Sulyvahn looked out over his home. From his perch atop the age-worn cathedral, he looked out at the snowbound land of forests and deep canyons. The pale morning sun had just begun its ascent over the horizon. The cold wind blew harshly on him. His rough skin no longer felt it. He had known the boreal winds of Ariandel's Painted World all his life. The cold was nothing. His mind was wracked by thoughts much more biting.

I do not belong here.

He clenched his hands and looked down at a river valley and the tiny settlement within it. Its people considered their home a triumph. He saw it for the clump of hovels that it was. Here he had been born and raised. And for what, he asked himself. To be enslaved to the same routine of survival that had dominated his kind since before he was born.

I am meant for greater things than this.

He was told that this was a great land. He once believed it. But then he had heard whispers of the world beyond. His curiosity was piqued, and he had asked questions. The Corvians, in their innocence, shared with him tales of the world they left behind. They believed themselves to be saved from the woes of their past lives. But Sulyvahn … He had been born to naught but cold and melancholy. That first tale of a world other than his icy homeland had stirred something in him, an elusive feeling of longing and pain that grew with each new morsel of knowledge he gobbled up.

He shook the frost from his coat and descended the wall of the cathedral. His fingers found easy handholds in the roughly hewn stone. In this dismal world there was little for a youth to do but explore and practice scaling the great pines and cliffs of the land. Such sporting diversions had once brought him no end of enjoyment. But even his athletic skill was of little satisfaction, now.

I need more than this land offers.

The Corvians thought of the Painted World as a refuge. Their tales had been meant as warnings. The world beyond was cruel and incomprehensibly vast. A lone individual would be lost in it, beset by many perils. This land of snow and ice was a sanctuary, created for the forlorn as a last hope and resting place.

A shelter from the greater world, they said. But Sulyvahn had no forlorn past. He knew nothing of peril, except perhaps the wolves that roamed the forests or the bitter Millwood Knights of the mountain who guarded their territory with fierce pride. But he had his magic, and he was not easily cowed. The Painted World was no refuge for one such as him. He wanted more. He dreamt of new lands, half-formed fantasies that spoke to the nameless void inside him. Awake, he would look around and see his home for the prison that it was.

The day finally came when he mustered the courage to do the impossible. He would escape the Painted World of Ariandel.


The old Corvian sorcerer looked sadly into the fire. He slowly closed the book in his hands, set it on the table, grabbed his staff and pulled himself to his feet.

The wrinkled crow-man looked Sulyvahn in the eye and spoke.

"So, this is your choice, then?"

Sulyvahn nodded.

"I had hoped your passions would pass, Sulyvahn. I still do. You are welcome here in Ariandel's domain. Not so in the outside."

"I have heard your stories, master. I am not afraid. I have learned much under your tutelage."

"Yes, but stories will not prepare you for what awaits you. That is, assuming there even is a way out."

"You found a way in, did you not?"

The Corvian's shoulders compressed into a shrug. "We wandered a long time. We found the Painting and laid hands on it. And here we are now." He looked up at Sulyvahn with black eyes shining with compassion. "This world is not meant for leaving. It is a refuge for the broken. But, I see in you something that no one else here possesses."

"What is that, master?"

"Spirit."

Sulyvahn remained silent, unsure of how to respond to this.

"You think yourself special, yes? Think your magic is greater than mine or anyone's because you created a couple spells of your own?"

It often irked Sulyvahn of how easily his mentor read his thoughts and emotions. His form was such that it was no mean feat. He wasn't Corvian or human. He wasn't truly anything. He had a humanoid shape like the crow-men who raised him, though he was much taller and thinner. His skin, though, was not soft and there was neither hair nor feather upon it. It was rough and hard like tree bark. His face, such as it was, was a blank surface covered by thin vines. It was by magic that he perceived the world around him, and that innate gift had led the old Corvian to take him in as his apprentice. And, he now understood, to attempt to curb his restless nature. He was the closest thing he had to a father. Perhaps it was only fair that he could read Sulyvahn like no other.

