In Darkness and Light: Odyssium Collection, #1

By C.A. Bryers

Explore the world of Odyssium like never before in this collection that draws together a unique set of tales from the past, present, and future of the Odyssium series timeline.

 

A SONG OF SILENCE and THE OTHER SIDE OF SILENCE offer two sides of the same story—one rife with heartbreak and tragedy, the other with bombast and bloodshed as the clock ticks down toward a cataclysmic event. Then in THE HOLLOW-HEARTED, explorer Natke Orino and her team searches out the truth behind a legendary assassin, only to find a more contemporary killer walks in their midst.

 

Next, take a stroll through the lighter side of Odyssium in SQUIRM, the debut entry in the Strange Days of Odyssium series which chronicles the misadventures of perhaps the unluckiest young man in the world. And last, nothing is as it seems when a woman wakes in the aftermath of escaping her kidnapper in the mysterious short, MY NAME WAS SOLORINE.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.A. Bryers
• Release date: Apr 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201316570

C.A. Bryers

C.A. Bryers is the author of the Odyssium series, which began with THE 13th PARAGON duology comprised of SCRAPPER and FROM ASHES OF EMPIRES. When not writing, C.A. Bryers enjoys sculpting, spending time with his family, and experimenting to find the magical number of minutes chocolate chip cookie bits should sit in applesauce before they are appropriately mushy and ready for consumption. He currently resides in frostbitten Minnesota--the exact opposite of the tropical paradise that is his ideal (at least part-time) place to park his flip-flops. Until then, he is moderately content writing about such locales.

Book preview

1

Daylight had made its escape below the horizon an hour ago, fleeing from sight as summer began to die. The darkness that arrived in its stead brought with it a chill that had chased most of the ship’s passengers down to the lower decks. From those unseen bowels, the sounds of clinking glasses, laughter, and cheers floated up to a main deck that, from above, might now look as though it belonged to a derelict adrift on the seas.

But the Wayfarer was not adrift. Dozens of feet underfoot at the forward wedge of the monstrous hull, the ocean’s waters were cut apart in a steady whoosh as the three-hundred-and-fifty-foot Escapist-class cruiser cleaved a path eastward.

A nearby middle-aged couple, more resilient than most, it seemed, had at last tired of the dropping temperatures and made a hasty retreat toward the superstructure. Standing alongside the opening to the aft stairwell, Salla Saar watched them disappear below to join the bulk of the revelers.

About time, he thought, savoring his newfound solitude. With his back planted against the rear wall of the three-story structure that housed the Wayfarer’s bridge and dozens of its most luxurious suites, Salla had found a private little haven from the strengthening winds.

In it, he could almost pretend he was free.

The emptiness before him cast his mind back to a time not so long ago. He recalled the hours at night alone, accompanied by nothing but his thoughts and whatever song his fingers chose to pluck and strum out on his tjell. But that past was like an island growing more distant as the course of his life continued to plow ever onward. It was a past that was becoming increasingly unrelated to the life he was stepping into, an identity that was fast becoming one that he did not recognize.

And yet he continued to take those steps into this new life, hesitating only from time to time to wonder if there was any other choice to be made. There was no place in this world for the Salla Saar of old. No place for a scrapper who had tried to straighten the course of his life, only to be shackled by the powers encountered on his journey toward redemption.

This was his life. For better or worse, to give himself to the organization at the other end of those shackles had been his only option. But even amongst his prisonkeepers, there was no place for him, no belonging. He was, and perhaps forevermore would be, an outsider.

Come below. It’s getting cold out here. Just like the evening air fighting to penetrate his woolen overshirt, there was no warmth in the voice that spoke.

And there she is, right on cue to tug at my leash, he thought, turning his head only a few degrees in her direction.

Maybe I like it out here.

No answer came in response.

Go on down yourself. Have a drink or twenty. Since I don’t feel like freezing to death trying to swim however many miles in whatever direction land is, I’ll still be here when you come back up.

The sound of a sigh whispered into the air a few feet away. You’re not a prisoner, but I am here to watch you. I know you’re not going to run. You have nowhere to go.

Plenty of islands in the archipelago. An even bigger world outside of it. Salla managed an empty laugh. Guess I could steal an emergency launch, now that I think of it.

But you won’t. And that’s not what I meant when I said you have nowhere to go, she said, her voice remaining hollow and even.

What do you know about it? He shot her the briefest of glares that only afforded him a glimpse of her shape nearby. Oh, right. Of course you know about it. You people know everything about me, don’t you?

