure. The Archjustice is a reader too, so he probably-"

"Wait, what?"

Almer interrupted him, causing everyone to turn to the boy, who was looking at Sam as if he was insane. "You're telling me that Archjustice Androbeles IX… is literate."

"Well, his actual name is Brighton, but yes. He was a member of the Nightwings some years ago."

Almer stared at the Reader with a look of disbelief. "Are you sure you didn't hit your head on a rock or something when you tumbled down that sand dune?"

"Our lovely Reader speaks the truth." Sandra said. Ti'zo too affirmed Sam's statement, the boy finding he was getting better at understanding the imp.

Almer blinked and then slowly stood up and put his hands on his head. "Okay," he breathed. "All I wanted was for you to take me to the Spring of Jomeur. That was it. Instead, I find out that not only is the Archjustice still alive, but he's in the Downside and you know him?!"

"Of him." Sam corrected. "Well, he was the Voice that spoke during the Rites, so I suppose we both technically-"

"Hewhat?!"

"You know, this is all a lot to take in for all of us, so I think its best we just head off to bed." Sam abruptly stood up and grabbed his cane from its resting place against the table. "There are extra bedrolls in the common room, so feel free to grab one." He turned and began to walk into the room.

"Wait a moment, Sam."

The Reader stopped dead in his tracks and slowly turned to Sandra, whose face bore no amusement from his avoidance of the earlier topic.

"Yes, dear?" Sam tried and failed at sounding innocent.

"We're going to investigate this problem of yours."

"I don't have a problem," Sam said defensively. "I was trying to say it earlier. Since the Archjustice is a reader, he probably just tried attacking my mind as one last "screw you" before whoever those people were dragged him off."

"Readers can attack minds?" Almer's hopelessly confused voice could be heard from behind them.

Sandra's mouse twitched. "Boy, you mentioned you once lived in some hamlet called "Hollowroot," yes?"

Almer quickly shook himself out of his stupor. "Uh, yeah, why?"

"Is there a practitioner of clerical shamanistic arts that lives in that abode?"

"…there's a doctor."

"Then we shall depart for Hollowroot at first light."

"Sandra," the Reader began, "that's hardly necessary."

"I don't see why not, it is not a far departure from our path, is it?"

"Hreee-hoo!"

"Ti'zo, don't encourage her!"

"Sam, if there is something wrong with you that we must ascertain as to what that is and handle it with the utmost care." Sandra crossed her arms.

"Sandra, the chance of this being some weird disease or affliction is one-in-a-million," Sam said, the statistic completely false and improvised. "Besides, you know I don't like doctors."

"And I don't like my Reader neglecting his own health."

"But-"

"No buts!"

Sam slumped, defeated, and sheepishly turned to Almer, who had been watching the exchange with bafflement and a hint of amusement. "I'll explain everything in the morning. Sorry about dragging you into this. Good night." He promptly sauntered off into the common room, Sandra's ghostly apparition trailing alongside him.

Almer waited until they were out of earshot before muttering "Well, I guess it's clear who wears the pants in the relationship." He turned to Ti'zo. "Did they even have pants back where she comes from?"

Ti'zo shrugged his wings.

---

Sam lied in his bedroll, Sandra having returned back into her orb. Almer had grabbed a bedroll from the common room but was sleeping in the main part of the wagon with Ti'zo. He claimed it was because it was warmer there, but Sam thought he was merely afraid of Sandra attempting to haunt him in some manner during the night.

Usually, at night, the Reader would link his own mind with hers, in the orb, but he hadn't done so yet as he couldn't help but feel he was forgetting something.

Oh right, the candles. It wouldn't do to leave them burning overnight. The light could attract howlers, assuming they'd even be able to get into the wagon. But still, better safe than sorry.

Sam opened his eyes, ready to get out of bed and blow them out only to be met with a face staring down at him. The figure it belonged to wore a long, flowing white robe marked with celestial runes and holy glyphs, along with black gloves and a black bandana-like cloth around his neck that contrasted with the brightness of the robe. A grey powdered wig was placed atop his head and descended just past his shoulders. Most striking, however, was the white porcelain mask with the black line drawn horizontally across where the eyes would be, marked and separated by three similarly black vertical lines. Two of which contained holes to the eyes.

Eyes that were very much real and very much staring down at him.

Hello, Reader. The familiar voice radiated self-righteousness.

The Reader blinked and then promptly let out a high-pitched scream that waked his companions and echoed across the Downside.