"Think me not proud, master," Sulyvahn replied. "Think of it as a compliment to your great skill as a mentor."

The Corvian shook his head and hobbled over to an old dresser. He pulled off one of the scrolls piled on top of it and handed it to Sulyvahn.

He unraveled the parchment. It contained a picture he had been shown many times before while listening to the old tales of warning. War, the Corvians called it. Two large crowds of human men faced each other while astride four-legged creatures with thick necks and long snouts. Horses, they were called. And the men were covered in metal plate and pointed long, metal-tipped spears at their opponents. In their off-hand they clutched shields painted in bright-colored symbols and patterns. Soaring over the men and horses were arrows, far more than he could imagine ever existed, blotting out the sky. Beneath the horses, bloodied bodies littered the ground.

In truth, Sulyvahn thought the image to be beautiful. Sometimes, at night, he tried to imagine the sounds of metal against metal and the beating of horse hooves and the shouts of the fighters. But he told no one of this.

"That is what awaits you in the world beyond, Sulyvahn," the Corvian said.

"So you have said, master. But, as I have said to you, I am not afraid. And you have spoken of many other things. Forests and mountains without snow, a sun that shines hot and bright, great cities larger than the Painted World itself." He rolled up the scroll and pushed it back into his mentor's hands. "I don't belong here, master. I cannot stay here. My soul would wither if I did."

"Oh, Sulyvahn, it is for your soul that I fear."

A sudden flash of anger came over the youth. "What use have I for a place so devoid of … of …" His mind searched for the word, for that elusive emotion that needled him. "Of something more than what it has," he finished lamely. "And anyway, I am not some forlorn, some tired old bird with most of his life behind him. I cannot stay!"

He regretted the words as soon as he had spoken them. His mentor nodded wordlessly and walked back to his chair by the fire.

"This realm was created to offer solace to the suffering. Be wise with your words. If tired we seem to you, it is only because of a lifetime filled with suffering greater than you can know."

"I have suffered nothing, master. Why do you expect me to embrace this world?"

"Hmm, perhaps you cannot. Perhaps we should have foreseen it. But your mother wished you to stay, and we honored that wish as best we could."

Sulyvahn gingerly placed a hand on his mentor's frail arm.

"Forgive me, master, I spoke rashly. But there is something within my breast – I know not what it is – that compels me to leave. I cannot ignore its call."

"Then do what you must. I will not try to stop you."

"You have taught me much. My sorceries will see me through. I will find a way to leave."

"If so, you must find it on your own. We Corvians know nothing of such a path. We are content. It pains my heart that you are not."

Sulyvahn could not smile or frown, of course. By necessity, he had learned to emote with his whole body. He raised his head and threw his shoulders back, an expression of confidence and enthusiasm. "Do not fear for me, master. I will make my way."

"Mm, at least, young one, speak to your mother before you embark on this quest of yours."

"So that she can do her best to dissuade me?"

"Have a heart and pity the poor soul. If you would leave her behind, at least have the decency to bid farewell."

Sulyvahn's body fell limp. He dreaded the idea of speaking to Mother of his plans. But he knew the old crow was right.


The mother of Sulyvahn bent low to the ground to hear her son's words. Her arm-branches waved miserably in the wind as she wept.

"Oh, dear, dear child, why ever do you seek to leave this safe haven? Is not the gentle cold sufficient for your happiness?"

"It is not. I yearn for a life beyond this world. I am not like you nor the others who dwell here."

The creature that had born Sulyvahn leaned forward and caressed her son's head with a gentle hand of wood. She was a witch-tree, a creature of wood and magic that dwelt in a glade some ways away from the Corvian settlement. She had, by some twist of fate, borne witness to a dying Corvian seeking shelter under her branches. His blood had seeped into her roots, and his carcass had nurtured her frozen soil. From this mingling of blood and sap, Sulyvahn had issued.

"Where would you go?" she asked quietly. "What haven is there for one such as yourself in the world outside?"