"The people you speak of are now your people, Salla Saar."

You really think so? I see it like this: I do you people two pretty big shiggan favors, and what do I get? A choice that stinks so bad you could smell it all the way from Sinjon. Hand over your life to the Majdi Order, or rot in a cell until even the rats are sick of chewing on you. Salla lobbed an empty gesture at her. The part I don’t get is that I lived through a nightmare back at the House of Falling Rain that most of the Majdi who were in that building with me didn’t, and what do you people send me to do after a bit more training? ‘Oh, go to Galiena, Saar. Rummage around in some lady’s attic for whatever’s making that weird bumping noise in the middle of the night.’

You’re being childish, said Marachette, still barely more than a shadow amid darker shadows on the deck. You’ve seen for yourself the things we’ve been tasked to deal with are hardly insignificant bumps in the night.

He blew past her rebuke. I haven’t even gotten to the best part yet. Delflore, the lady who dragged me into this whole Malisguard business of hers, tells me, ‘oh, sorry, Salla. You’re kind of living with us and working for us, but don’t get too excited. This doesn’t make you a Majdi. In fact, nothing ever will. You can die for us hunting the scariest things you’ll wish you never knew about, but you don’t get to be one of us.’

Marachette Matsusaga stepped into the hazy glow of one of the deck lanterns. Hers was an implacable presence, her face unaffected by his sarcasm-ladened outburst. Despite the fact she had been charged to watch over him should he decide to flee, she did not possess a strong, threatening physique. In fact, she had the look of a Majdi nearing the end of her career. Deep lines had worn their way into a face that Salla couldn’t picture as beautiful or even young once a long time ago. How old she actually was, he didn’t know.

The more time spent inside the Order, the more he realized there was no telling how old anyone was. There were many in the Order who were prone to vanity like anyone else in the world. Though unlike others in the populace, these Majdi used their tephic abilities to preserve their age, while others opted to let time take its toll naturally.

If he had to guess, Marachette was among the latter. Though she was indeed in her advanced years, she was not frail, nor did she wear the traditional robes or long dress often worn by women of the Order. Instead, her body was draped in a long black cloak so as not to draw attention to what she wore underneath—slate-gray combat togs, the kind worn by field Majdi who were prepared for an impending battle.

He’d jokingly asked her when she was first assigned to him if she was taking him to the front lines at Garnock. Her response had been that same unfriendly expression she’d offered every time he’d tried to speak to her since.

I’m not going to argue with you, she said, using her left arm in a cumbersome motion to draw the cloak more tightly about her. If you prefer to stand there in the cold and pout, you’re welcome to. I’ve read your file, and the grievances you hold are…understandable. But I’m not here to coddle you. I wouldn’t even if they’d asked. I would assume that having lived through the life you’ve endured in the pages of that file, you know by now that life isn’t fair or easy, and it rarely gives us what we want. The silvery strands of hair, only a few inches long and cut in no discernable fashion, fluttered in the breeze as the Wayfarer made a ponderous turn to port. Besides, if anything, you could use a lesson in self-awareness. Somehow you looked at me and thought I’d have the patience to listen to your sad little story as if I haven’t lived through worse.

Salla gave her another look, appraising her. He wasn’t so mired in his own problems that he couldn’t see the truth in her statement carved into the side of her face in the form of a handful of little scars.

Okay, fine. Why don’t you tell me about it?

Because I’m not here to become friends either, Saar, and I wouldn’t do that even if they’d asked me that, either.

Seems a little weird you’re not just sitting back, giving me the stony silent treatment, you know? He chuckled, setting aside his worries for the future as he decided to wind up the old crank instead. Yet here you are, talking my ear off like I’m gonna bolt the second you stop to take a breath. And really, Marachette, I don’t plan on running. I’ve got enough on my conscience. Last thing I need is to add to the pile with you breaking a hip or something trying to chase after me.

In response, Marachette did indeed fix him with a stony look. A second later, however, her face split into a grin, the crow’s-feet tightening alongside each eye. It was the first time he’d seen her smile in the few days since they’d been introduced.

It’s funny you should say that. It reminded me of an insurgent I cornered about six months ago. He made a joke like that, and what you said reminded me of the look on his face after he did.

I don’t get it. Salla furrowed his brows. What kind of look are you talking about?

Well, she said, her face slowly returning to its default expression of flat indifference, "I suppose he didn’t have much of a look on his face, exactly. Blood, yes, but the look underneath was more on the blank side."

He gave a slow nod, taking in the unsubtle warning. Cute story.

Tell me something, Saar. What’s really frustrating you?

Let’s start with the fact you just said you didn’t want to hear me complaining about my life since yours was harder, and now you’ve got an itch to poke around in here. He tapped a finger to the side of his head. You’re a conundrum, lady.

It’s going to be two more days at sea before we reach our destination. I bore easily, so perhaps I’ve reconsidered. She cast her eyes out across the black sea and drew a deep, almost resentful breath. Very well, Saar. I’ll permit you a few questions about me.

Now you’re talking, Salla said, his mood brightening. Okay, how about—

"The arm. It’s always the arm. Marachette rolled her eyes, expelling a heated sigh before using her left hand to push the right side of her cloak over her shoulder, exposing an arm that ended just above the elbow. Most men are always trying to sneak a peek at those, or that on a woman, depending on their proclivity. Me? They just want to know about the arm. Wonderful, isn’t it?"

Salla cringed a little. Sorry.

Not your fault. It’s been this way for thirty years, even when I was young and had a body that some might’ve desired for something other than to be sent out into combat. Her tone was clipped, and it was as though her eyes refused to blink as she continued. In my experience, women are more apt to look past such superficial things.

Salla shrugged. If I was missing half of my face, you’d probably be the tiniest bit curious how it happened. It’s in our nature and hardly has anything to do with men or women, if you ask me. If you don’t want to tell me about it, I’m not gonna make you.

A long silence passed between them, followed by a softening of Marachette’s hostile stance. I’m sorry. As I said, it’s been thirty years. Maybe I’m not over it.

"Maybe?"

Marachette smiled for the second time but lowered her head again as if to hide the smile. It happened during the Quelling, or after they declared it over, I don’t know. It’s not like there was any difference in what we were doing before the official end of the Quelling and after. People like me just kept on fighting. She looked up to the night sky at the damp mist that had started to descend upon them, and sighed. These islands of yours, I swear there are some who just look at war as some sort of a sadistic cultural pastime, like they wouldn’t know what to do with themselves if they weren’t trying to kill each other.

The weariness with which Marachette told the story reminded Salla of his old helmsman on the Mayla Rose, Quiss. There was no helping it. Anyone who recited tales of war always brought his old friend to mind. He wondered again for perhaps the hundredth time about the path Quiss might have taken since he’d last seen him, but Marachette was not finished with her story.

You know the sad part? she asked, looking down derisively at the stump. One of our own did this. Not on purpose, of course, but accidents like that are bound to happen the messier a fight gets. We were scrambling for cover and Jorcun Wey fired off a tephic blast. Didn’t see me at all, he said. Caught my arm just right, and off it went. Someone was going to go look for it so it could be reattached, but the opposition got a fresh wave of reinforcements and had us pushed out of Bethodes in less than an hour. We didn’t retake the city for another month, and I’d been shipped back to base to lie in a portable cocoon for a week.

The mist descending upon the pair was starting to thicken into leaden patters upon the deck.

"Now can we go below?" Marachette asked, pulling her cloak back over her shoulder and drawing it tight about her body.

Salla glanced at the stairwell the middle-aged couple had ducked into, and then up at the broad twelve-foot red canopy above it. After living under the threat of spending the remainder of his life staring at the walls of a cell, the thought of hunkering below with all the other Wayfarer passengers gave him a sickly feeling of claustrophobia. He moved underneath the vast canopy.

You go ahead, he said, but half-heartedly so. He’d been enjoying his time warming up to Marachette, and perhaps even she to him. I think I’ll stay.

Marachette moved underneath the shelter as well. We’re not done here.

Salla’s brow lifted. What?

I told you about the arm. Now it’s your turn to tell me something about you. I sense being quietly shunned by the Majdi Order is not what is at the root of your sour mood on this voyage.

He gave her a crooked smile. Was kind of hoping you’d forget we were trading stories here.

Because I’m old, and old people forget? She gave him a wry grin of her own. How classy of you, Saar.

I was a scrapper. We don’t do ‘classy.’ He hesitated before beginning anew, gathering his thoughts. But you’re right. The only reason the Majdi made me this offer to join their little spook hunt is because I have something they can use, not because I want to. So, I get it.

Then what is it?

You. He blurted the word out but knew that wasn’t what he meant. Not you specifically, but…you know, what you represent. You’re here to watch me, to make sure I don’t run off or do anything stupid.

So it’s freedom, then. Marachette offered an understanding nod.