Sulyvahn jerked his head back from her hand. "I …" He stuttered. He had not thought that far ahead. "I will find one. I will survive, mother, as I always have. My spells and my wits are enough. I will become something great, mother, something that even you will be proud of."

"Pride? What greater pride can you seek from me? Am I not already proud of you, my son? Have I not loved you from the day of your birth?"

Sulyvahn hesitated. He had expected – hoped, even – for Mother to berate him, to argue his choice with harsh words. These words of love and sorrow incited pangs of doubt.

Hot anger boiled within him.

"What use is love?" he cried out. "What use is sorrow and forlorn gloom? I have had enough of them! I will not remain in this prison! I will become the greatest of beings, a king, even, when I find my fortune in the world beyond! And I will never have need for love nor sorrow again!"

The words tasted sour on his tongue. Remorse came over him as he turned and marched away. Regretting what was said, but afraid that turning back would halt his quest altogether, he left his mother and did his best to block out her fading sobs.


Sulyvahn trudged through a fresh layer of snow. What few belongings he had were stuffed in a backpack. He wore little but his tunic, trousers and favorite coat, for the cold did not bother him. His pack made his feet sink deep into the powder, but his long legs made walking easier than for most. Besides, he was too excited to be bothered by trifling inconveniences.

His quest for freedom had begun on a still and quiet day. The Corvian settlement lay behind him. He had ascended the snowy plateau to the crossroads.

One way led across a long rope bridge spanning the canyon that separated Father Ariandel's cathedral from the rest of the land. Another led to the realm of the Millwood Knights, fanatical protectors of what little they still possessed. And the least-travelled road led into a great wilderness. What lay beyond the forests, none knew for certain. But Sulyvahn had an inkling, a slight hunch that motivated him to begin his trek into the wastes. Where none lived, there were sure to be secrets undiscovered, including the way to escape the painting.

With this thought firmly held in mind, he began his journey.

A day and a night passed.

Out here, in the remote hinterlands where no settlement was established, Sulyvahn had only himself for company. Well, himself and a few wolves that stalked him. His magic kept them at bay until they gave up and searched for easier prey.

The farther away from home he traveled, the more the land assumed a decayed and broken appearance. The trees here were black and withered poles. When he touched one, his hand came away covered in soot. The snow, too, was stained with ash, and the wind itself had died. It was a dead land that he walked, burned away like a log in the fire.

Against all expectations, Sulyvahn found that someone had made this place their home.

He came upon a frozen creek cutting through the hills. There was a rocky outcropping overlooking it, and a cabin nestled against its base between the rock and the ice. Although, perhaps "cabin" was too generous a description. It was little more than a lean-to made of branches, tree bark and packed dirt. A thread of smoke drifted out of a hole in the roof. There was no door, only a curtain of animal furs.

"Hello!" Sulyvahn called out. "Is anyone there?"

There was the sound of movement inside the hut. The curtain parted slightly, and two human eyes stared at him.

"Who are you?"

"A traveler. I seek shelter for the night, and guidance."

"If you have come all the way out here, you are far too lost for me to help. There is nothing here."

"Except you."

"True enough. I seek isolation, not companionship. And certainly not guests."

The man closed the curtain.

"So be it. I will move on."

But when Sulyvahn turned to leave, the man's voice called out to him.

"Wait. A moment more."

The curtain parted fully and the man stepped out. He was marked by age and by violence. His wrinkled, bearded face and balding head were covered in scars. He wore a cloak of bear skin and a tattered jerkin underneath. From his shaggy face peered two keen grey eyes.

"A being such as yourself I have not seen before, but your intent I suspect. You are not the first, you know."

"The first to what?"

"Seek an escape."

"Truly?"

"Yes. From time to time, someone will pass by. Usually I ignore them, but sometimes we talk. They all wanted the same thing, to leave the Painted World and seek their fortune elsewhere. They were all the same. Young and untouched by grief. Not among the forlorn. You are a youth, as well, I would think."

"Did they succeed?"

The man shrugged. "They never returned. Either they found their liberty or they died."

"And why this place. Why did they look here?"

"This is the outermost boundary of the painting. You are very close to its edge. Few know it, but I remember. When the old Painted World was burned away and the new one replaced it."

"The old world?"

The man smiled, not unkindly. "When you live as long as I have, you see that everything moves in cycles. Nature flows through its four seasons, people are born, grow old and die, kingdoms rise, then fall. And the Fire … well, suffice to say I had had enough of cycles, so I sought the Painted World. But here, too, there is a cycle."

"I thought the power of Fire had no hold over this place."

"It does, but only in its proper time. Nothing lasts forever. The painting decays, you see. Eventually, rot will set in and cause great suffering to its inhabitants. And so, before the rot can spread, the Painted World is burned away, to make room for the new one."

"If this place is to be destroyed one day, all the more reason to escape it."

"It's not perfect, I'll grant you that. I survived the burning, but many do not. Still, it's better than the world outside, methinks. It, too, is dying, but it is not allowed to die. Many come here because they seek to escape it. Ironic, don't you think?"

"Yet another seeks to dissuade me," Sulyvahn shook his head. "You know much. Do you know the means to leave this world behind?"

"I do. It's simple, really. Just jump off into the mist."

Sulyvahn's heart pounded in his chest.

"Jump? From where?"

The old man pointed away from the river, past the outcropping into a stand of burnt trees. "Beyond the ashen forest, there are the ruins of an old castle. The last remnant of the first Painted World. Ascend the highest tower. You will see a ledge overlooking the abyss. Step off. You will not die. You will leave the painting."

"The burnt forest," Sulyvahn repeated. "The old castle and the highest tower." He nodded in satisfaction. "Very well."

He hesitated before leaving. "You are old, to have seen a world before this one. Are you a man, or something more, to live so long?"

The man's eyes turned hard. "I am a man."

"Yet you live out here, without sustenance? I thought men needed to eat."

His hand itched his chest. "Not all of us. There is a power in the world outside that keeps us alive. At a cost."

"What is this power?"

"No." The man abruptly retreated into his home. "No more questions. I have told you enough. You'll find out the rest for yourself, if you survive."


Sulyvahn reached the end of the forest. Beyond was a flat, white plain ending suddenly in a sheer cliff. Beyond the empty space was a mountain peak and a decrepit castle standing atop it. Beyond that was nothing but white mist. The edge of the Painted World.

He looked over the deep chasm separating him from his goal. The old man had mentioned nothing of this difficulty.

There were two rotting pegs on the cliff's edge from which a few strands of blackened fiber hung, suggesting that there had once been a bridge spanning the gap. No more, and so Sulyvahn would have to consider other options.

He peered over the cliff. Lesser peaks and sharp crags were just visible in the twilight. They formed a range that extended beyond the cliff and castle and vanished into the mist. Among these protrusions was a narrow ridge running from the base of the cliff to the castle's peak. If he could cross it, he could then climb the mountain and reach the castle. A treacherous undertaking by any measure.

The cliff was sheer but jagged. There were handholds for one who had the tireless fortitude of a tree and the sharp claws and agility of a Corvian. Adjusting his backpack, he got on his hands and knees and crawled over the cliff edge.

His hands tightly gripped the rock as he slowly descended. Fortunately, unlike other humanoids, his skin did not secrete sweat and so weaken his grip, a trait that served him well whenever he explored the gullies and ravines of his home. It was much like climbing the old cathedral, he thought. Still, he was thankful for the coming nighttime. It removed the temptation to look down at the long fall waiting for a single misplaced hold.

Feet touched solid, though unsteady, ground and he landed on the ridge. With the most cautious of steps, he nimbly walked its length, hands held out like bird wings to balance his lean frame on the uneven footing.