Freedom looks like something I’m gonna have to learn to live without, I suppose. But it’s this mission they’re sending me on, too. I mean, you heard what happened at the House, right?

The nightmare you said you lived through earlier? She nodded again. I think everyone in the Majdi City heard about what happened in the House of Falling Rain. A fairly nasty demothi being found within the walls of Empyrion Prime isn’t something that tends to escape notice.

‘Nasty’ is one way to put it. It’s like I was saying a few minutes ago. Whatever that thing was posing as Lochmore…it killed just about everyone in that facility, and I made it out. I don’t know, I guess I thought that was kind of a big deal, right? His gaze fell to the wet decking at his feet. I thought the whole point of using me was to go after more of the big threats like that, not… He trailed off and waved vaguely into the distance. "This. A disturbance in Galiena."

I suppose I could answer their line of thinking with something you just said: ‘Whatever that thing was.’ You’ve learned a good deal, Saar, but you’re not ready to face more demothis like Lochmore was. In fact, your file said it was the incompatible energies trapped inside you that allowed you to survive. She went on just as he started to object. And yes, it would seem the file I read contained privileged information…almost as if Delflore deemed me trustworthy enough to know. I consider myself qualified enough to judge your readiness to face such horrors because who do you think was sent to deal with them before this new Malisguard division came into being? That’s right, Majdi like me.

Huh, Salla murmured, genuinely surprised. You’ve been up against demothis?

That arch smile returned. This isn’t about me, Saar. We’re talking about you.

2

At random intervals, passengers of the Wayfarer appeared like moles from their burrows to peer up the stairwell. Invariably, when they caught sight of the curtain of rainfall shimmering in the glow of the deck lights, they scampered back to the warmth, comfort, and activities waiting below.

Salla crossed his arms and gave his watcher a frank look. "The mission statement did call it a disturbance, didn’t it? Some old lady with rats squeaking in the basement or something."

It was classified as that, yes. Is checking out a disturbance beneath you? You, who got lucky and didn’t die with the others in the House of Falling Rain? Marachette gave a hurried sigh. You have a gift, Saar. I’m not going to discount that. Demothis infect, possess and control people, and due to a side effect of the powers trapped in you, you’re immune to possession. But that does not mean they cannot kill you. Even if you were at the peak of your experience, bolstered by all the tephic augments we could imbue you with, your gift wouldn’t save you from being crushed by some nightmarish manifestation of a demothi, or speared through, or—

I get it. His eyes turned hard when he looked at her again. "Checking closets and…and looking behind doors, that’s not gonna shorten whatever leash the Order’s got around my neck, Marachette. If I’m gonna risk my life hunting down whatever they want me to hunt down, that’s fine, but I’ve got to lose the leash. To do that, I figure I need to prove myself to them, right? I mean, I’m not in a cell but I feel like I am, you know?"

Her brows jumped in understanding. "Now that makes sense. That said, I think you’re focusing on the wrong thing."

And what’s that?

You, she said, a wry grin deepening the lines framing her mouth. She held up a hand before Salla could interject. Do you mind if I tell you a story?

Salla’s chest deflated, whatever objection he’d been about to say tumbling back down his throat. Don’t suppose I have much of anywhere else to go until we get to Galiena. I guess I’m what you’d call a ‘captive audience.’

You sure know how to get a girl eager to open up, she said with a sardonic look.

Usually better at getting their clothes off, but that was the old Salla, now wasn’t it? He shot her a grin, then shrugged when he saw she wasn’t amused. Uh, you were saying?

She cast her eyes up at the canopy as if trying to pluck the right spot to begin her tale out of the air. I met someone once. His name was Zand. He was a soldier through and through, fought campaign after campaign, and never saw himself as anything but a soldier. He was one of the lucky ones. He’d found his place in the world, found where he belonged. Never thought of any family outside of his brothers and sisters on the battlefield. The sort of families civilians had, the lives they led, that might as well have been an entirely different world to him.

Almost at once, Salla found his mind drifting elsewhere. It was an involuntary reflex that occurred whenever Quiss started talking about war, a reflex that now seemed to trigger automatically whenever the subject of war in general arose. Quiss’s stories tended to ramble into dead ends of pointlessness, leaving even Quiss often mystified as to what he’d been talking about.

And here I am now, stuck with a lifelong soldier who’s got a million stories to tell, and I’m gonna hear every one of them, he thought bleakly as he eyed the port railing in the distance as if it were a viable means of escape.