He reached the other side and began the ascent. He knew he had reached his goal when his hands touched hewn stone. He pulled himself up onto what had once been a parapet and dusted off the snow and gravel. He looked around. A half-moon cast dim light on his surroundings, enough to see an upwards-winding stair carved into the mountainside.

His footsteps were muffled by ancient ash that flew up in thick flakes at the slightest disturbance. The air was stale and stank of smoke. Sulyvahn could scarcely conceive of so much fire existing in one place. Enough to burn down a whole world.

He stepped through a stone archway into the remains of a courtyard. In its center, a lump of weathered stone rose from a circular patch of cracked ice. It looked as though it had once been a fountain or monument. Whatever it was, it was an unrecognizable rock now, destroyed by time. Scattered all around it were black bones and skulls. Fleshless hands still reached for its base, as if in supplication.

He found the sight to be pathetic. All these people had remained here to be burned alive. And if the old man's words were true, the path to freedom lay right before them, in the tower of their own home. What madness had driven them to accept death, he wondered. Or was it cowardice, perhaps? And now, his own kin awaited that same fate. The world would be burned away, and all its inhabitants with it. Pointless. Meaningless. He, at least, had the sense to escape it.

He looked at the charred bones and spoke into the night.

"This is what awaits me in the Painted World, is it? This is the happiness my mother wishes for me? I refuse it. Only fools wait for death to end lives they never truly lived."

As if in response to his words, the bones shuddered and jumped. Fragments skittered across the courtyard to join with one another, into arms, legs, ribcages. They clumped together into human shapes and lifted themselves clumsily to their feet. Empty eye sockets turned to stare at an astonished Sulyvahn.

Instinct took over as the sorcerer reached for his catalyst and cast a ray of frost at the skeletons as they charged him. White frost covered an attacker and froze its joints solid. Sulyvahn kicked it away. It shattered on the ground, but in moments its pieces came back together and it rose again.

They kept coming at him. He counted a dozen, at least. Spells of cold and of magical force sent bones flying across the courtyard, only for them to reform moments later. One skeleton leaped at him from behind and seized his backpack. He wormed out of the straps and left it to the skeleton. Their numbers were growing, and he did not have enough magic to defeat them.

Sulyvahn spread a sheet of ice across the cobblestones. The skeletons slipped and clattered across the ground. Broken limbs collided with each other and caught the skeletons in a jumbled mess as they tried to put themselves back together. Yet still the mass crawled toward the sorcerer.

Enough of this. Sulyvahn had not come here to contend with the revenants of a dead world. He turned and fled through another archway up a stairwell. He kept running until the sounds of clacking bones faded.

He looked up. The highest tower lay in sight. He had but to follow this path and he would reach it.

A bridge connected the tower with what remained of the central keep. He crossed it cautiously. Many holes had formed in it from age and weathering, and a few new ones were added by a couple of incautious steps. The tower itself was topped by a rotunda whose roof had long since caved in. He stepped onto the wreckage and looked around. This, apparently, was his salvation. He had but to leap off the tower and he would be free of the Painted World.

A gap in the old railing caught his eye. He inspected it and saw that past it was a ledge jutting over nothingness. This must be it. He walked out onto the ledge.

As he stood here now, the full weight of what he must do pressed heavily on him. From this height, there was no chance of surviving a fall. Far below, the valley faded into roiling mist. Above, the half-moon winked at him from behind the clouds.

He had but to take one more step.

He would never see his mother again. Nor his old mentor, nor the other Corvians. And yet, perhaps someday he could return from the outside world and … No, it was pointless. They would not leave with him, not if he returned a king. These poor and forlorn had accepted their lot.

Just a single step.

He was leaving for a world where Fire ruled and the cold yielded to it. Where monsters and villains lurked, or so he was told, and things far worse.

But what could be worse than to live in wretched obscurity? He wanted more. He was meant for more.

He stepped forward.

His stomach churned with the giddiness of freefall. The tower's walls ran fast past him, the mountain winds gnawed at his face, the white mist surrounded him. And still he fell.

He fell into the abyss, and it opened gladly to receive him.