So this Zand was a friend of yours? he asked as a courtesy.

Not quite, she admitted with a faint clearing of her throat. Anyhow, a temporary truce was struck by the people who sent men and women to war, leading to a lull in the conflict. This was presumably to decide whether or not there was a solution that didn’t involve men and women killing one another—you know, considering things from a sane point of view for once. Zand and his squad, however, were cut from a mold that wasn’t very…flexible, let’s say. The quiet made them restless. They went to town to do the things their sort typically do when they have idle time on their hands. Some let loose, drank, tried to find pleasurable company, while others prowled the bars looking for drunks to fight.

Sure.

They bounced from bar to bar in this junky little town. Zand felt lost away from the battlefield, adrift and purposeless. As such, he preferred to dull his boredom with booze. On the second afternoon of their peacetime excursion, he drifted a little too far and passed out. His friends, just as bored as he was, thought it a fun opportunity to prop him up like a doll packed with sand in each drinking hole they went.

Been there, Salla said, the mental image none too dissimilar from the sort of shenanigans he and the crew of the Mayla Rose used to get up to between raids.

It was evening when Zand came to in a particularly pathetic establishment. Surrounded by only a dozen or so patrons sitting under rafters that were crawling with birds waiting to dive upon dropped crumbs, Zand heard music crawl its way through the fog in his head. He looked around, and found a little stage was set up in the far corner. She took a deep breath. As a soldier, music was a diversion at best, just something rattling on in the background every now and then. But this was something different. It was like a hand reaching down through the murk his head was swimming in, lifting him up with the gentle pull of fingertips on his chin to draw his attention to one thing: the woman on the stage.

Her last sentence sent recollections of Quiss’s droning war stories tumbling from Salla’s mind and into silence.

She was beautiful, somewhere in her thirties, perhaps, with shining reddish-brown hair and a smile that burned away every inch of the gloom. That smile never faded as she sang, and the way it changed the sound of her voice lent every song a sense of cheerful optimism that sometimes clashed with the some of the more somber lyrics she sang. She stood there in the lights, sometimes changing instruments in the awkward stillness between songs, as it was her and her alone on that tiny stage. Marachette paused to wipe a few stray drops of rain from her face that had blown into their little shelter. It was not a perfect performance, by any means. There were times she fumbled with a certain instrument she was not as skilled at playing, or she forgot some lyrics and hummed the melody instead. But her voice was faultless. It rang out, clear and pure like the bells that chimed down the street from the little house Zand grew up in.

The mention of bells brought Salla to his own childhood, waking to their persistent ringing from the Ancestric Temple of the Light not far from where he had lived with his mother.

Whatever mistakes she made while playing up there, well, Zand only found them endearing. Her voice had sung straight into his heart, piercing through all the squidspit toughness and bravado he and his friends tended to wear like armor. There was something about her songs—they were so lonely, yet so vibrant that he couldn’t make sense of it, but something inside of him wanted to understand. He would glance around the room from time to time, almost becoming angry that he was one of the only ones paying attention to this beautiful songbird pouring her soul out for them all to see. He found his friends across the room through the lifting haze of alcohol, joking and shoving each other like the sad savages he knew them to be, only to realize he was no different.

Salla blew out a long breath. Glad I kept my tjell playing just a hobby. It’s gotta sting playing to a room that doesn’t care.

Exactly what Zand was feeling, I’m sure. But this woman put on a brave face through it all. Every so often, though, as a listless smattering of applause dribbled away between songs, Zand caught that smile of hers falling away a little too quickly. The light in her eyes would go dark for those brief moments, and it was as if she were summoning the strength to try to light up the room once more. Then that smile would come back, but a little dimmer than before. Marachette’s eyes flitted out into the silver-streaked darkness. Each time he saw it, it broke his heart.

Salla nodded under cover from the rain, noticing now that as the tale progressed, he was wondering more where his Majdi watcher was going with it.

When it was over and she was packing up her instruments, Zand almost didn’t realize it. His friends shambled over and carried on with their raucous buffoonery, asking him why he was just sitting like a lump staring at the empty stage. They must have assumed he was still in a comatose state of drunkenness when he didn’t say anything, so they left him alone. But Zand wasn’t drunk anymore. Foggy and unsteady, sure, but not drunk. In fact, there was a clarity of purpose he was now feeling that had been missing since the peace talks had begun. Somehow, some way, he had to meet this woman. When his friends turned their cavorting into a boozy wrestling contest across the room, he took the opportunity to sneak away. He tried to stand. To his surprise, he could.

Salla tried to picture it—Marachette, the rugged, almost humorless soldier standing before him, half-drunk and grappling sloppily with her squad while one of their number swooned over a bar singer. It was hard to imagine.

He found her sitting quietly on the rim of a short, poorly kept retaining wall behind the shabby watering hole, her instruments piled into the back of a rusted overlander that looked to be on its last few miles. His mouth opened to speak, but what can you say to someone who had just spilled her heart across the stage to an audience that barely noticed she was there? He wanted to tell her that it had been for something, that her songs had awakened something in him he’d never felt before. But what came out instead was a sad little croak.

Marachette seemed on the verge of a chuckle perhaps, but her face fell back into its normal state of seriousness.

Now, as I said, Zand was no stranger to tense situations. He’d spilled blood and had his own blood spilled on most of the islands in the archipelago, but standing in front of this woman was like standing in front of a thousand armed men with only a stick in his hand. She must have seen the terror painted across his face. Just like onstage, all it took was that brilliant smile and a little laugh to shut down the electric tension shooting up and down his nerves. They talked for a bit, the usual questions when awkwardly trying to get to know someone—you know how it goes. He asked why she was just sitting out there, and she gave him a little shrug. ‘I like to stay in those kinds of places only as long as I have to, she said.

A stiff wind blew a cold swath of rain underneath the canopy, forcing a shiver out of both Salla and Marachette.

Naturally, names were exchanged. Her name, it turned out, was a mouthful: Adelaja Cospiri vuto Sa. When he said a dumb soldier like him can’t be expected to remember a name that grandiose, she laughed like it was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. He asked why she was laughing, and she said, ‘there’s always at least one person who finds me in these places, looking to have me sign some piece of Skies memorabilia. I assumed that person was you when you followed me out here.’ With a shrug, he asked her what ‘Skies’ was. ‘Never mind,’ she said, ‘and you can call me Addie. So, what brought you here tonight?’ He told her. ‘You really are a soldier, then,’ she said to him, her expression playfully cautious. Zand nodded. With a regretful sigh, she joked that she had to say goodbye, since her father told her to stay away from soldiers. He said that was too bad, because he wanted to buy her a drink. With that smile of hers, she said that if he got her a flavored water—kavaberry—she might still be here when he came back.

Salla’s brows knitted as he tried to sort things out. Wait. Zand told you all this, I assume? It was just the two of them behind that bar, wasn’t it?

You could say he told me, sure. Marachette retreated further into the stairwell, away from the strengthening storm outside.

Salla took a few steps to close the distance. You were there that night, though, weren’t you? One of his drunken buddies?

Can I tell the story? She raised her brows, but kept her eyes almost fully lidded. Now, I imagine you can see where all of this is going.

"Not really. You being a soldier yourself, I was expecting a lot more blood, bullets, and entrails. Not this sort of, I don’t know…gooiness," he said with a laugh.

Marachette just smirked. Things progressed as nature tends to move things. The truce turned out to be a somewhat lasting one, affording Zand plenty of time to spend with Adelaja whenever she wasn’t on the road performing. Before long, they were in love. They wasted no time in having their opela marks inked into their wrists as you do, having those freshly-marked wrists tied together by a gauzy strip of cloth, and telling one another ‘here I am, I am yours’ before family and friends. You know how it goes.

A savage ritual, Salla said with a devious squint. Gotta admit, though, I am wondering how exactly this sappy love story is supposed to relate to me.

Patience, she chided. The ceremony was over, a month had gone by, and still Zand hadn’t been called back into action. This suited him just fine for now, as he was still deep in the throes of love. While hiking a springtime countryside, the two found an idyllic spot outside of Adelaja’s hometown. It was situated at the top of a steep rise, not far from a gorgeous waterfall that overlooked the little city. There, Zand dropped to a knee and promised Adelaja he would build them a new home there. With the truce holding, Zand rounded up as many friends from his family of soldiers as he could to make his promise a reality.

Uh-oh. Think I smell where this is going, Salla said.

Marachette nodded. It was nearly complete when word floated its way to their little town, up the rise and into their home. The tenuous peace Zand had been enjoying—well, it was over. The war had come roaring back, and his brothers and sisters weren’t going to face it alone. As the couple spent their last night together, Zand promised that he would be back, and when he did, they’d finish the house and start their lives together.

Never came back, did he?

Were you the sort of kid who skipped to the last page before even reading the first? Marachette sighed, producing a plume of steam. "Two days